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Chapter Text

Hornet sinks down into a seated position with a long sigh. The carved steel of the bench is unforgiving and cold, but it is still a welcome respite for her shaking legs. While the greatest fight is done, still between her and her bed is an arduous march through the caverns of the Abyss, and she can afford to idle here on the edge of the Void for only a few moments. She quickly sorts her tools, rebalancing the weight of her pockets for the climb ahead. She really should replenish those used up in the battle below, but the thought of staying any longer than necessary in the oppressive black of this realm chills her deeper than the bite of the icy mountain far above.

More than anything, though, the sounds around them serve to drive her to her feet. She had traversed this place twice before, then with its silence pierced by the awful wails of an unearthly mother doomed alongside her child, and wanted to block her ears from the din. But that broken quiet has now been replaced by the constant cracking of the Void as it strips the flesh and crunches on the bones of the silken god. It is impossible for any creature with hearing to ignore the fact that far below the seething surface of the black ocean, Grand Mother Silk is being devoured.

A fate she might have shared, were it not for her sibling- and, she supposes, were it not for the silkspun creature leaning on a pillar nearby. She, who had taken Hornet’s place in the god’s embrace as they hung above the pit. However selfish the girl had claimed the sacrifice to be, it still had spared Hornet’s life, and for that she will always hold some gratitude. 

Ignoring the protest of her tired body, she stands to approach. Her companion is staring vacantly into the seething black; she doesn’t look up even as Hornet stops beside her. The god below had fallen deathly quiet, and Hornet wonders if the child can feel it- the dousing of pale light, the ties of life severed. It was possible. She herself had felt the pang of anguish, however faintly, when her mother’s lifeforce had been cut away by her ghostly sibling. If she knew there was truth to her ponderings, she might have reached out in an attempt at comfort, but there is much she does not know about this creature- not even her name. 

She might at least now remedy the simplest of those unknowns. Calling this being ‘child’ any longer feels wrong. Her mother is gone; her fragile life is now her own.

“Silken one.” The other flinches, her pensive meditation broken. “Forgive my interruption, but might I know your name? I do not believe I have ever learned it.”

Shining white eyes narrow slightly, but do not leave the writhing ocean. Hornet thinks for a moment that she has not been heard, but after another moment the answer comes. “Only if I may know yours in kind, spider.” Her voice is distant, but not with grief. Hornet looks out into the dark, and knows. Her companion thinks not of her lost parent, but instead of the Void, of the ending it promises. And that, Hornet cannot pretend to understand. 

“For all that you have watched me, you do not know it?” A dispassionate shrug is the only reply as the Void continues to command attention.  “Well, then. I am Hornet.” There have been many epithets to follow that name in the past, but none of them matter now, not here.

At last the pale eyes flicker with interest. “That is a strange name, for a spider.”

“It is strange indeed.” Hornet pauses. “That you believe I asked for your opinion and not just your name.”

This, at last, stirs the silken creature back to life. She blinks, and laughs her musical little laugh. Even despite their surroundings Hornet feels somewhat settled by it, seeing the twinkle of light return to her companion’s eyes as they at last turn fully from the Void onto Hornet. 

“My mother called me Lace.”

“Lace.” The name hisses slightly as it passes Hornet’s fangs.

“Hornet,” Lace says in kind, like she’s trying it out. She shakes her head. “No, I prefer ‘spider.’”

“Again, I did not request your opinion, frilly one.”

“Ah, well, I have graciously offered it anyway!” Lace’s eyes crinkle in apparent mirth. “Would it please you to hear another?”

“No.”

“A pity. Anyway,” her face scrunches in displeasure. “I don’t like ‘frilly one’. Just Lace, if you please.”

Hornet exhales. “Much as I do not care for being called ‘spider’, I suspect.” Before Lace can come back with some other inane jab, she looks pointedly upwards. “Now that we are properly acquainted, are you sufficiently rested for the climb back to Pharloom? We are safe here only while the darkness is satisfied with its present meal.”

“Hmm.” Lace’s eyes are large and focused as she turns fully to face Hornet, twirling her pin idly. “I wonder, if I were to say no, would you carry me once again?”

“I would, though it would slow the path somewhat. I did not wrest you from the maw of the pit just to leave you here.”

There’s a brief quiet, which the void promptly fills with a loud and enthusiastic skrunch. Both of them wince a little.

“Just as well that I will be quite able to carry myself, then,” Lace says breezily, stepping back from the edge. “The sooner we are away from these dismal caverns and those hideous sounds, the better, wouldn’t you agree, sp- Hornet?”

“We should make haste, but stay close,” Hornet instructs her as they step into the caverns. “The trail is easily lost, and there are many void-soaked creatures between us and our escape.”

“There is a thought- how did you pierce these depths, anyway? We must be miles below the docks. Do not tell me you can traverse magma?” Lace looks briefly horrified. “Or that you expect me to do so? I assure you, I am not fireproof.”

“You might have fooled me, given the arena of our first encounter.” Hornet shakes her head. “But no, though the path is blocked by magma, a diving bell waits at the top of this climb, operated by a bug of the docks. It may be a little cramped for two, but the ride is not too long. Minutes, not hours.”

“Oh, splendid. I savour the thought of being trapped in a confined space with you. Imagine how much bonding we can accomplish! We shall be the best of friends by the time we reach civilisation again.”

Hornet doesn’t dignify that with a response, keeping her pace brisk, and Lace seems to take the hint. They tread wearily through the long passage, the sounds from below finally beginning to lessen. Periodically, a Shadow Creeper will draw near; the first time, Lace stops and readies her pin, only lowering it reluctantly when Hornet wordlessly shakes her head and the Creeper passes them by. With so much further to go, wasting energy on the shuffling little shadows is not worth the reward.

At last they pass from the tunnel into a wide vertical cavern, the ceiling above rapidly rising out of sight and the walls littered with spikes like the teeth of a gigantic beast. Once out in the open, Hornet tilts her head back to assess the route upward. Here seems as good a place as any to make the ascent. She halts in place, so sharply that Lace almost bumps into her.

“What is it?” Lace asks, her claws tightening on her pin as she peers into the darkness.

“It is nothing. Allow me a little space, please.”

Lace looks a little bit affronted, but she does step back a few paces. Hornet crouches into a now familiar stance, setting her needle firmly for the toss. Strands of Silk thrash in the air around her, making Lace take another alarmed step back, before Hornet heaves her needle upwards. “Hyaah!”

The blade slices through the air, and she’s grateful to hear it embed itself into a chink in the cave roof high above with an echoing clang; as much as the Silk helps with the throwing, her arms still ache from the exertion of battle. After a brief tug on the trailing line to make sure it will hold, Hornet extends a claw to Lace. “Come, this will save us much of the climb.”

Lace narrows her eyes. “Oh? I thought carrying me would slow you down.”

“Well, if you wish to make the climb alone, be my guest.” Hornet moves to pull on the thread, at which point Lace lurches forward, panicked.

“Wait! What happened to not leaving me here?” she complains, grasping onto Hornet’s offered claw. The touch of her tarsi has the familiar softness of silk, but there’s something harder beneath the surface giving her grip some bite. Not chitin; more like metal. Not for the first time, Hornet wonders idly at her construction. 

Before she can give voice to any of her thoughts, though, there’s a soft scuffling from the darkness to their right, and the vacuous eyes and broad snout of a Shadow Charger slide into view, far, far too close for comfort. Hornet rips her claw free of Lace’s, earning a resentful yelp for the effort, and wraps her arm around her torso instead, yanking on the suspended thread with her other claw as the beast lunges towards them. Lace shrieks, gripping onto Hornet with both arms as the floor drops away. Just as swiftly, the ceiling speeds towards them, and Hornet splays her hind legs to take the impact. Slam!

The ceiling crumbles a little and Lace’s extra weight means she almost loses her grip, but thankfully she is able to wedge her claws into the cracks in the rock and keep them suspended. 

Lace’s claws are still digging into her shell, and Hornet has to suppress the urge to shake her off. “Lace.” 

“What was that?” Lace shrills. “I thought we were going to climb the Silk- you can fly now?”

“Lace. Please focus. Can you leap over to that ledge, or do you want me to throw you?”

Lace cranes her neck to look towards the ledge and scoffs. “Throw me? From here? As if you-”

“As you wish.” Hornet swings herself back on her hooked claws and then swiftly back towards the ledge, using the forward momentum to fling Lace with both arms into the open air. If anything she uses a bit too much force, but at least that means Lace lands in a heap (with an indignant squeak) a safe distance up the path.

Continuing the flow of her swinging motion, Hornet uses the momentum this time to yank her needle out of the ceiling. After checking her trajectory briefly, she lets go with her claws and drifts easily over on her cloak to land beside Lace, who is back on her feet, dusting off her shell grumpily. 

“For the record, spider,” Lace says primly, “I could have jumped over here myself, easily. You just didn’t give me the chance.”

“Of course.” Hornet blinks at her. “Come. It is not much further to the bell, but you should keep your weapon close. There are enemies nearby.”

Lace hesitates, an embarrassed silence seeping from her shell. Hornet turns her head. “What is it?”

“I… I dropped my pin.” Lace lowers her head. “Down there.”

Hornet sighs.

Lace folds her forelegs crossly. “Well it is hardly my fault, spider! Some warning before I was being catapulted towards solid rock would have been nice!”

“I will fetch it,” Hornet says patiently. “Wait here. And please be quiet. You do not want the attention you might attract.”

Without waiting for an answer or another jab, she leaps from the platform back into the chasm. Slowing her fall methodically with her spine-strung cloak, she soon arrives back at the spot where the Shadow Charger is still shuffling around. Descending closer, she can hear the faint clamour of metal. The void-filled beast is pushing around Laces’ glimmering golden pin with its nose, inspecting it with what almost appears to be curiosity. 

Hornet makes no sound as she drops needle-first onto the creature’s back, driving her blade between the thick grey scutes. The Charger lurches forward, the pin forgotten, as it attempts to flee back towards its tunnels. She vaults from its back, wrenching her blade free, and snatches up the pin. Tucking it into her needle’s usual spot on her back, she once more makes a swift ascent, leaving the wounded Charger to escape. Her Reaper nature urges her to finish the job, but she can resist; returning to Lace is more pressing now. Even if this has been only a brief separation, she is already second-guessing leaving her companion alone and unarmed in the Abyss.

Lace is, thankfully, right where Hornet had left her. She accepts the pin back with a grateful sigh, checking it for any damage. Finding none, she twirls it happily. “I suppose I should thank you, spider. I am quite fond of this pin.”

“Do not thank me, but grip it tighter from now on,” Hornet warns. “Should you lose it again, I shall have no qualms waiting at the bell for you to collect it yourself.” Her head is starting to pound. 

“No.” Lace’s eyes widen in exaggerated dismay. “You could never be so callous! Anything could happen to me down here, and then how would you ever live with yourself?”

“Keep firm hold on your weapon, and we never need find out,” Hornet says wryly. She starts walking again, with purpose. “Let us not lose any more time. We have lingered here too long already.”

Lace quickens her pace to keep up, still twirling her pin absently. “You are delightfully stubborn, spider, but would you not dispense with this aloof attitude? It is clear that you care for my safety.”

“I do, if only because it would be an awful waste of effort to have plucked you from the jaws of the dark only to let you impale yourself on a bed of spikes not an hour later.” 

“As if I would! Do you think me so incompetent?” Lace indignantly speeds up then, having now spied the approaching mat of vicious spines just as Hornet had moments before. In swift, fluid motion, she leaps gracefully across it, landing with arms lowered and not a single tremor of lost balance. It is, by all accounts, a perfectly executed leap performed with enviable speed. But by the time Lace spins around triumphantly, something else has already snagged Hornet’s attention.

Her needle sails through the air, lancing the Gloomsac about to drop onto Lace’s head. It bursts violently as the needle is yanked back out of its body, and Lace jumps aside just in time to avoid the splash of black fluid as Hornet lands beside her. Hornet blinks slowly, wiping the shadows from her needle before sheathing it. “Your athletic skill is not in question, Lace, but you could stand to be more observant.”

Lace doesn’t say anything then, just falling back into step behind Hornet with her eyes on the floor. Hornet frowns. What was meant as gentle advice, or more accurately a slightly pointed reminder, seems to have fallen on Lace’s ears as a scolding. Perhaps she needs to work on her tone.

Another few minutes pass, the tunnel steadily narrowing, and Lace’s resentment simmers in the space around her. When her pin starts to whistle through the air between them in frustrated, clumsy slashes, Hornet knows she must move to correct this misunderstanding. “Lace. I do not think you incompetent. Far from it.”

“Oh, don’t strain yourself, spider.” There’s a soft clink as Lace moodily swipes at a stone with her pin, knocking a shard astray to skitter across the floor. Hornet hesitates, but nothing leaps from the dark to confront them. She continues, keeping her voice low.

“I am being sincere. Pharloom has sent many adversaries to test my skill but few have posed such a challenge as you.”

“Enough.” Lace laughs, but it’s a hollow sound. “You have proven yourself my better three times now, spider. This condescension is revolting.”

“You are right of course that I have emerged victorious in all of our contests. Consider, though,” Hornet insists, “that I am both an extremely experienced hunter, and formally trained as a warrior. You, I suspect, are self-taught?”

“In a sense. I trained with the Sentinels before they each fell into disrepair, and I had a sibling to spar with once, before Mother barred them from the Citadel.”

A brief chill trickles down Hornet's spine at that, but she holds her tongue. There will be a better time to break the news later, she hopes. “Therein lies the difference between you and I. I have lifted my needle against the most vicious opponents, knowing that to lose would mean death. Such lessons have no parallel even in the most brutal of sparring matches.”

“What’s your point, spider?" 

“Despite your incomplete training, you were still able to challenge me. I have not felt so close to defeat in centuries as I did fighting with you, this very day. It is a fierce opponent who can leave me battle-weary as I am now.”

“You speak of the conflict below? That was not me, spider,” Lace says, but the slashes have stopped. 

“Perhaps not entirely. The Void gives stamina and sturdiness, it lends desperation and single-mindedness. But your swiftness, your precision, your agility- these are yours, and the Void merely borrowed them for its ends. Do not underestimate their value. If you were to apply them to their full potential, you could be truly formidable, as I have learned to be.”

Lace is silent, though this time it feels more like thought than anger. Hornet exhales and gratefully returns to silence- it is more than she had meant to say, but it does seem to have gotten through somewhat. The throbbing in her head has dulled a little, but not faded, and trying to formulate her thoughts into words does not help. Quiet is easier.

In truth, she is curious what Lace could become. The idea of testing herself against more evenly-matched opponents in fair combat makes her heart beat faster, in a good way- her friendly duel with Shakra feels so long ago, but it had scratched an itch deep in her shell that she longs to feel again. Her lethal dance with Karmelita, too, had filled her with what she can only call exhilaration. Could Lace, with greater experience, match them? She could almost laugh, that she should be eagerly thinking of the next battle even with the effort of the last one still weighing upon her body.

A gurgling sound ahead immediately grounds her before she can get too carried away in thought. There are still opponents that must be vanquished here and now.

A hulking shape blocks the path forward, its silhouette blotting out what little light filters through the tunnel from the far end. The Gargant Gloom has not spotted them yet; its head swings low, back and forth, surveying the path for prey. Close to its tail, two of its floating offspring hang listlessly.

Hornet feels in her pockets. She has a clawful of throwing pins left, with which she might dispense of the Gloomsacs, but the hulking Gloom will only spit out more if it is not dealt with quickly. In her fatigued state, taking a void-fuelled attack from any of them might be crippling- but she cannot afford to think of that. Her claws tighten on her needle. Just three more prey before she can rest.

Lace moves noiselessly to stand beside her, a questioning look in her eyes. Of course. Hornet is not alone in this endeavour. She turns towards Lace, her mind rapidly constructing possible strategies with this new factor in mind. There must be something askew in her expression though, because Lace steps back uneasily. “Please don’t throw me at it, spider,” she says in a whisper.

Hornet exhales in amusement despite herself. “You have my word I will not, Lace.” She pulls out her pins and counts them. Four. “These, however...”

Lace winces at the sight of them. “Ugh, I hate those things. I’m not fully convinced I don’t still have a couple tangled up in my core somewhere.”

Hornet smiles faintly. “Any extra ones you could spare might be useful.”

“Hysterical. Unless you wish to flay me open right here to check for your vile little spikes, though, I’m afraid I can’t help.” Lace toys with the glinting pin in her claws.

“You can certainly help. If you can see to the end of the smaller creatures while I deal with the larger beast, that would be adequate.”

Lace’s pale eyes drift between the Gloomsacs. “Only those two? A mere trifle.”

“Indeed. Though be warned, Lace, they will try to latch on to your shell; you must under no circumstances let them.”

“Oh, don’t worry about little me!” Lace’s eyes shift back to Hornet, perhaps noticing the strain in her limbs. “I wish you good luck against that beast, Hornet.”

Hornet briefly squeezes the dice in her pocket. “Thank you.”

As they have been speaking the beast has moved away, further up the passage. Hornet scurries after, with Lace close behind. The chance to ambush her prey will serve her well here. She aims for the vast mass blocking the tunnel, and lets the pins fly. One-two-three-

The Gargant Gloom rears back with a bubbling screech, three pins now embedded side by side in its belly. A dribble of Void leaks from the wounds, causing the silver blades to rapidly tarnish and wither away. Before the beast can recover, Hornet leaps to send her final blade into the mass of holes which serve as its face, and follows up with a toss of her needle, lancing the creature cleanly through the neck. It crumples onto its side, still gurgling furiously.

The first Gloomsac wheels to dive at her; tugging on the silk line to pursue her needle, she is dragged out of the way and it instead surges bodily into Lace, who had moved to intercept it. Hornet half-turns in alarm as she lands on the Gloom’s bulky carapace.

Shing.

The sound of a well-executed parry rings out along the tunnel. Lace’s gleeful shout echoes after; her flurry of slashes swiftly reduces the first Gloomsac to a puddle of tar. Satisfied, Hornet turns back to the task at hand- reclaiming her needle. The Gloom’s flesh grasps unpleasantly at the blade as she tears it free. She gets two more heavy stabs in, her arms trembling with the effort, before the beast starts to rise to its feet, and she has to back up quickly to avoid a spray of its pitchy stomach contents. She is too slow; it is only a spatter, but she feels a sharp Void tendril tear into her leg. Her head swims.

There’s a wet slap from behind Hornet as the second Gloomsac collides with the wall, its body neatly skewered through. Lace lands lightly beside Hornet, slicking its dark guts from her pin with a grimace. “This place is truly, utterly gross. Let us finish this, spider, so that we might depart and never come back.”

Hornet nods heavily, but the Gargant Gloom has other ideas. A ripple flows down its body, and gaping holes spring open on its back; more Gloomsacs are imminent. 

“No more!” Hornet snaps. With the last dregs of her energy she draws on her Silk, summoning her pale nails. They fly swift and true, embedding themselves into the creature before it can bring forth its gruesome offspring, and at last it perishes in a violent burst, its skin splitting open. “Back!” Hornet barks in warning, and both of them retreat hastily; a small wave of Void crests and crashes over where they had just been standing. The Void flails and claws at the air briefly, scraping and hissing away into the cracks in the stone.

Hornet pants, almost doubling over as her vision narrows to a pinprick. Somewhere, Lace grabs her arm. “Hornet. We should run, before more of those things are drawn here by the sound.” She drags Hornet to scramble past the remains of the Gloom, sidestepping the still weakly waving tendrils of Void.

Hornet sucks in a deep breath, forcing her feet to move though her injured leg screams in protest. She mirrors Lace’s steps as she leaps spike pits and skirts around shuffling Creepers, until at last the faintly glinting chain of the diving bell is visible at the end of the tunnel, stretching up to the ceiling. She staggers in the landing on the final jump as the shadows play on the edges of her vision, and has to prop herself up on her needle.

“Hornet!” Lace grasps her arm. “What’s wrong?” 

Hornet curls her claws into the ground, shaking her head to try to clear the wooziness. “I am fine. Only… only tire-” 

Abruptly, the floor lurches beneath her. The blackness on the edge of her vision bites down.

...

Sister.

Hornet groans, pushing herself off the ground. Around her is pitchy blackness. No Lace, no diving bell, no stone, no light.

Eight, six, four white eyes, shining high above her. Then just two. Sister. Awake.

“Little ghost,” Hornet breathes. “Where are we?”

This is the dreamless sleep, where all things must end. 

“Why have you brought me here?”

Not us. 

“Then who?”

The final gasps of the silken god.

The faintest glimmer swims in Hornet’s vision. The scent of Soul thrumming through pale Silk, so similar to Lace but with the must of countless years. Grand Mother Silk, what yet remains of her, hovers before Hornet’s gaze.

Child of Weaver and Wyrm, these words are for you alone. 

Hornet clenches her claws. “Speak, then, I will listen.”

We have entrusted you with the life of our last, most precious child. Without your Silk, she will break. Without your care, she will unravel. The gleam dims briefly. Now she is yours to keep, as she was mine.

“Cease this,” Hornet snaps. “Her life is not yours to give. She is, and has always been, her own.” She has to fight the urge to slice at the rapidly fading phantasm before her with her claws. “Your final Silk was well spent, but you have wasted your last breath, pale one. Your daughter strove her whole life for a word of notice from you, and yet your last ones were for me. Be assured, of this encounter I will tell her nothing.”

There is a long sigh. The scent of Silk fades away.

An ending. Sister, time grows short.

“Where is Lace?” Hornet demands, her claws still itching with fury. “Where is the bell? We were almost there.”

The silken child lives. But not for much longer if you stay. So much soul… so much light… we must quench it… our hunger, neverending…

“Then send me back,” Hornet demands. “Little ghost, I beseech you, send me-”

Hornet sits up, so sharply that she knocks Lace backwards from where she had been leaning over her with her claws in the eyeholes of Hornet’s mask. Lace wails, a touch dramatically in Hornet’s opinion, and inspects her own mask with her claws. Finding nothing askew, she sets her shoulders crossly. “That was rude. I was only making certain that you were still alive.”

Hornet straightens her mask.  “Time to go. Now.”

“Wait! Spider, you collapsed just now! You need to rest!”

“I can rest on the ascent. It is more important that we depart the Abyss, quickly.”

Lace doesn’t look fully convinced as Hornet pushes herself to her claws. To Hornet’s surprise, they’re inside the diving bell; Lace must have dragged her there. She checks her pockets. Everything is as it should be. 

“Sit down and strap yourself in, I will tell Ballow we are coming up.” Hornet stands again to press the button on the communication panel. “Ballow.”

Static.

“Ballow, are you there?”

Static.

Hornet presses the button harder, ignoring the panic starting to mount in her once more pounding head. “Ballow. BALLOW! Are you there?”

“Try shouting louder, that will surely fix it.” Lace is lounging with her arms folded in one of the back seats, her legs propped up on the armrest.

Hornet turns towards Lace with a snarl. “Be silent! Your mocking is not helpful.” She jams her claw on the button. “BALLOW!”

The static crackles, goes patchy, and then cuts out completely. Hornet feels her heart drop into her claws, before at last a voice comes through the speaker. 

“-iss! Is that you?”

“Ballow!” Hornet grips the panel tightly, her heartbeat slowing. “It is. I have achieved my mission down here, and am ready to ascend.”

“I’d thought as much, miss! Things are lookin’ a whole lot brighter up here. Sorry if I worried ya. I’ve not left my post, waitin’ to hear your voice- but well… fell asleep, I did. You been gone a long time, miss.”

“There is no harm done,” Hornet reassures him. “In case it matters for your tasks, however, I am not alone. There is a second passenger in the bell.”

“That’s no problem, miss, ‘less of course they’re the real heavy sort! Sit yourselves down and give me a shout, and I’ll soon have you both out of there.” The static buzzes again as he presumably scurries off to the controls.

“Not very curious, is he?” Lace comments as Hornet moves back to sit. She’s still lounging on the seat, fiddling with something in her claws.

Hornet bristles a little. “He knows there will be time for idle chatter later.” She all but flings herself onto her seat, letting out a long sigh of relief. For a moment she indulgently closes her eyes.

“And you’re sure this thing is safe?” Lace looks doubtfully at the dull metal, the creaky speaker, and the worn seatbelts in turn.

Hornet cracks an eye open. “As safe as it can be. The alternative is an upward swim through a mile or so of magma, so it shall have to suffice.”

“You were not exaggerating about the cramped conditions, either.” Lace reaches out with her pin to poke at the wall of the bell.

“Again, it is still better than the alternative.” Hornet adjusts the straps into a comfortable position around her shell and, pointedly, jabs Lace’s overhanging leg with her needle. “Sit properly.”

“I’ll be fine.” 

“Lace. You are now standing between me and my bed, and that is a problem. I can leave you outside and make Ballow send the bell down again if you wish it.” It’s an empty threat and both of them know it, but Lace does, grumpily, turn to sit properly in her chair.

“Thank you.” Hornet almost moves to stand, but her legs refuse. “Can you reach the button with your pin?” 

Lace obediently flips her pin around, using the hook to depress the button on the panel. “Ballow,” Hornet calls. “We are ready.”

“I hear ya, miss. Pulling you up now.”

Their seats click into the floor, the tight belts springing from the seats to hold them in place. Outside, the great clanking of the machinery begins, stirring up answering screeches from the Void-filled creatures out there in the dark. With much grinding and clanking, the bell lifts from the floor.

Hornet sighs, and closes her eyes again. If it were not for the tight restraints and the clamorous noise, she could almost envision sleeping the journey away. As it is, she can still relax for a few minutes- there is no point trying to make conversation with Lace while the bell scrapes and crunches through the ceiling of the Abyss. She will need to rebuild at least a new clawful of tools in case they face any adversity in the short passage through Deep Docks to reach the Bellway, but that can wait a little while.

A faint stabbing jolt radiates through her leg when she shifts it. Pulling it up for examination, she eyes the laceration in her shell. It is stained black with Void, but is ultimately shallow, and should not require much to bind. Eva’s Silken energy is already beginning to pool in her chest now that she is at rest, and after a few more moments she gently places a claw over the wound and murmurs, “Fren.”

Silk lashes in the narrow space, quickly stitching and sealing the wound in a brief stinging pain which fades to a cool ache. A bath and a good night’s sleep, and it shall be patched entirely. She lets out a breath and drops her leg back to the ground, once more closing her eyes.

It has been a good ten minutes by the time the glow of tumbling magma outside spills through the porthole, bringing with it sufficient visibility for toolmaking. Hornet pulls out her crafting kit and begins reconstructing her throwing pins, scraping the cast-off shards she had collected into flat, sharpened blades with a small sharpening-stone.

After seven knives, Hornet glances over and sees Lace fiddling with her claws as well. The motions of Lace’s claws, unlike her own, are destructive; at the base of one of her joints is a small tear in the construct’s silken shell, and Lace is winding the loose threads around another claw and almost absently tugging on them, slowly but surely widening the hole.

“Lace,” Hornet says. “You are injured. Why did you not say so?”

“It’s only a little snag,” Lace dismisses. She doesn’t stop the winding of the thread.

“It is now, but you are making it worse.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Hornet stretches in her seat to try to stop Lace’s claws. Lace stretches away defiantly, as far as the belts will allow. “Leave it, spider.”

“Let me see.”

“No! Why do you need to?”

“Maybe I can fix it. At the very least, stop picking at it.”

Lace glares at her, but returns her claws to her lap. Watching for a moment more to make sure the picking has stopped, Hornet returns to her pins. 

She’s made two more by the time Lace huffs and stretches her arm out. “Fine, you can look at it.”

Hornet tucks her newest pin away before gently taking hold of Lace’s arm, turning her claw over carefully to study the injury. It had started as only a couple of broken threads, by the look of it, but the tightly wound silk had been unravelled since, exposing a glint of gold beneath the surface.

“Golden claws?” Hornet questions.

“Brass.” Lace corrects her. “Readily available, and harder.”

Hornet tilts her head, narrowing her eyes. The weaving of Lace’s shell, this close, is ornate and seems almost hopelessly complex. She would hate to think how much more complicated the interior of her body must be. Still, perhaps repairing it is more simple than constructing it would have been. She clasps her claw over the tear and tugs on her own Silk. “Fren!”

Lace recoils in apparent pain almost immediately, ripping her arm away. A long skein of Silk trails from her claw, tangled into her shell. “What are you doing?”

“I apologise. That is how I heal my own minor wounds. Can I see?”

Lace slowly gives her claw back. Hornet’s Silk had jammed itself into the gap, attempting to pull the hole closed, but in doing so it had drawn the threads around it out of line and become tangled into them. Hornet frowns. She takes out one of her freshly-made pins and cuts off the tail of Silk, letting it flutter free. “Hmm.”

“You can’t just sew me up,” Lace says irritably. “You have to mend the threads, reattach the broken ends.”

Hornet keeps her face straight. “I see.”

Her tone must have betrayed her, though. “Hornet, you… do know how to do that?”

Hornet shakes her head slightly. “I confess, I do not. My binding closes wounds so that they can heal more quickly themselves, it does not mend the flesh.”

Lace stares at her, then throws her head back in laughter. “So you saved me from the Void just so that I can slowly unravel. That’s just wonderful!”

“No,” Hornet says defensively. “If you can be mended with Silk, then I can learn the method. Whatever knowledge you have of the process will be useful.” If Grand Mother Silk had ‘entrusted’ Lace to her care, there must be a way for Hornet to repair her. Her claws itch again. The selfishness of the silken god, to create a being which cannot even maintain itself- and for what end?

“There is no ‘method’ that I know of. Mother used to just reattach the threads, knit the very strands back together.” Perhaps guessing at Hornet’s thoughts, she laughs. “I wonder if she thought that if I were allowed to mend myself, I might start playing with Silk like the Weavers did.”

Hornet draws the tail of loose Silk to her, studying the severed ends. She pushes them together, trying to imagine how she might reattach them. It will be intricate work, that is for certain. “Still. We know it can be done, so I will find the way.”

Lace has started pulling at the knots in her claw. “Well, you had better figure it out quickly. I’m going to keep unravelling in the meantime.” 

“I will learn how to mend you,” Hornet promises. “And when I have, I will teach you how to do so as well.”

Lace looks up, holding her eyes. “I hope you do, spider.”

Chapter Text

The strands of Silk glide across her claws, smooth and shining. She wills them to join; they ignore her. She balls them up in her fist, they remain frayed. She ties them in knots; they slip out of them. 

The bell grinds on, ever upwards. Hornet casts several glances sideways at Lace’s shell, at the kaleidoscope of intricate patterns that form its delicate surface, and twists the coil of Silk into similar shapes, but the severed ends remain stubborn. Lace is singing softly under her breath as she picks the last errant threads of Hornet’s Silk out of her fingers, and if she notices Hornet’s efforts or attention she does not acknowledge them.

Hornet jams the ends of the Silk thread together and wills them to Bind. The Silk, old and new, tangles into a hopeless orb of intertwined threads. She glares at it.

“You used my mother’s pins,” Lace says suddenly, jolting Hornet out of her hatred for the orb. “Down there, in the Abyss. That was her technique you used to finish the beast.”

“Yes. I gleaned it from her flesh,” Hornet admits, rolling the Silk in her claws. “The arm that you severed still lay at the peak of the Cradle; from its Silk I bound the knowledge of her technique. It has served me well in my efforts to reach you.”

“Better that it was you than anyone else, I suppose.” Lace slowly turns her head towards Hornet, and smiles a sad, knowing smile. “Dare I ask, then, spider, where you learned your parry technique?”

Hornet’s heart sinks. “I suspect you may already know the answer, Lace.”

“Tell me anyway.” Lace’s pale eyes are fixed on Hornet’s face.

“There was a silken construct, much like you, dwelling in the shadows of the Exhaust Organ. They had sent wraiths of Silk and set an illusory trap to confound me, and attacked me themself when I pierced through the mirage. I had to defend myself, and it was their choice to keep fighting until the end.”

“Ah.” Lace tilts her head back, letting out a sigh. “Well. That is a shame. Poor Phantom.”

Hornet waits, but Lace doesn’t elaborate further.

“That construct,” Hornet says. “They were the banished sibling you spoke of.”

“Yes. Phantom was the name they chose themselves, after our mother cast them aside,” Lace clarifies. “They had another name first, but not one they ever cared for. It was only the first of their sins in Mother’s eyes, that they should dislike the name she had chosen for them. And Mother never could abide sinners.” 

The punishments inscribed in the Slab, the pins through Widow’s spine, the chained vault encasing First Sinner’s husk. Simple banishment from the Citadel at first seems merciful, but then Hornet remembers the state of Phantom’s shell, the ragged and greying threads trailing from her form, and the agonised wails of the wraiths haunting the Mist. Without your care, she will unravel.

That had been no idle threat. Grand Mother Silk had known the fate her silkspun child faced without her, because she had already consigned one to it.

Hornet’s claws itch again, and she slowly starts shredding the ball of Silk into pieces under her cloak.

“It does not surprise me to learn that they would not yield even in the face of you and your needle. Like me, they wanted her notice. They worked the Organ diligently, created the musical spell of the Mist, hoping she would one day deem their punishment served and draw them close once again.” Lace grimaces. “If I had to guess, they were probably grateful for the end to their toil, even if it was on the end of a blade.”

“It was swift,” Hornet promises, her voice hollow even to her own ears.

“I am sure. I do not hold it against you, Hornet. You granted Phantom a mercy our mother never would have.”

“Still, I regret that I have taken the chance for a reunion from you.” Hornet hesitates, then lets the words go. “And I know what it is to lose a sibling.”

“Oh?” Lace’s eyes flicker with curiosity.

Before Hornet can say anything, though, the bell suddenly grinds to a stop. Moments later, their belts unclasp. They have arrived.

Lace springs to her feet immediately upon being freed, stretching her claws dramatically towards the roof. “Finally! I thought I’d never see anything but the inside of this rusty thing ever again.”

“We have been in here for perhaps 40 minutes,” Hornet says, brusquely dusting away the scraps of Silk from her claws.

“And that is precisely 39 and a half minutes too long. Couldn’t you have hooked the bell up to your Silk catapult too?”

Hornet shakes her head, pushing the door out of its seal to grind slowly open. As soon as the space is wide enough a white blur flashes past her, and she lets Lace go, letting the door open fully before stepping out more carefully herself.

It feels strange to stand and bask in the choking heat of the lower Docks, to draw in a lungful of smoky, metallic air as if it is clear and refreshing, but anything is better than the scentless nothing of the Abyss. Hornet closes her eyes and lets the warmth seep into her shell.

She is roused from her relief by a loud clang. Instinctively she looks towards Lace, who shakes her head, pointing with her pin towards the exit door. Running footsteps and grunting draw closer, and Ballow appears in the doorway, huffing under his heavy helmet.

“Good to see you in one piece, miss!” He looks towards Lace, but whatever his thoughts are, they are obscured by the metal. “And you as well, other miss. Not too painful a journey up, I hope?” 

“Well-” Lace starts, before Hornet cuts her off.

“Not at all; as smooth as one could ask for from such perilous depths. Thank you, Ballow.”

Ballow nods absently but he is already moving to inspect the bell, patting the metal fondly as he looks for damage to the surface. “Glad to hear it. For such an old lady, seems she’s holding together just fine.”

Lace snickers.

Hornet tilts her head. “What amuses you so, Lace?” she asks under her breath as Ballow sets off on a circuit of the bell.

“Oh, nothing. It’s just, if this bell is an old lady, what does that make me?” 

Hornet rolls her eyes. Both of them were certainly born before the ore for this bell was even mined from the earth. “Hush.”

Lace titters a bit more, then falls quiet. Hornet waits patiently for Ballow to finish his check of the bell, while Lace makes a show of tapping her pin on the ground, swinging it around, and humming with steadily increasing volume. For all her efforts, Ballow remains stubbornly fixated on the bell.

When he takes out a hammer to start working out a dent, though, Hornet finally clears her throat. “Ballow, much as I admire your work ethic, would you mind if we were to depart? The day has been a long one and I, at least, am in need of rest.” 

Ballow jolts to attention as if he had forgotten they were even there. “Ah, not at all! Sorry, I just like to get these jobs done when I see ‘em. Old habits. If you can wait for me to knock this one out, I can walk back up to the forge with you.”

“We shall wait,” Hornet concedes, and he starts hammering at the bell without further discussion. 

“Can’t we just go without him?” Lace says plaintively, raising her voice over the clamour. “I have had quite enough of waiting around.”

“No. I wish to learn what has occurred in Pharloom during my absence, and I need to properly thank him for his aid.”

“Ugh. Fine.”

“One down, several dozen more to go!” Ballow says cheerfully, scrubbing at the newly smoothed spot on the bell’s outer wall. He looks longingly at the next dent before tucking his tools away. “But those can wait for tomorrow. Shall we be off then, misses?”

“Yes,” Lace says shortly, and starts walking without waiting for Hornet’s agreement.

“Ballow, I must offer you my sincere gratitude,” Hornet tells him as they begin to walk away from the bell. “Your engineering skills have been truly invaluable in this endeavour.”

Ballow scratches the nape of his neck sheepishly. “Ah, you flatter me, miss, but making sure the Docks run smooth is the job of every worker. No thanks are necessary.”

“They are, and rest assured I will see to it that your contribution is remembered,” Hornet promises. “Pharloom still stands in part as a result of your handiwork.” 

Ballow shrugs stiffly. “Really miss, it was nothin’ at all.”

Lace abruptly stops walking. Twisting her head back, she sniffs, “Aren’t you being just a little generous, spider?” 

Hornet stops too, but only to stare at Lace, bewildered. “Lace, I might remind you that we both would still be in the Abyss if it were not for Ballow’s work on the diving bell.”

“Oh, to be sure, he did get us out of the Abyss.” Lace waves her free claw dismissively. “But it felt like it took a year to ascend, and my shell is horribly stiff from those dreadful metal seats.” She looks accusingly at Ballow. “Have you never heard of cushions?”

“Lace,” Hornet starts, but to her surprise Ballow just starts to chuckle. Lace, also clearly taken aback by this response, blinks at him.

“You are a funny one, miss,” Ballow says in good humour. “Sets my mind at ease, it does, to hear a person complain about the comfort of seats of all things. Been a long time since anyone had the time to worry about things like that.”

Lace blinks again, her sulkiness visibly dissipating. “Well, I assure you, I have plenty more grievances where that came from!”

“Gladly I’ll hear them, miss. There’ll be plenty time now for fixing up the old bell proper, now there’s not so much urgency.”

Hornet, a little mollified, is content then to let them go on ahead. Ballow keeps nodding seriously as Lace rattles off a list of petty complaints about the diving bell, not limited to the noisiness of the chain, the texture of the straps, and most ridiculous of all, the unpleasant tone of the static when the communicator was inactive. 

Lace is still talking, now about something equally inane like the asymmetrical layout of the buttons on the control panel, as they pass through the smouldering tunnels where the magma-spewing slugs crawl and hiss. With Ballow’s guidance they traverse the area with little incident, and exit the tunnels into the Docks proper. The fiery light of the lava-falls sweeps across their shells as they ascend towards the forge. Here and there, the Void-stained husks of bugs start to appear along the path, and Lace and Ballow’s laughter finally falls silent at these grim reminders of the damage done to their kingdom.

“Be a task and a half, clearing up all the husks,” Ballow comments softly. “Those in the Citadel will be put to the crypts quickly, but I should think the poor sods down here will wait a good while longer for their rest.”

“Can’t you just push them into the fires?” Lace retorts as they pass a scorched husk lying on the edge of a pool of flame. Hornet winces.

“These were hard-workin’ bugs,” Ballow says thickly. “Reckon they deserve a little more ceremony than that. They’ll be wantin’ their last rites from the Citadel folk, and isn’t for us to deny ‘em.”

Lace narrows her eyes, but doesn’t push further. The atmosphere has irreversibly shifted, though, and every corpse they pass makes it sink lower. Lace draws ahead again, twirling her pin; Hornet watches the sparks of light reflected gleam across the caverns.

“Where are the survivors?” Hornet asks. “I have not known the Docks to be so quiet, in all my time here. Surely some bugs still remain?”

“Oh for sure they do, miss. Been hunkered down all this time, hiding from the threads.” Ballow smiles ruefully. “But this is no place to celebrate a kingdom’s saving, is it? They’ve gone, to Greymoor or Bellhart- or even set out for the Citadel since the path be less treacherous now. Gone to join the revels. Speaking of which- where will you be heading to now, miss?”

“Out through the Docks, to the old Bellstation. From there it will be a swift journey back to Bellhart for a good night’s rest, I hope.”

“Bellhart?” Ballow chuckles. “You’ll be lucky to get any sleep there for a week. Word is the brew hasn’t stopped flowing since the black threads went away. Was thinking of headin’ over myself sometime for a sup or two now the Kingdom’s no longer falling, and all.”

“Such celebrations are to be expected. I have known bugs to celebrate far smaller events.” Hornet thinks of a particular festival, presumably still underway at the edge of the kingdom. “Or even to raise their cups in the face of oblivion.”

“Cannot blame ‘em. Hasn’t been much to celebrate for generations now.” Ballow looks up. “Entrance to the forge is just ahead. Got to trip the lever to get in, though, if you could…?”

“I’ll go,” Lace says, brooking no argument as she flits ahead.

“With all seriousness,” Hornet intones quietly to Ballow when Lace is out of earshot, “It is my hope that I shall never have use for it again, but if you could keep the bell in working order, in case of future need-”

“Not a problem, miss. She don't take much maintainin’, now she's up and running again.” He looks towards Lace, then back to her. “...Would you like me to add cushions?” She can hear the grin in his tone, and shakes her head ruefully.

“A generous offer, but I do not think that is necessary. I can only apologise for her complaints.” 

“Think nothin’ of it. Spend anywhere near as long as I have workin’ the forges, and you get a thick shell for picky customers.”

“I hope you’re telling her about my proposed bell upgrades, Ballow!” Lace calls out.

“That I am, miss, though she’s not buyin’.”

“Your loss, Hornet.” Lace reaches the lever and throws it across, opening the door. 

“This is farewell, then,” Hornet begins, but Ballow holds up his claws to stop her. 

“Before you go, misses, won’t you raise a toast with me? This feels as good a time as any to crack open the good stuff.”

Hornet wants to decline, but Ballow is so earnest that she relents. “In the spirit of celebrating success, we may, as long as it is quick. We really must get some rest.”

“Not to worry, miss, this’ll give you the fire to make it home and then some!” He disappears down the hatch without another word and it slams behind him.

“Hornet,” Lace sidles back over, her expression pained. “I can’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“I cannot drink whatever he’s going to come back with. Or anything at all, for that matter.”

Hornet furrows her brow. “Do you mean that you were fashioned without the means?” When Lace nods, Hornet again utters a soft curse against Grand Mother Silk. 

“A shell of pure Silk needs nothing more for sustenance. Meaningless consumption seeds only distracting gluttony and indulgence,” Lace recites in a drone. She laughs bitterly. “One of Phantom’s final sins against our Mother was tasting a sip of nectar from confiscated contraband in the Citadel stores. Just a drop, but Mother knew. The next time she repaired me, she closed up my throat for good measure, just to be certain.” 

Hornet tightens her claws on her needle. She really wishes she had another ball of Silk to shred. 

The hatch swings open again, and Ballow hefts himself out, three small bottles in his claws. “Bottled this cask when the black threads came. If the world were endin’, I was going down with some fire in my veins.” 

He offers the bottles out. Lace just stares at the proffered bottle as if it is going to bite her, and Hornet quickly takes it instead along with her own. “I am sorry, Ballow, Lace does not partake.”

“Ah, miss, not even a sip to toast Pharloom’s future?” He draws the cork out of his own, inhaling the vapour that hisses forth. “If there was any time to make an exception, surely it’d be now.”

“Perhaps,” Lace says awkwardly, glancing at Hornet for help. While he is focused on Lace, Hornet hurriedly uncorks both bottles and decants as much of Lace’s bottle into her own as she can. The ominously pitchy liquid unfortunately reaches the brim while there are still a few dregs remaining in the second bottle. Maybe she can mix it into some of her vials of Flea Brew?

“I’d bet this’ll be the brew to change your mind,” Ballow wheedles. “Just a sip wouldn’t hurt, surely?”

Lace looks at Hornet. Something in her eyes hardens- defiance, determination.. She reaches for the bottle. “No, I suppose it would not.”

“That’s the spirit, miss. Well then, misses- a toast to Pharloom, and those still living to rebuild her,” Ballow says, raising his brew into the air.

Hornet echoes him. Lace is silent, but still clinks her bottle with theirs. Ballow’s bottle disappears under his helmet and quickly emerges again empty; he grunts appreciatively. “Perfectly aged,” he confirms. “Whoof! Now that’s a brew.”

Lace lifts her bottle as Hornet cautiously draws a sip from her own overflowing one- and almost chokes. The brew is like liquid smoke on her tongue, and scorches its way down her gullet to sear in her stomach. “Ballow,” she grits out, “how long exactly have you aged this? The burn is like magma!”

Ballow raises his head proudly. “My own recipe. Brewed it and then casked right near the heat of the forge for a few years, it concentrates down real nice. The dregs are thick as slug slime!”

Hearing that, Lace clearly thinks better of her little rebellion. She takes the opportunity given by Hornet’s coughing fit to subtly pour her bottle out onto the metal floor behind her, where Hornet, through watering eyes, watches the liquid evaporate almost before it hits the ground. “I see.” She leans on her needle, trying to gather the courage for another sip from her still brimming bottle.

“Thank you, Ballow. You were right, that was quite delicious,” Lace says airily, passing the empty bottle back.. “But now we really must be on our way.”

“I told you it was good stuff!” Ballow comments appreciatively. “You’re welcome to another, anytime, miss.”

Lace tries for an agreeable smile. “You are too kind, Ballow.” She keeps the same forced smile as she turns to Hornet. “Hornet. Shall we be going?”

Ballow cheerfully waves them off; almost as soon as they are out of his eyeline, Hornet coughs and lobs her bottle into the magma, where it explodes violently into a fireball.

“If he does gift you with more,” Hornet says, wiping her mouth, “pass them to me. I am sure I can repurpose them as explosives.”

Lace grimaces, and just keeps walking.

“Lace. What is the matter?” 

Lace hesitates, fidgeting with her pin, then rounds on her. “Oh, very well, spider. Even though that seems to have been rather unpleasant for you, I admit that I still prefer not to be reminded that I may never engage with some of the pleasures other creatures enjoy.”

Hornet doesn’t really have an answer for that. Food and drink would not be her vices of choice, but she would be lying if she claimed to find no gratification at the bottom of a glass of amber-coloured mead, or in the first bite of the tender flesh of a Grub Mimic, spit-roasted over an open flame. So she simply says, “I understand, and will bear it in mind. As you have said before, you have no use for my pity, so I will not offer it.”

Lace nods. “Thank you.”

They walk in silence for a while, then, the way populated with only stained and sooty husks and the occasional creeping Lavalug.

Hornet eventually turns her head to her companion. “Lace, where will you go, now? You need not stay with me- where I go, you may not wish to follow.”

“Oh, but it’s an awfully long and lonely climb back up to the Cradle from here.” Lace presses a claw to her cheek thoughtfully. “Wouldn’t you permit me to travel with you a little longer? You spoke of a bed- where will you rest your head tonight?”

“I intend to retire to Bellhart.” Hornet responds. “I have a Bellhome there, by the grace of its residents.” 

“A bellhome? You want me to set foot inside another bell after all the trauma of our ascent?”

“I have no stake in where you sleep tonight. If you choose to invite yourself into my home, then yes, there will be many more bells in Bellhart.” Hornet starts walking again. “And if you do not enjoy reminders of the indulgences denied to you, I do not think that passing through Bellhart tonight will be an enjoyable experience for you.”

“Hmmm.” Lace pretends to think about it for less than a second. “I suppose I can bear those vexations for a night, if only to save myself the climb back to the Citadel. So- how do we get to Bellhart from here? I hate to say it, but Greymoor was back the other way.”

“I am starting to worry that you may have an obsession, spider.”

Hornet finishes strumming the threads on the Bellway platform, and looks over at Lace. “What do you mean? It is your kingdom which crafted all of these bells to begin with. I have merely used the resources available to me.”

The ground begins to rumble almost immediately- Eira must have been close by- and Lace backs up towards the exit warily. When Eira springs from the bells with a loud rasp of greeting, she shrieks, brandishing her pin.

“Lower your blade. Eira is no threat.” Hornet watches the beastlings surface around Eira’s paws, and leans down to scratch one on the back with her needle; the others immediately clamour around, begging for their own scritches.

Lace slowly “Eira? It has a name?”

“She has a name,” Hornet corrects idly. “You would do well to be polite to her. She is our transport back to Bellhart.”

“Oh, no.” Lace shakes her head. “You cannot seriously be asking me to ride that beast.”

Hornet rings the bell with the correct frequency for Bellhart, then hops onto Eira’s back, settling herself comfortably on the broad scutes. “Again, Lace, I have no stakes in where you sleep tonight. If you wish to return to the Cradle, you may. If you instead wish to accompany me to Bellhart, this is my chosen route.”

Lace grumbles, but she does step closer. Eira sniffs suspiciously in her direction, and growls distrustfully.. The beastlings echo their mother, though they quickly fall back into tumbling play when no threat materialises. 

Lace looks somewhat helplessly at Hornet. Hornet scratches Eira behind her front leg with her needle in supplication. “It is alright, I will not let her hurt you.”

“Which of us are you talking to?” Lace says suspiciously. Hornet remains silent. 

Eira’s low growl rumbles through her body, jangling the bells around them as Lace approaches again, but Hornet just reaches out a claw to drag Lace aboard before she can retreat. Eira slaps her tail on the ground so that Lace almost slips off as she takes her seat behind Hornet, but she manages to keep her footing. 

“She does not like you very much, I think.”

“The feeling is mutual,” Lace replies stiffly, her claws squeezed tight on the front of the armour plate she is sitting on. Eira growls, and begins to burrow down into the bells, flicking a small one directly into Lace’s head with a claw. “Ouch!”

They drop into the dark Bellway with a jangling crunch. Eira waits for the beastlings to drop down after them, and then sets off in the direction of Bellhart. Hornet settles in for the ride though she does check behind her, periodically, to make sure Lace has not fallen off.

As Eira runs along the Bellway, Hornet becomes aware of a sound in the distance. It reverberates through the tunnel. It is the sound of song, of shouting, of many bugs gathered in the same place. The clamour grows louder and louder as they approach Bellhart, until it almost overwhelms the scraping of the bells beneath Eira’s paws. Hornet tightens her grip on her needle as Eira crouches to spring, before abruptly realising she had forgotten to warn Lace. Frantically, she twists around to should “Hold-”

The crash of Eira bursting through the roof of the bell tunnel drowns out the rest of her sentence, and Lace seems to have guessed at the rest, because her arms clasp tightly around Hornet’s middle as they are launched into the air. Hornet, now with her arms and cloak bound to her sides, is unable to cleanly somersault from Eira’s back at the peak of her jump, so instead she just tightens her claws on the armoured plates and braces for impact.

The result is a very rough landing, and Eira is not polite enough to allow them to recover, shaking them free with the low growl usually reserved for dislodging a pestering beastling from her tail. Hornet manages to regain her footing, while Lace just slithers to the ground. “Ugggghhh.” 

The beastlings burrow their way to the surface and hop excitedly around her. One of them snatches up her pin and scampers off with it, quickly pursued by the others. The noise from above is even louder down here, but to Hornet’s relief it indeed sounds like revelry, not panic. The footfalls of numerous bugs skitter about, crunching in the Bellvein, accompanied by voices raised in song, raucous shouting, and the melody of various instruments. How long has it been, then, since the Void lost its grip? She realises she had never asked Ballow how many hours had passed by while she had been in the Abyss, and she cannot know exactly how long they had lain in unconsciousness after their failed bid at escaping the ocean of Void. It might even have been days.

“How many times are you going to try to give me a concussion today?” Lace grumbles, peeling herself off the floor.

“I apologise. I am so accustomed to riding the bellways that I had forgotten to prepare you for the dismount.” Hornet thumps the flat of her needle against Eira’s side several times in thanks, and the beast purrs, stamping in the bells. “Are you even able to suffer a concussion? I would have thought your constitution would prevent it.”

“We shall soon find out if you insist on any more high-velocity ceiling inspections.” Lace wades out of the bells with some difficulty as her narrow legs slip between the metal spheres, but she makes it to the platform and hoists herself onto it, coming face to face with a beastling. “Yeeeeeeek!”

The beastling in front of her growls playfully around the pin in its teeth, wagging its whole body in delight. 

It takes Lace a second and a brief pat-down of her own body, before she concludes- “Hey! That’s mine! Hornet! That little fiend has my pin!”

“I told you if you lost it again I would happily wait for you to get it back,” Hornet reminds her. Lace swipes for the pin, but the beastling is too fast and plunges headfirst into the bells, disappearing with a delighted rasp. Lace utters something which sounds suspiciously like a curse and follows, tossing bells aside; the other beastlings rush to join the game, scurrying after the bells just to bring them back and drop them into the rather futile hole she is digging.

Leaning against the bellpost on the platform to watch, Hornet feels the tension truly leave her body at last. It’s hardly peaceful here, with the sounds of celebration filtering down from above, the clattering of bells and Lace’s loud complaining, but for the first time since she had arrived in Pharloom she feels that nothing requires her immediate attention. As soon as she surfaces into Bellhart she will doubtless face countless cheers, questions and demands to join the revels, when all she wants is to sink into her bed and sleep for a few centuries at least. For now, she can enjoy the beastlings’ joy. Eira has already settled in, tucking her legs beneath her.

Lace has quickly given up digging as a lost cause. But while the beastling with her pin has yet to resurface, the others are all gathered around her, kicking up the bells and begging with little plaintive rasps for the games to continue. 

“Go away,” Lace says irritably, sitting on the edge of the platform. A small bell is gingerly placed onto her lap, and she pushes it off. The beastling isn’t deterred, and picks it up again to nudge it towards her foot. “Stop it, you persistent little beast!” Lace kicks the bell away and all three beastlings charge after it, snapping playfully at each other in their race to be the one to grab it. The victor rushes back with the others on its heels, and promptly shoves the bell onto Lace’s lap again, covered in slobber.

“I don’t want this! If you wish to be useful, go and get my pin back!”

Hornet moves forward, alarmed, as Eira gives a dissatisfied growl. “Lace, they are young ones, barely hatched. They have no concept of being useful. They wish only to play.”

Lace’s claws tighten on the bell. “Isn’t that lovely,” she grits out. “It is too bad, then, that I do not want to play with them. I just want my pin.”

Hornet sighs. She crosses the platform, and takes the bell from Lace’s claw. She waves the bell in the air, and the beastlings transfer their attention to her immediately. When the bell arcs across the station, they charge after. The bell makes its way back between a set of teeth, and to Hornet’s surprise, is again deposited next to Lace. Lace picks it up and shoves it at Hornet, and the beastlings’ eyes accordingly follow along. Lace, however unwillingly, is still part of the game.

“I have the distinct sense that we will be required to play this game whenever we see them now.” Hornet comments as the beastlings go tumbling through the bells again. From the corner of her eye she sees the beastling with the pin reappear, peering out from its tunnel as its siblings scamper back to Lace. It watches one more return, pass and throw, and then creeps closer. And closer. 

And then it places the pin carefully onto Lace’s lap.

Hornet chuckles. “I believe it wants us to throw that, too.” 

“Well, we’re not going to.” Lace looks in disgust at the slobbery pin and shoves it behind her, out of the way. The beastling whimpers.

“Then throw something else,” Hornet encourages gently. “Your pin will soon be forgotten in favour of a new game. Younglings are fickle.”

The beastling whines insistently, and climbs up on the platform beside Lace. Hornet can see Eira watching closely; the Bell Beast’s eyes are slitted and her claws tensed, ready to intervene. She steps forward and presses another small bell into Lace’s claw. “Please. Humour me.”

Lace looks at the Bell Beast as well, then back to the bell in her claw. She raises it slightly, and the beastling is instantly focused on it. The bell chimes gently as Lace shakes it, herself now watching the beastling with something closer to curiosity than her previous contempt. She holds the bell out of reach over the beastling’s head for likely longer than is strictly necessary as it hops and rasps excitedly, but she does eventually laugh and toss it across the station. The beastling’s little legs scrabble furiously on the platform, its body barely moving as its claws skid on the surface, but it eventually gets the traction to launch into the chase.

“Ridiculous little creature,” Lace comments, getting to her claws and collecting her pin. “But somewhat endearing, in their own way.”

“Rather like most children, I think.” Hornet leads the way to the exit, quickly scaling the platforms to escape before the beastlings can return to demand another round of their game. She braces herself for the wall of sound as they emerge into Bellhart.

Sure enough, the tiny settlement mills with at least a hundred bugs, musty pilgrim cloaks intermingled with those of the residents and the odd splash of Citadel white or Underworks grey. The heady scent of nectar lies thick in the air, and the tuneless singing from some of those present suggests the celebrations have indeed stretched long. Hornet is grateful to hear Shakra’s lilting voice joining them, echoing sonorously around the chamber. Several large casks surround Frey’s shop, and the shopkeeper herself looks flushed and gleeful as she serves a bustling crowd and gathers in clawfuls of rosaries across the counter.

Hornet briefly wonders if they might creep by unnoticed, but then she spots Pavo’s hat making its way through the crowd towards them. When he arrives he bows low. “Welcome home, dearest resident! We had hoped you would return to us! Most surely, this is the salvation you promised?”

“I have achieved my goal and soothed the darkness below,” Hornet confirms, “that Pharloom may persist and not fall to its ruin.”

Pavo clasps his claws. “Remarkable! We hoped it was so when the black threads fell, but to hear it from our own saviour’s mouth… Truly we were blessed that your path led you here, great warrior. I decree henceforth that we of Bellhart will spread the word of your heroism to every traveller who passes our humble village, and I shall personally sing of your noble deeds for all to hear.”

“That will not be necessary,” Hornet says, hastily.

“Nonsense! You shall inspire so many, as you have inspired me to song! In fact, I have already begun composing one such ballad.” Pavo clears his throat. “Oh, ‘twas in the time of silver thread, when a warrior came with cloak of red-”

“Pavo,” Hornet says levelly as Lace starts to snicker behind her, “I truly do appreciate the thought, but the journey here has been long and I wish to retire to my home for the night. Could you ensure that I am not disturbed?”

Pavo nods, the bell jangling. “Of course, of course, dear saviour! My apologies for keeping you from your respite. I regret that I cannot hush this crowd in the midst of their jubilation, but I can certainly see to it that nobody goes near your Bellhome.”

Nodding gratefully, Hornet takes her leave, winding through the crowd with embarrassment searing in her shell. She doesn’t need to look back, she can feel Lace’s grin.

The final jump onto the platform outside her Bellhome feels the heaviest, now that rest is so close. Hornet opens the door, ushers Lace in first, and ducks in after her. The lights she had acquired from Frey twinkle above, illuminating the now familiar desk and collection of keepsakes from her time in Pharloom.

Lace, predictably, spots the most difficult-to-explain specimen first. “Hornet. Is that a still-beating heart on your shelf?”

“Yes. Would you accept “it is a long story” for now so that we might instead get some rest?”

Lace glances between Hornet and the heart. “... Fine.”

Hornet rests her needle near the door and empties out the jumbled tools in her pockets onto her desk for later sorting, and then peels away her cloak. “I am going to bathe, first. Join me if you wish, but I warn you there is not much room.”

“You have installed a hot tub in here?” Lace says incredulously, laying her pin beside the needle as Hornet scrambles up to the second level, where the glowing water bubbles invitingly. 

“It would be more accurate to say I had an excess of rosaries. At times like this, however, such a purchase feels justifiable.” Hornet lets herself down into the water with a sigh. Almost immediately, she feels soothed. The ache in her leg lessens, and every limb relaxes, weightless in the water. “Ahhh.”

Lace appears on the opposite platform. “The bugs of the Citadel were also fond of such activities. I never did understand the compulsion to douse oneself in warm liquid for hours on end.”

Hornet gestures to the water. “Perhaps you should try it.”

“Have I not just recently heard such sentiments from Ballow about his disgusting homebrew?”

“This is different.” Hornet hesitates. “I hope.”

Lace hops to the edge of the basin and dips a claw in, dragging it through the warm water. “Hmm. It is not unpleasant. I will join you, if I may.”

Hornet shifts over to make room for her as Lace slips into the water. When her shoulders drop beneath the surface, Lace echoes Hornet’s earlier sigh. “Ahhh.”

“Do you now understand the compulsion, perhaps?”

“Quite. I feel so… relaxed, even after only a few seconds. It is most enjoyable.”

“I am glad that you enjoy it.” Hornet rolls her shoulders until they crack and props her arms up on the edge of the basin, closing her eyes. She lets the water’s warmth flood every fibre of her being, washing the stink of smoke and exertion from her bristly shell. What little pain remained in her leg has ebbed to almost nothing. After some time, she lazily half-opens her eyes. “Can I see your wound once more?”

Lace obligingly raises her claw from the water. Hornet hopefully examines the tear with careful claws, but it is just as wide as before. Disappointed, she lets Lace reclaim her limb. “That is a shame. This water aids in mending my wounds, I had hoped it might seal yours as well.”

Lace shakes her head. “I fear only the skill Mother had will repair me, Hornet.”

“Then I will learn it.” Hornet closes her eyes again. “You already have my word, Lace.”

“And then you shall be tethered to me until I can learn it as well,” Lace teases.

“I do not think of it as being ‘tethered to’ you, but if you wish to think of it like that, I cannot stop you.”

“You are too kind, spider.” Lace looks down. “But have you considered what will happen if I am never able to learn the method from you? You do not know if I am even able to weave at all- in my construction, Mother would have done all that she could to prevent it after all that happened with the Weavers.”

“When you have lived a life as long as mine, you learn that ‘never’ is only true where it applies to mortal creatures. You have Silk inside you, so I can teach you to weave, one way or another. This I am certain of.” Hornet settles in the water, confident that she has had the last word and can return to rest.

She cracks open an eye a minute later when Lace asks, “Would you still have saved me? If you knew you might be taking on a lifelong obligation?”

“Yes.” Hornet doesn’t have to think about it. “You have been given a lifespan beyond the imagination of any mortal bug, yet allowed to do so little with it. I rescued you because I believed you deserved the chance to live.”

Lace’s tone is bitter. “So I am supposed to live, though I can neither feed, sustain myself or propagate?”

“Those things can mark the presence of life, but they are not required for it to exist.” Hornet retorts. “Does the mindless bug which shuffles along in the soil, consuming whatever crosses before them and scattering their progeny thoughtlessly behind, have more life than you, who senses, thinks, feels? I would not say so. Life presents itself in many different ways, and in my experience, artificially given life is still life, no less than any other.”

“But without those purposes, what am I supposed to do with this life you say I have?” Lace’s voice has an edge of frustration.

“That, you must decide for yourself,” Hornet says. “You are free now, like the kingdom that birthed you, to choose your own path. What do you wish for, Lace? You might now do anything, go anywhere."

Lace pensively gazes at the surface of the water. Her voice when she finally speaks again is quiet. “For now, Hornet, I think that I would like to stay by your side. I wish to learn what you might teach me. If you can abide my presence, of course- and assuming you intend to remain in Pharloom a while longer.”

“Then I will be glad of such capable company in the endeavours to come,” Hornet says gently. “And I do intend to stay. Though I have averted the catastrophe I caused and could leave with no weight on my conscience, I still feel a pull to aid the bugs of this kingdom, yourself being one of them.”

“You really know how to make a lady feel special,” Lace says sarcastically, but Hornet is gratified to see her eyes creasing with a smile. 

Hornet pulls herself from the basin. “Now, I am afraid sleep beckons for me, but please do stay and bathe as long as you wish.”

“No, I am ready to get out as well.” Lace watches Hornet scrub herself down with a towel. “Are we to share the bed?”

“I have no objection if you do not.”

“I have no objection as long as you do not snore.”

Hornet huffs, and somersaults off the platform onto the bed, tossing the towel in the vague direction of Lace’s head as she does. “I make no promises.”

Chapter Text

Waking comes slowly. The first thing Hornet is aware of as she re-enters the world of the living is a cramp in her right arm, where it is pinned beneath her body. Then a stiffness in all her limbs, which crawls over her steadily until she must groan and flex to dispel it. Despite the soreness, she feels remarkably well-rested. She creaks open her eyes, finding them encrusted with sleep, and pushes herself up on an elbow, trying to gather her bearings.

“Hark!” Lace’s voice says mockingly from somewhere in the room. “Does the spider awaken at long last?”

Hornet blearily peers around, before finally spotting a white shape hanging out of the hot tub above her. Lace bleeds into focus as her eyes adjust. The silken construct is only half submerged in the basin, her elbows propped on the side to look towards Hornet. “You have no idea how pleased I am to see your eyes open, spider. I was beginning to worry that you had gone into some kind of diapause.”

“How long must I have slumbered, for you to have such concerns?” Hornet asks absently, still methodically stretching the stiffness out of her limbs.

“Two nights have passed,” Lace says nonchalantly, “since I first woke. You are lucky I am not already a heap of unravelled Silk. I sincerely considered unpicking myself for sheer boredom.”

“Two nights?!” Hornet sits up in alarm. “I have slept two full days since we returned?”

“Well, through two periods of celebration below, at least. The time that passed between felt like a day.”

“For what purpose would you allow me to sleep so long?” Hornet gets to her claws; she goes for her cloak, but it is not draped over her chair where she had left it; instead it lies crumpled on the ground. When she picks it up, it sweetly gives up Lace’s distinctive silken scent. At least it is preferable to the stench of the Slab jailers.

“I assumed that if you were sleeping so long, you must be in need of the rest.” Lace examines her claws. “I had the good manners not to say so, but you did look rather awful on the ascent from the Abyss, spider.”

“And what of Pharloom’s bugs?” Hornet demands as she pulls her cloak over her head. “How many might have been waiting desperately for aid while you allowed me to slumber the days and nights away?”

“How should I know? I haven’t left this poky bell. I slept or dozed beside you for most of those hours- you do snore, by the way- and while I was awake, I used the time to pick through this home of yours quite thoroughly.”

Sure enough, Hornet’s maps and the pages of her journal are messily strewn across the desk. Slowly, she takes in the rest of the room, and the tale it tells. Several spines from one of her Sting Shards are embedded in the walls. Her Craw Memento is now inexplicably hanging upside down. An opened, yet untouched bottle of Flea Brew perches on the edge of the shelf near the hot-tub.  A longpin lies discarded below Karmelita’s heart, which has shifted slightly to the left. “So I see.”

Lace’s smile is triumphant as she lifts herself from the water. “Quite fascinating reading, that journal makes. ‘I shall claim her back… This one, the dark shall not take’? I would blush if I were able, spider.”

Hornet shakes her head, sighing as she begins to clear up. Sweeping up the journal pages, though, she cannot help but notice that the page left on top is Phantom’s.

Lace drops the damp towel over the chair. “But now I am quite ready to leave, I think. Even your assortment of trinkets and this indulgent hot tub can amuse me for only so long.”

Hornet sifts through her assortment of tools. She lingers over the Injector Band; with her other she picks up the Weavelight. “Just a moment. Has your injury worsened?”

“Only slightly. And not by my doing, spider, do not look at me that way.” Lace volunteers her tarsi for inspection this time. Sure enough, the split in her shell has grown wider, exposing more of the slightly curved brass claw concealed beneath the outer layer. At its base, the claw is pierced through like the handle of Hornet’s needle, allowing a thick loop of Silk to run through and hold it in place. That loop of Silk winds away towards the wrist, and as Hornet had feared, the inside of Lace’s claw is formed of coil upon coil of Silk in what appear as completely random patterns, but are in actual fact perfectly organised for structure and form.

Her claws play thoughtfully over the Injector Band, and Lace shrinks back from it, narrowing her eyes distrustfully. “What is that?”

“A device I came upon in Whiteward. It eases my healing, though not in a comfortable way.” Hornet frowns at the vicious device, and then dismisses it, pushing it aside. Inserting her Silk deeper into Lace’s claw would surely only make the resulting tangles more difficult to remove, and might even upset her delicate construction and make Lace’s claw or even arm unusable. For her part, Lace visibly relaxes as soon as it is out of sight.

Instead, Hornet places the Weavelight into Lace’s palm, and waits hopefully. Lace turns the softly glowing lantern over. “...And what is this one supposed to be doing, exactly?”

“It is a Weaver construction meant to enhance one’s natural Silk regeneration.” Hornet watches the wound closely, but nothing seems to be happening. Frustrating.

“Of which I have none,” Lace reminds her. “I am rich with Silk for now, but it is finite.”

Hornet shakes her head. “Still it bewilders me that your mother would not have crafted you with a Silk Heart, if at least to maintain you through superficial wounds.”

Lace titters sourly. “She would not have made that mistake a second time. Possession of a Silk Heart brings with it the ability to weave, and that was a skill she never meant to share. And for me it would have meant independence- also a gift she never wished to impart.”

Now she is yours, as she was mine. Hornet taps a claw on the table irritably. “Such little regard for contingency sets her apart among the pale beings I have known.”

“Is that so peculiar? I, after all, believed her reign everlasting.” Lace set the Weavelight down on the desk. “As did the Weavers.”

Hornet nods, conceding the point. She sets the Weavelight safely back in its place, and ponders over her other tools as she tucks the dice back into her cloak.

“Will you tell me something of yours?” Lace asks. “Your mother, I mean. I have spoken enough of mine.”

Hornet shifts uncomfortably, gathering up her Sting Shards. “My birth mother was a Weaver. Though she never told me so, she must have hailed from this land.” 

“...Something I did not already know,” Lace amends.

“She is gone now, as are all the other Weavers I had known.”

Lace holds her gaze.

“She is gone because she sacrificed her own life in exchange for mine,” Hornet says eventually. “For a Weaver to conceive naturally is exceedingly rare, so she made a bargain with a pale being. He would give her a child, and she would bind the remainder of her life into sleeping service to maintain his kingdom forever.”

“But your kingdom is a ruin,” Lace says bluntly. “I read the reports. There is nothing there but husks and shambling beasts.”

Hornet stills, and then her shoulders slump. “Pharloom has been wracked by sickness for a long time, but with the illness now cleansed, this kingdom still has a pulse. My home was not so lucky in its own throes of disease. Only the elderly and the explorers still linger in Hallownest, but I could not bring myself to abandon it.”

“So Hallownest is its name?” Lace looks thoughtful. “It was only ever referred to here as the kingdom of the White Wyrm, at least in the writings of our scouts.”

“That White Wyrm was my father,” Hornet admits. “The pale being my mother made her bargain with. Though to his people, he was known by another name- The Pale King.”

Lace pauses. Her expression is faintly perplexed. “...Father?”

Of all the words she’d spoken, Hornet had not expected that one to be the sticking point. “My other parent.”

Lace's expression remains blank. 

Hornet slowly begins to explain, quietly hoping Lace will cut her off. “You have only one parent. That is not unknown among bugs, but surely you are aware that for most, the creation of offspring would require two- the mother who births the child, and the father, who contributes his essence. The child formed is in equal parts both of them. I am half of my mother, the Weaver, and the other half is of my father, The Pale King.”

Lace scoffs. “That’s ridiculous. How would the father add part of himself to the child, when it is made entirely within the mother?”

Hornet hastily returns to sorting her tools, deeply regretting the admission of her paternity already. “There is a process.”

“What process? Do you know how it works?”

Hornet stuffs her stack of Conchcutters in her cloak. “Yes.” 

“Why so secretive, spider?” Lace leans forward, propping up her chin on a claw. “I am seeking to learn what you might teach me. Did I not recently express the wish to do just that?”

Hornet knows, then, in a moment of absolute clarity. “You did. But you know of the process we dance around already. You mock me with this line of enquiry.”

“No! In the midst of such serious conversation?” But Lace’s straight face is cracking apart, her shoulders convulsing with silent laughter.

“You mock me,” Hornet repeats flatly. She stands up, while Lace throws herself onto the bed in a fit of hysterics.

“Oh, spider…. I just… Your… your face!” Lace dissolves into giggling every time she tries to speak.

Hornet scowls, letting her silence speak for her.

“Oh come, spider. Do not be so grim. I am quite delighted to have finally broken your composure a little.”

“I shall remember this occasion, the next time you ask me to lay my secrets bare,” Hornet says crossly. She selects her final tool and stalks towards the door. “I am leaving. You have delayed me enough.”

Lace jumps to her feet. “Wait. Hornet, I was enjoying our conversation! It need not end.”

“You have ended it, with your foolishness.” Hornet gives her a hard glare. “I do not speak lightly of my past, Lace. You will hear no more of it from me unless you can refrain from ridiculing me.”

Lace stands in dumbfounded silence then, her brow furrowed in confusion. 

“Follow me if you wish. I intend to return to the Citadel to ensure the residents of Songclave are in good health.”

“Wait.” Lace clenches her claws. “I… I apologise. For disturbing the conversation.” 

Hornet looks at her briefly, then nods and collects her needle. Lace looks affronted. “You’re still going to leave?”

“An apology is a start. It does not undo your actions. Our conversation is ended.”

At that, Lace goes back to sit huffily on the bed. Hornet steps outside, and pauses momentarily to collect the Craws’ gathered treasures, scooping the shards into her crafting pouch. She exhales a long breath. Maybe she expects too much from Lace too soon in harbouring hopes for mature discussion.

She is just preparing to spring down into the square to check the glittering wish-wall when a familiar voice begins to sing, though much quieter than usual. “Hai, lai lai lai…”

Hornet smiles, her spirits lifting immediately. She peers back into her home. “Lace. My plans have changed; I will not be departing just yet. I have matters to attend to in Bellhart.”

Lace turns her head, her eyes narrowed. “Where shall I find you, then?”

“Only in the alcove outside. The singer you hear, she is a friend with whom I wish to reconvene.”

“A friend?” Lace says suspiciously. There’s an edge to her voice which Hornet doesn’t recognise.

“During my time in your kingdom she has been my ally in battle, my sparring partner and a most valued guide in the winding tunnels. I will introduce you later, if you wish.”

“Have I not also done two of those things?” Lace’s voice is strained.

Hornet blinks. “I do not contest that you aided me in battle in the Abyss, but is ‘sparring’ still the correct term if one combatant is earnestly seeking to kill the other?”

“... Perhaps not.” Lace looks down at the floor, then back at the wall. “Go ahead, then, spider. I will catch up.”

Shaking her head, Hornet ducks out of the bellhome. Leaping down to the ledge where Shakra makes camp, she hears the lilting song stop abruptly.

“Hornet Wielding Needle!” Shakra greets her, clashing her rings in a sonorous greeting. “I am glad to see you returned from your successful task. Once more your blade has cut this kingdom free of encroaching ruin.”

“Shakra,” Hornet returns the greeting warmly. “I am equally glad to see you unharmed. The continued health of the bugs of Bellhart whom I left in your care is testament to your unyielding strength.”

“The dark husks provided great challenge,” Shakra agrees, “but proud I am to have weathered their assault, and to have eased your mind as you worked toward your own ends.”

“Will you stay here much longer, now that your role as protector is ended?” Hornet asks.

“Your words are like those of the bell-ringer below, Hornet Wielding Needle! One of these empty hanging homes he has offered as trade for my guardianship, many a time since the black threat came. Dondakku! I have no use for such a thing. A locked door only muffles the sound of the approaching enemy.” Shakra pats the ground where she sits. “Here I stay while I rest from the battle not long passed. I am content in this camp, where I may watch over the bugs below.”

“Pavo seeks to collect as many warriors as he is able, it seems. This town will be well guarded with the both of us in residence.”

“You speak as if you too intend to stay, Hornet Wielding Needle. You are not born of this land- I had thought you would seek to return home.”

Hornet shakes her head. “Not yet, at least. I would stay and see the rebuilding commence, and offer aid where I can in clearing up the aftermath of the calamity I caused. There are scarce few bugs left to grant wishes in this kingdom; if nothing else, I would take on that task.”

“Bakkala! You are noble indeed, Hornet Wielding Needle. I shall be pleased to share your company a while longer. Whenever you have the time, I would gladly spar with you once more to sharpen my skills still further.”

Before Hornet can respond in the affirmative, a door slams above them.

“Hornet?” Lace alights on the edge of the alcove, grasping her pin in her claw. She hesitates to come closer, eyeing Shakra with palpable distrust. “Are you finished? I am quite bored of this dreary little town now- let us return to the Citadel.”

“Come and make acquaintance with Shakra before we depart,” Hornet bids her, almost jovial at the thought of sparring again. “Shakra, this is-”

“Child Wielding Pin,” Shakra says suddenly; Lace, who had been inching closer, stops dead. “At last I see you plain! Many times I caught the flash of white in the halls above as you fled from my sight. Rare is the bug who can outpace me! Now I see, it is your small stature which lends such swiftness.”

Lace’s eyes narrow. “I recall you also. You are the songstress, who filled the Citadel with your dissonant warbling. It was hardly difficult to avoid you when you announced your presence so loudly.” She laughs unkindly. “Indeed you made the whole Citadel your unwilling audience whenever you stood within the halls.”

Shakra stills, her antennae folding backwards in measured displeasure. “You would do well to still your tongue, Child Wielding Pin. Others of my tribe would have caved in your fragile skull for less than such insults.”

“If I might-” Hornet tries to interject, but Lace just crows louder.

“Ha! The only fragile shell here is yours, for hearing the truth as words injurious to your pride.”

“How brave you are now, Child Wielding Pin. Where was this boldness when I called to you offering a match of claws, and you vanished like smoke upon the wind?”

Lace scoffs. “You mistake sheer disinterest for cowardice, I fear. Brutes like you are beneath me; I prefer a noble crossing of blades over,” she gives Shakra’s rings a disparaging glance, “the flinging of heavy stones.”

Shakra stands up sharply, towering over Lace; to her credit, Lace only barely flinches. “Peh. Your words are dull! Raise your blade if further conflict is your wish.”

Lace squeals with mocking delight. “How amusing! Hornet, I see why you chose to befriend this one. She is you all over again, only much more coarse.”

Shakra’s claws clench dangerously on her rings.

Quickly Hornet steps between them, shielding Lace from Shakra’s ire. “Cease! This disagreement is foolish, born of misunderstanding alone.”

Shakra stares her down. “Step aside, Hornet Wielding Needle. Though she behaves as a wayward child, she bears her weapon as surely as the gilded guardian of the hall above. She is capable enough to take a sound lesson in respect.”

Hornet shakes her head. “Shakra. I beseech you, warrior to warrior, let this slight go. I swear to you, I will see that it is not repeated.”

Shakra holds a moment longer, then looks hard at Hornet. “This one is your charge, Hornet Wielding Needle?”

“Of a sort. I cannot allow you to harm her, Shakra.”

Lace leans around Hornet, no doubt with a barb on her tongue; Hornet spins around. “Lace. If you wish to make yourself useful, you will go to check the wish-wall for tasks we might undertake on the road to the Citadel.” When Lace looks like she’s going to protest, Hornet pushes forward. “This conversation, too, is done. Be assured I will come to find you shortly.”

“Oh, we are finished speaking already? But we were getting along so well!” With a sarcastic sigh and a last smirk in Shakra’s direction, Lace hops off the ledge, darting down into the town proper. 

“Most unpleasant company you have chosen to keep in that one, Hornet Wielding Needle.” Shakra scowls as she sits back down. “I sense something altogether strange about that Citadel’s child.”

Hornet moves closer. “I fear she takes offense to your calling her ‘child’, Shakra. Without meaning to, you remind her of a role she has long sought to shed, and only recently succeeded.”

Shakra holds her gaze evenly. “That may be, but my respect must be earned, Hornet Wielding Needle. Until proven in battle, she is no warrior in my eyes.”

“I would not ask you to give her undue respect, Shakra, especially since she has shown none to you in kind. But any other name will suffice. Further insistence on ‘child’ will cause only continued needless animosity.” 

“Very well. Mayhaps she would prefer Coward Wielding Pin.” Shakra narrows her eyes slyly. Hornet is equal parts relieved at the anger leaving Shakra’s tone, and mortified at the suggestion. Shakra might only be joking, but just in case she isn’t-

“I assure you, she is no more a coward than she is a child.”

Shakra hums. “You have my word that I shall think upon your request, Hornet Wielding Needle. But tell her this- I await with rings ready, whenever she should choose to find her courage.”

Hornet smiles. “I shall ensure she knows. Farewell, Shakra.”

“Good luck with that creature, Hornet Wielding Needle.”

Hornet nods her acknowledgement, and hops from the ledge, dropping down into the square. She weaves between the gathered pilgrims to reach the wish wall, where Lace is disinterestedly staring at the posted requests. She rounds on Hornet immediately, before Hornet can even say anything, and throws her arm to her face dramatically. “Hornet! I am afraid I cannot go anywhere- my weapon is not fit for battle.”

“Cease your theatrics, Lace. I am already sorely tempted to leave you here after your performance towards Shakra.”

“But Hornet, those little beastling brutes have damaged it! Tooth marks on my beautiful pin!” Said pin is suddenly mere millimetres from Hornet’s mask.

“Stop brandishing it in my face and allow me to look.” Hornet holds out an expectant claw, and Lace hesitates, drawing the blade close.

Hornet sighs, impatient. “If my intent was to steal your blade, I have already had numerous opportunities,” she reminds her companion. “Besides, I could never forsake my needle, no matter how fine a pin crossed my claws.”

Slowly, Lace lays the pin in Hornet’s outstretched claw. Hornet traces the smooth curve of the handle through to the wicked apex with an appraising eye. In cross-section, the gleaming brass of the shaft is worked into a teardrop shape, giving the entire length of the pin a fine cutting edge in addition to the painful viciousness of the tapered tip. Despite being much lighter than her own needle, it still has a weight behind it. When swung fast enough, it whistles as it pares through the air.

But sure enough, pushed into the brass are several coarse dents, spaced in the rough arrangement of a beastling’s teeth. 

“See? Quite ruined!”

“It is damaged,” Hornet agrees. “But there is no need for despair; the last Pinmaster in Pharloom lives in the next Bellhome down from my own. I am certain he will be able to buff these out with ease.”

Lace blinks. “That… is remarkably fortunate.” She tips her head back to look mischievously at Hornet. “But will you allow me to delay you still further? I would not wish to inconvenience you.”

Hornet sighs heavily. “Let us go and enquire after Plinney’s services.”

A short ascent, and Hornet raps on the door of Plinney’s bell with the back of her claw, with Lace standing awkwardly behind. “Good Pinmaster, are you open for business?”

There is a scuffle from within; with a scrape the bolt slides across. The door cracks open. “Brave warrior, you return! But for what purpose are Plinney’s talents required? Peace is upon us, nay?”

“Relative peace indeed, Pinmaster, but it is a foolish warrior who allows their blade to dull.”

“Your blade- surely its shine has not dimmed so soon?” Plinney opens the door wider to peer at Hornet’s needle.

“Not at all. It is not my needle which requires your service.” Hornet steps aside, exposing Lace behind her. Lace steps forward, but watches Plinney sceptically with her pin held tense at her side.

“Oh? Another warrior with deadly blade to be honed? Curious, is this Pinmaster.” As they enter the bellhome, Plinney’s eyes dart to the blade in Lace’s claws, and they stay there. “A pin of Pharloom I see! But one of less common caste.”

Lace smiles condescendingly at that. “You disrespect my pin to brand it merely uncommon!” She holds it up for his inspection. “This is my most favoured blade and the most exquisite pin ever forged in Pharloom.”

Plinney reaches out and Lace allows him to take the pin with a gracious flourish. The pinmaster hums appreciatively, running his claws reverentially along the blade. “Ahh. Welly I see the reason you favour this blade so! ‘Tis indeed a most splendid example of its kind.” His tarsi pause on the faint toothmark divots. “But oh! The fair blade has been wounded! Such mistreatment.”

Lace bristles. “It was not me who damaged it! It was snatched from me and gnawed on by a beast.”

Plinney tuts, stroking the brass pin as if soothing a babe. “An awful thing for any blade to suffer! This good pinmaster knows just how to mend such injuries. Would you have me make it gleam anew, warrior? Plinney asks only a fair price.”

Lace steps back indignantly. “You ask for payment? You should be honoured to work upon a pin so lovely as mine!”

Hornet is already delving in her pockets before Lace finishes speaking. The satisfying clunk of a heavy rosary necklace on the counter resounds through the bellhome as she nudges Lace aside. “Would this suffice, pinmaster?”

The glitter of the silver and white rosaries dances in Plinney’s eyes as he eagerly collects the offering. “Tarano! This will see the wounds healed without trace, and the blade refined! By Plinney’s skill, it will sting as never before. Let this pinmaster work, and marvel!”

He sets about wiping down the blade, before resting it carefully on the props. Tuneless humming and the faint clattering of tools mingle as he selects a long file from his collection. Lace frowns, looking towards Hornet. Hornet just keeps her eyes obstinately on Plinney. 

Lace huffs. “I am not going to offer you gratitude, spider. You gave me no chance to negotiate.”

“I heard no negotiation, only a demand for special treatment,” Hornet replies. “We have need of his skills, and for them we must make a fair exchange. Enough time has already been spent this day on idle or argumentative chatter.”

Plinney begins to rasp the file across the blade of the pin, slowly grinding away the tooth-marks marring the surface. Lace stares at the floor.

“Hornet, you need not stay,” she says after a while. “You wanted to depart, and I have delayed you. I am quite able to supervise this on my own, and catch up to you along the path to the Citadel.” 

Hornet turns her head. Lace’s tarsi are at their idle work once more, drawing at the threads of her damaged claw. “I will stay. Plinney’s work is swift, and it is a pleasure to bear witness to such skill.” She steps closer, and Lace’s claws quickly stop their winding.

“It is,” Lace says softly. She turns to look at Hornet fully. “You did not need to spend your rosaries for my benefit.”

Hornet looks back. “On the contrary. It benefits me that your weapon be sharp and ready. If you are to venture into the most dangerous parts of this kingdom alongside me, I will see to it that you are equipped as best you can be.”

Lace giggles quietly. “Oh, no! Your reasoning is clear, Hornet, but you misunderstand. I am not bereft of rosaries, far from it. I have many of my own, only they are left behind in the Cradle.”

Hornet frowns. “I admit, that surprises me. What use did you have for currency?”

“None. But for a time, I exacted a toll from the pilgrims entering the Citadel. I had a liking for the pale rosaries and their intricate patterns, so I hoarded them as pretty playthings. After a while I grew bored of the game, but I kept my spoils.”

“So you deceived poor souls into parting with their meagre belongings, because you liked to look at them,” Hornet summarises flatly.

Lace laughs again, more pointedly. “Oh, spider, do not pretend to be better than I! You, who plucked your riches from the corpses of slain and haunted pilgrims, or from tributes left at the graves of the same! I am sure they were pleased to fund your hot tub.”

“I did not hear you questioning the ethics of its purchase when you were soaking in it this morning.”

“Exactly.” Lace looks back towards Plinney. “In any case, I shall be quite able to reimburse you for this service.” She tuts. “Despite the fact you have paid well over the odds. Even I know you are supposed to start bartering with a much lighter rosary necklace.”

Hornet shrugs. “I have more rosaries than I know what to do with. It is of no consequence, and Plinney has been good to me and to my needle. No surer claw could there be to mend your blade, I assure you.”

“If he is responsible for your needle’s edge, then I believe you. Its bite is cruel indeed.”

There is blissful quiet then for almost half an hour, broken only by the sounds of Plinney’s work. The pin is filed and buffed and polished to a shine as they watch, before it is handed delicately back to Lace, the vicious tip of the blade now glittering as if beset with a jewel.

“I have never seen my pin so bright,” Lace murmurs. “Not even when it was new.” She looks up at Plinney. “I suppose I must offer you my gratitude for this service.” She hesitates. “Thank you.”

“Welly, ‘twas a pleasure to service another fine blade!” Plinney turns to Hornet. “If ever you chance upon yet more oil, traveller… this blade too might be made whole. But nay; I should not hope for more! Not when so much has already graced Plinney’s claws.”

“What oil does he refer to?” Lace asks as they depart. She twirls her pin, admiring its sparkle in the light filtering down into Bellhart.

“He speaks of a fine oil once coveted by the Pinmasters of the Citadel. Expelled from the gland of a white slug, if I am not mistaken. I have procured three of them since I arrived here, each as a hard-won reward, and each in turn was used in service of making my needle ever sharper.”

“Oh. That explains what those are!” Lace crinkles her face in disgust. “I thought they were just some kind of gross foodstuff when I found them in the Pinmasters’ storage rooms.” 

“You have encountered some?”

“I know of the location of a cupboard containing…perhaps ten. Are they rare?”

Hornet feels her eye twitch. “Ah. That is fortunate, then. Plinney will be quite beside himself to see so many.”

“Excellent! You can trade them for your rosaries back, and I may keep mine.”

Hornet eyes her, and Lace huffs again. “You are no fun.”

“I know of at least 4 creatures which would disagree with that sentiment.”

“Oh really? And who would they be?”

Hornet stoops to pick up a small bell as they step through the Bellway entrance. She tosses it in her claw. “Hold that pin up high, Lace, unless you wish to see Plinney’s work swiftly undone.”

Chapter Text

“Now- jump!” Hornet barks, springing from Eira’s back as the Bell Beast crashes through the bells. She lands her somersault perfectly on the platform; a moment later Lace lands awkwardly in the bells, but at least this time she is on her feet. Eira rumbles behind her.

“Next time,” Lace vows, making another short leap to join Hornet on the platform. “I underestimated the distance.”

“Next time,” Hornet agrees. She moves to board the Ventrica. “From here, we only need take a short ride to reach Songclave.”

“In the Ventrica? Spider, you have not been using those death-traps? The diving bell was bad enough, but by my memory, these tubes of peril have been condemned for more than half of my existence.”

Hornet stops with one foot in the tube. “They were inactive when first I arrived, but I have found them to be the most efficient method for traversing this grand structure, and they seem perfectly functional.”

“They are perfectly functional, until they are not. At which time you are stranded in a metal tube inside a solid wall for thirteen days- and that was a Vaultkeeper. Not to mention the numerous instances of lesser bugs unexpectedly liquefying under the pressure.” Lace shakes her head. “I have never ridden them and I do not intend to start now. I do not want to imagine what moving at that speed could do to my fragile shell.”

“I have used them many times now. It is a mere few seconds of motion, and barely a jolt. You will be quite unharmed.”

“Or we may arrive and you will be wearing my threads as a cowl. I am not setting foot in that pod and that is my final word, Hornet.” Lace turns on her heel, heading for the exit into the Choral Chambers.

Hornet looks reluctantly towards the Ventrica one last time, but she follows Lace out into the gleaming chambers of the Citadel. Here, the cleanup has obviously already commenced; the area is clear of husks, and the living- pilgrims and white-clad Citadel folk alike- are collected about in small clusters, conversing quietly or sweeping up fallen fragments of rubble. Curious faces turn towards the two of them as they appear, and several bugs shrink back before Lace as she passes them by. Lace does little to dissuade their apprehension, twirling her glittering pin menacingly and challenging the stares of those who do not look away until they are forced to do so.

They ascend unobstructed, but still Hornet is uneasy at the notice of so many eyes. Murmurs surround them, crowding in on her ears, and she quickens her pace to draw level with Lace. 

Emerging into the main concourse of the Citadel, the number of bugs standing around only increases; there must be two dozen lining the hallway. It gives Hornet some relief; between here and the clamour of bugs in Bellhart, it seems that the number of survivors is far higher than she had initially anticipated. 

Reparation work has begun here as well- the large stones which had littered the corridor have been rolled aside. Pilgrims and the odd Choristor work alongside each other, chipping at the boulders to break them apart. Lace regards the cracked walls and scattered rubble in surprise as they begin to walk up the passage. “The Void did so much damage, even up here?”

“Not the Void. Your mother tore much of the upper reaches of the Citadel apart in her attempts to pull you both free from the mouth of the snare, and when that failed, her continued anguish caused numerous aftershocks throughout the kingdom. Much of the Citadel was damaged, and some parts destroyed entirely- the Architects’ tower and its mechanisms are all but obliterated.”

Lace spins around in alarm. “But the Cradle?” Her voice cracks.  “...My flower field?”

“Mostly intact,” Hornet promises. “We will visit them so that you may see for yourself, after I have seen that Songclave survives.”

Lace sighs, letting her shoulders fall. After a beat, she smiles cheekily. “Are you really so impatient for your rosaries, spider?”

“Again, I already have more of them than I know what to do with. You may keep your pretty baubles.” Hornet starts in the direction of the First Shrine, but then the soft chime of a bell begins further down the corridor, and a hush descends over the bugs lining the path. They turn from their work of clearing the rubble, lowering tools and bowing their heads. Some kind of parade is approaching down the wide passage.

Hornet looks back at Lace; Lace shrugs. They stop and draw back among the grey cloaks to watch the sombre procession straggle by. 

At the head of the line marches a solemn Envoy, their lonely bell ringing out the steady dirge. Behind, a Grand Reed bears along a shrouded body as gently as if it were a swaddled child. The long curved horn on the golden mask resting atop the white cloth marks the corpse as a Minister. Was this one whose puppet strings her blade had slashed, or one who had perished when the black threads tore free from their flesh?

A steady stream of Citadel mourners follow behind the Grand Reed, a trickle of white cloth and brass plating parting the grey cloaks of the pilgrims. At the rear of the column, Vaultkeeper Cardinius weaves along, clasping in its front legs a large and ornate brass key. 

“The key to the holy crypt!” Lace hisses crossly. “No wonder I could never find it. That old crusty-shell… hiding it all this time.”

Cardinius looks distinctly uncomfortable here, its elongate form usually buried in scrolls now brushing low to the ground. Its front legs are tightly woven about the key and its eyes shift from side to side as if expecting the bugs to attempt to snatch the treasure at any moment. It glowers at Hornet and Lace with particular venom when it catches sight of them; Lace just smirks at it until it can no longer keep her in its sight.

“It has been a long time since I saw a funeral march,” Lace muses as Cardinius’ legs continue to trail by. “The practice ceased in the Citadel centuries ago, perhaps even before my Mother’s Haunting began.”

“The mourning of the dead is an unusual tradition to cast aside,” Hornet frowns. 

Lace shrugs. “As I understood it, those whose deaths might have been worth mourning on such a scale were no longer permitted to die, and those who did so anyway- well, the Silk within their shells was too precious to be sealed away in a tomb for eternity.”

Around them, the pilgrims who had stopped to bow their heads in respect begin to disperse as the grim parade moves further into the Choral Chambers. Walking among them, Hornet suddenly espies a familiar face.

She darts through the crowd, Lace hot on her heels, to arrive beside the retreating merchant. “I am glad to see you in good health, madam.”

“Oh, hello, dear one! I wondered when these old eyes would see you again.” Jubilana peers at Hornet with a smile. “Have you more rosaries to trade? My wares are all left behind in Songclave, I fear, but if you are going that way I will gladly travel with you.”

“I am grateful for the news that the settlement still stands,” Hornet replies. “We will accompany you there; we were already intending to visit before the passing procession interrupted our journey.”

“Oh, that. Third one today,” Jubilana sighs. “The dead deserve their respect, I know. But you’d think with so many to bury, they could at least inter a few folk at the same time. Save that poor old Vaultkeeper trampling up and down all day.”

“Where is it that they take the deceased for their final rites?” Hornet looks after the retreating tail of Cardinius. “I do not recall coming across a resting place for the departed in my exploration of the Citadel- other than the white wards, and no respect was there to be found for living or dead in that place.”

Jubilana shudders. “Oh, dear one, tell me no more! Little Sherma trembles in the night ever since he returned from there. S’not a place that bears thinking about- verily, the stench of death deterred me from ever stepping foot there. ‘Twere a good thing I sold you that key rather than using it meself.”

Lace watches Cardinius’ final segments vanish from view. “Doubtless, they are on their way to the holy crypt in the far depths of the Choral Chambers. The door was cast obscenely thick, and only one key was ever cut, to keep all the riches within from thieves.” She pouts. “Only the Vaultkeepers knew where the key was stored, and I could never convince that old misery to share its location with me.”

Jubilana nods sagely. “Twas an endless frustration, that lock with no key to be found! I knew there could only be a stash of goodies hid behind such a door, but no way in. Still, ‘twere for the best I never found the key, knowing what they found when it was unlocked.”

“What did they find in there?” Lace asks eagerly, before Hornet can. 

Jubilana lowers her voice, looking around furtively. “Word is that when the crypts were first opened, when they went to lay the last Conductor to his rest not two morn’ ago- well, many of the tombs were clawed open and silk-dusted corpses lay all about!” She shudders. “Had to gather them all up and return ‘em to their graves, they did, before they could lay dear old Ballador to sleep. Doesn’t bear thinking about. I’m almost glad we lesser folk were barred from entering the gilded catacombs, so I was spared that sight.”

Hornet tilts her head suspiciously. “Who has barred you from the crypts?”

“The Ministers, dear one- those three who remain. They announced it throughout the Citadel, morn’ after the black threads fell. Same time as they banned the use of Silk, not that anyone wanted to go near the stuff any more! Also forbidden to us lowly pilgrims are the crumbled tower, the halls of memory, the peaceful vaults and the bright rooms above, unless told by one of the Citadel folk. Only the Citadel-born may venture there.” Jubilana shrugs. “‘Tis no loss to me; I have already explored them all at leisure, but I pity the new arrivals now confined to the lower levels.”

Lace rolls her eyes. “How typical. Only now that the Citadel has been saved from destruction have these ‘Ministers’ crawled from wherever they have been cowering to claim leadership over what remains.”

“Indeed. Where have they acquired the authority to make such decrees?” Hornet demands. 

Jubilana shrugs. “Who can say who chose them to lead, dear one, but ‘tis no blame I’d put on the pilgrims who have stumbled their way here for listening to them. They’ve got that,” she gestures vaguely with her tarsi, “virtuous air- the one I seen, anyway. When I hauled my shell across the threshold all those years ago, I’d hoped for one like that to greet me.” She cracks her shoulders. “Oooh! If we’re to keep up this nattering, let’s start with the walking too, eh?”

She sets off without waiting for assent. Hornet starts to follow slowly behind her, deep in thought.

Lace hangs back with her. “What troubles you, spider?”

“These new Ministers. I am wary of their intentions- they are likely less than virtuous, especially having enforced such immediate division of the Citadel’s population.”

“And imagine, banning the use of Silk!” Lace puts her claws to her head dramatically and slowly crumples, facedown, onto the ground. Her voice is muffled. “I am afraid you shall have to drag me to Songclave, Hornet. I am no longer permitted to use my body.”

Hornet rolls her eyes, and leaves her lying there. Lace quickly gets up and scampers after her. “My wit is wasted upon you, spider.”

“Your frequent impulse to divert serious conversation into attempts at comedy are not always to my taste, no.”

“Not always,” Lace’s eyes crinkle triumphantly, “That means that they are sometimes appreciated. I will simply have to discover what tickles you.”

Hornet sighs. “You would do better to focus on when such interruptions may be appropriate.”

Lace ponders on that, and narrows her eyes mischievously. “That may require considerable trial and error.” 

“Then I shall bolster my patience in preparation.”

Lace giggles, and Hornet carefully conceals her small smile, looking ahead as the narrow passage opens out.

In Songclave, a dozen brown-cloaked pilgrims are busily milling about. A few more are at rest in the shelter of the First Shrine, sporting bandaged wounds or coughing into scraps of fabric. Others are at work treating the patients, and still more work to collect rubble from the structure above, gathering it into piles to be carted away. Those with wings occasionally dart up to reattach fallen carvings.

“Now then,” Jubilana rubs her tarsi together as they arrive beside the wish-wall; there she extracts her pack from where it had been concealed under an innocuous pile of cloaks. She starts to sift through her wares. “Let us see if any of these new goodies I’ve scavenged up take your fancy, eh, red-cloak?”

“If you do not mind, madam, I am quite content with my current collection.” Hornet slides a sly look at Lace. “My companion here, however, has boasted of quite the collection of pale rosaries recently. Perhaps some of your wares might convince her to part with them.”

The look on Lace’s face is utter betrayal, but Jubilana’s eyes are already alight with glee at just the thought of such riches. Hornet finds herself quickly forgotten as the merchant begins her pitch, and so she wanders away, scouring the clustered bugs for a particular shape.

“Sister! Red maiden!” The voice she had been listening for trills nearby. Sherma’s wide, cowled white head wedges between two pilgrims to clear his path through the bustle. His smile is broad. “You live! My prayers have carried you safely back to us!”

“Well met, Sherma,” Hornet says fondly, lifting her eyes from him to look over the settlement. “I see that Songclave and its residents continue to thrive under your care.”

“All have done their part,” Sherma says, brushing off her praise. “Each night since you left, I sang of you to my fellows, and they too prayed for your safe return. And your role was surely largest of all, red maiden! When the black threads fell, I knew at once that your task was complete.”

“Indeed. In the deepest, darkest reaches beneath the kingdom, I soothed the anguish that would have torn it all asunder. It is my own hope that this kingdom may now begin to heal.”

“It shall, red maiden! Pharloom’s wounds are deep, but the hopes of her bugs shine bright, and that is what matters! Already the kind brothers and sisters of the Citadel have joined us in our efforts to rebuild! We work each day to heal the Citadel’s cracked shell, to make it safe for all of us here and for those still to make the climb- and in the nights we sing, to remember lost friends and celebrate that we live on.” 

“These are wise pursuits, Sherma. The faith and the bonds you kindle among your fellow bugs will serve you well in rebuilding this kingdom anew and shedding the ties of its past.”

“The night will be upon us soon, and much merriment with it!” Sherma enthuses. “Would you not join us in celebration, red maiden? It would lift the spirits of my brothers and sisters, to return from their toil to see their prayers for your safety have borne fruit!”

Before Hornet can answer, two hovering Reeds suddenly appear above, surveying the crowd carefully; when they spot Hornet, they move to circle above her, as if marking her location. She watches them through suspicious eyes, but they make no move to attack. “Perhaps, little Sherma,” she mumbles, keeping her attention on the Reeds. “Though, I have much work of my own still to attend.”

A clamour of noise begins among the pilgrims on the edge of the settlement; they suddenly perk up, murmuring reverentially; the murmuring spreads through the crowd like a disease.

“Minister!”

“Minister Vita!”

“Let her through!”

The gathered bugs split to form a clear path before the horned head of the Minister, who glides gracefully through, floating just above the ground on lazy beats of her shimmering wings. She is flanked by two Choristors. The pair stand stiff and serious with their pins at their sides, and with a glance Hornet can tell they are untrained, unlike the Haunted members of their kin she had cut down. Their presence is more spectacle than security.

“Hoy, sister Minister!” Sherma chirps, clearly unabashed. “You are welcome once more to our humble settlement!”

“Caretaker,” the Minister greets Sherma. She speaks in a flutelike tone, silvery and mellow on the ears. “Be at rest, for all is well. I have only come to investigate the whispers from the Choral Chambers.”

The dark eyes behind the gilded mask fall on Hornet. “And I see their voices sing true. Our saviour has joined us.”  She clasps her tarsi together. “Most honoured am I to make your acquaintance, red-cloaked one. I was christened Vita, and my brothers in faith are Pertinax and Junius. We three remain as the last true Ministers of the Citadel, educated in its traditions while in hiding by High Conductor Ballador, may his soul at last find rest. By his teachings we alone among our kin resisted the Haunting and the Darkening that followed, and have emerged into a Citadel cut free by your needle from its centuries of torment.” She inclines her head in respect. “On behalf of my brothers and of the bugs under our care, we offer you our deepest gratitude.”

Hornet shifts uncomfortably. “Such thanks are not necessary. The event you call the Darkening was in part of my creation, and I could not have in good conscience abandoned this kingdom to its unravelling while I alone knew of its cause and held the means to repair it.”

The Minister lowers her horned head graciously. “Still, you fought for Pharloom’s salvation where a lesser bug might have fled. Whatever the path to reach this peace, we owe the restoration of our kingdom and the purging of the threads to your courage, traveller from afar.” She lowers her head in a bow, and the Choristors beside her, as well as the curious cluster of pilgrims watching on, follow her lead. Sherma hesitates.

“Stand,” Hornet demands, her shell crawling uncomfortably. “I have neither need or want of your genuflection.”

Vita straightens up obligingly, her eyes wide and startled. “Oh? Pray, red-cloaked one, forgive my indiscretion; I hoped merely to convey my respect.”

“You have already done so in speech. Further performance is unnecessary. If you have come only to offer your praise, then consider your task completed.”

Vita is about to speak again when Lace’s shrill tones suddenly echo in the open air. “What do you mean, a 25% convenience fee? You’re tying a knot!” The pilgrims near her shift uneasily, and the Reeds above look down for instruction. 

Lace stalks over to Hornet; the Choristors and Reeds draw their weapons as Vita draws back with a sharp breath. Hornet idles with the handle of her needle in case they should attack, but they only wait, for now.

Lace either completely ignores them, or still needs some practice in observation. She has eyes only for Hornet. “Hornet. Might I borrow 80 rosaries? I have an argument to win.”

Hornet, already knowing what the argument is, obligingly delves into her pockets and draws out a clawful of beads. Lace takes them without a word and marches back to Jubilana.

Sherma’s face twists in concern. “I hope their argument is not too severe! If I might leave you, Minister, I will follow them so that I might stop any quarrel.” He turns back to Hornet. “But red maiden, please do think upon my invitation!”

“I shall,” Hornet promises, and he hurries away after Lace.

Reluctantly, Hornet is then left alone with the Minister. Vita looks grave, her mask turned in the direction where Lace and Sherma had departed.

“So the rest is also true- you are travelling in the company of the white knight. We had believed that creature slain by your claw.” Vita looks back towards Hornet; her cool tone clearly conveys her disappointment. “Such were the rumours, at least.”

“As you can see, you have been misinformed,” Hornet replies calmly. 

Vita makes a displeased sound that sounds like a tut. She presses her second pair of palms together, intertwining her tarsi. “That one unsettles the inhabitants of our fair Citadel. I would request that you refrain from bringing it with you in the future.”

“I cannot grant that request,” Hornet says flatly. “She is not under my command, and this place is her home as much as theirs. If you wish to quell their worries, you may pass on the word that they need not fear her any longer.”

“Forgive me, saviour, but I cannot trust your word; not if you claim in the same breath that she is beyond your control.”

“You speak as if she is a beast untamed,” Hornet retorts irritably. “I have spent enough time with her of late to know otherwise. No ‘control’ is necessary. Do you wish to make her acquaintance, perhaps? I would gladly introduce you if it would ease your mind.”

“That will not be necessary.” Vita shakes her head. “For now, I shall permit her presence- provided she is in your company. If that creature were to raise her pin against a resident of the Citadel, however, we would not hesitate to retaliate in their defense.”

“I would expect nothing less in defense of your citizens, but you have my assurance that she will not, without good reason.”

Vita nods reluctantly. “At any rate- I came here to offer thanks, that is true, but also to discuss matters of greater import. You must know that many bugs of Pharloom hold you in high regard, and that influence only stretches further as word of your deeds passes from mouth to ear. You are spoken of in whispers as both great warrior and kind benefactor.”

Hornet grunts. 

“Red-cloaked saviour, we Ministers are but three, and we may not leave the Citadel for all the work that must yet be done. The reach of our voices and claws is comparatively lesser than yours. It would be a boon to have your allegiance as we move to rebuild our home and re-establish order.”

Hornet stares at her, tired of the delays. “Speak plainly. What is it you would ask of me, child?”

Vita’s sweet tone truly falters for the first time. “We hoped that you might continue to aid our fair Citadel as we now turn to rebuilding, and also that you might act as envoy to the bugs of the wider kingdom in our names.” The Minister tips her head. “Might we count on your support?”

“I will make no such promise until I know the path you tread,” Hornet retorts. “Nor will I extol the names of bugs who have done nothing to deserve it. If you wish to lead, prove that you are worthy to do so.  Rest assured that if I should find you wanting, I will not hesitate to stand in your way to protect the bugs of this kingdom.”

Vita narrows her eyes. “Our gratitude for your aid is great, but finite, red-cloaked one. While we would appreciate your aid in rebuilding, we do not require it, and we will not tolerate your interference. Pharloom is our kingdom now, and the bugs of the Citadel ours to shepherd.”

“Then I hope that the system you intend to build will not require my interference.” Hornet leans on her needle. “Thus far, your first steps have not been promising. For what purpose do you bar the pilgrims from half of this great haven, and segregate the Citadel-born from those who fought so hard to reach this place on the path beset by thread?”

“The halls our ancestors called home have been pillaged by countless thieves over the centuries,” Vita says. Her flutelike voice has completely soured now. “Until we can differentiate the criminals from the pious, all but the trusted few will be kept from the treasures that remain.”

“And so, only the trusted few shall be allowed to possess them, or even lay eyes upon them,” Hornet finishes. “Even if you believe that your intentions are righteous now, in excluding potential thieves for the preservation of your relics, what was once protection will turn to greed and eventually to prideful hoarding. I have witnessed bugs greater than you fall victim to it, numerous times before.” 

Vita glares at her. It is striking how quickly her benevolent facade has fallen away with each disagreement. “You make so many assumptions of our intent, red-cloak.”

“I only tell you what will be, if you continue on your current path. The selfish basic nature of bugs is ever plain to me, even in those who play at compassion. It takes a strong will or large heart to overcome it.”

“And which is your claim?” Vita challenges. “So many tales of your generous nature, of your granting of wishes. Do you claim these as selfish, or are you some exception in heart or mind?”

Hornet grunts again, and makes to leave. Vita drifts forward to block her. “It was not my desire to make an enemy of you, red-cloaked one.”

Hornet sets her jaw. “And I do not wish to see this place once more divided into castes of indulgence and servitude. What of the remaining Underworkers- are they expected to return to their toil?”

“The… underworkers? I am not sure who you speak of.”

Hornet eyes her critically. “Do not feign ignorance before me, child. Ballador must have known of the cruelty below. How many bugs were broken and twisted to keep the great machines of this structure singing.”

Vita’s eyes widen, but Hornet is finished with her. “If your wish is to be viewed as greater and kinder than those who came before you, then prove it so,” she says. “Rebuild this Citadel to be the haven that the bugs who strive to reach it were promised.”

She stalks away before the Minister can protest, only stopping when she reaches Lace. “Lace. Are you finished here? We must depart.”

“Almost,” Lace says. “Just a moment.” She toys with a sparkling brooch on Jubilana’s stall. “Do you take promissory notes, by chance? The merchants of the Citadel of old always would.”

Jubilana’s smile is strained. She nudges Lace’s claws aside and sweeps the brooch into her pouch. “No.”

Lace huffs, but Hornet is already walking away; Lace rushes after her. “So, spider, where are we off to in such a dreadful hurry?”

“We must descend beneath the Citadel, into the Underworks. I need to be certain that a new generation of workers have not already been forced into slavery in service of this new order of Ministers.” Tracing a claw over the passages scrawled onto her map, Hornet considers the possible routes. “It is not the most pleasant path,” she says, “but I would suggest we pass through Whiteward. It may now be the quietest route, and on the way through, we can search the wards for some method to repair your shell. That is where the physicians performed their silken experiments, after all.”

Lace grimaces. “Must we? Those wards have always unsettled me. When the Surgeons still lived I often felt it was only their fear of my pin which kept me from some kind of gruesome vivisection.”

“If you prefer to bypass Whiteward, we could always take the Ventrica instead. That would be much swifter.”

“In that case, the revolting infirmary of horrors it shall be!” Lace decides, taking off at a run in the direction of Whiteward before Hornet can disagree. “In fact, I will race you to its doors, spider!”

Hornet rolls her eyes and obligingly gives chase. To her consternation, however quickly she moves, Lace is steadily gaining on her. The silken bug’s lighter frame and lack of dragging, tool-laden cloak gives her a significant edge in speed.

Still, Hornet doesn’t have the title of ‘Fastest in Pharloom’ for nothing. She raises her needle, still running full-tilt, and hurls it forward like a spear. The trail of Silk streaming out behind it grows taut, and she launches herself forward to hit the ground running, drawing level with Lace. 

Lace glares at her. “Oh, that is how we are playing, is it, spider?” She brandishes her pin; swinging it skyward to spring into the air, she vanishes from Hornet’s vision. Hornet whips her head around just in time to see Lace propel herself into a diagonal lunge that carries her ahead by several lengths, skidding into a continued sprint as she lands. She laughs, readying her pin to repeat the action, and Hornet defiantly lifts her needle, readying her clawline once again.

Hornet never quite manages to overtake, but she keeps the pressure up all the way along the straight path as they pass below the Cogwork Core. If she can just stay on Lace’s tail, she can overtake at the last second by directing her dashes downwards in the open, tall room before they reach the Whiteward entrance.

When they reach that chamber, though, Lace leaps straight off the ledge, outward into the centre of the room instead of straight down. Time almost seems to slow as she swivels in midair to smirk at Hornet, laughs, and- becomes a white blur. Her pin flickers in and out of view in a storm of empty swipes before she plummets with truly breathtaking speed towards the ground level.

Hornet still slips off the ledge and dashes downwards , but she knows when she has been beaten. Lace flashes through the Whiteward entrance below her before she can even reach the ground.

“I win!” Lace staggers to a stop before the elevator, her eyes creased with delight as she spins around. “At last I have bested you, spider!”

“Indeed,” Hornet leans on her needle to catch her breath. “A masterful final stroke, I must admit, and one I was unprepared for. It will not happen again. Shall we descend?”

“Oh, hush, spider. Allow me to relish in my victory just a little longer.”

Hornet sighs, but good-naturedly, moving to step into the elevator, and Lace follows, still with the elation of her win aglow on her face.

Choral music begins to bleed into the cavernous halls from far below them, and then, as if the Citadel itself is some great keening beast, the sound of mournful song fills the air, resonating through the walls which had been crafted for that very purpose. Somewhere below, the procession has reached its end, and the melody of the bugs gathered in the crypts carries the weight of all that has been lost. Hornet even fancies she can pick out the rasping tones of Cardinius among them. 

“If we are to delve below the Citadel,” Lace says quietly, her smile faded now as the elevator chain begins to rattle, “Hornet… might I pay a visit to my sibling’s abode?” She knits her claws together.  “No great ceremony will be held for them, forgotten as they were, but I at least would like to offer them some remembrance.”

Hornet thinks of the scene that awaits in the Organ. The sad bundle of worn grey silk, coiled where it had fallen, resting beside a dulled longpin and cracked white mask. Should she not spare Lace such a sight?

Less recent memories seep through unbidden. A horned mask split in two, lying in the darkness of the crafted temple. Her claw traces the edges of the eyeholes, only now truly vacant. Grief lowers its grey wings, and embraces her as an old friend.

Hornet swallows thickly, and looks away as the sweet final note of the mourners below rises through the floor.. “I have stolen your reunion from you; I would not deny you a farewell. I will show you where they lie.”

“Thank you, Hornet.”

Hornet nods. The click of the elevator arriving at the bottom of the shaft rescues her from further reflection.

Treading into the grim confines of the Whiteward, Hornet’s shell creeps with unease. Void-stained husks lie motionless here and there, and she keeps her needle gripped tight. Even though she knows they logically cannot rise to attack her any longer, the apprehension lingers in these half-lit rooms with their heavy, cloying scent of Silk, ash and dread. Lace seems to share in her ill feeling, keeping close behind with her pin slightly raised.

They pass the body of a Surgeon, curled and diminutive in death. The husk’s shell is torn in a dozen places, where the Silk within had been ripped away by the retreating Void. Hornet wonders what funeral rites await these bugs- will they be reviled for their cruelty, or pardoned as pawns of those above them? She, at least, feels little sympathy, recalling the pained cries of the Conductor recorded on the psalm cylinder.

The corpse of a Mortician, similarly ravaged, sprawls in silent vigil over the pit that had once held The Unravelled prisoner. Peering down into the darkness, Hornet can see the dim glint of the great golden mask lying below. “The path into the Underworks lies down there, but we shall search this place for the method of mending first.” She leads Lace onward, into the darkest corner of the wards where the library of records lies.

The shelves are lined with fragments of stone or bronze, each a flat tablet with cloth wrapped tight around it. On each skein of cloth are carefully inked instructions for various Silk-centric procedures, some of them stained with blotches of unknown fluids.

Hornet selects a tablet from the shelf at random, and after reading some way down it, wishes she hadn’t.

Make the incision into the shell at the join between thorax and abdomen. Wind an arm’s length of Silk tightly around the gizzard, leaving the crop free.  Some discomfort may occur in the subject, but over time they will grow accustomed. Digestion will be much improved immediately, allowing the devout to persist on fewer meals per week. Success without further complication was recorded in 83% of test subjects; 14% of subjects suffered non-fatal gastric rupture or long-term rejection of Silk bindings. Sin of fatality recorded in 3% of subjects. Procedure approved for deployment in the Underworks.

She forces herself to pry out another tablet, and if anything, the next procedure described is worse. The one after, worse still.

Total blindness occurred in 16% of devouts. Procedure unsuitable in current state, pending further research.

Severe, enduring thoracic pain recorded in 40% of subjects.

Devout expired due to suffocation before Silk could be removed. Sin committed.

Lace casts her own tablet aside in disgust. “Might we spare ourselves this grim reading and conclude there is nothing to be found here, Hornet? These grotesque methods are not for the reattaching of Silk; they are for its painful insertion into every organ imaginable. Even the smallest frayed dregs found some use. I find it most unsettling.”

Hornet looks around at the stacks and stacks of tablets, and nausea bubbles in her shell. “I am inclined to agree with you. This does not seem a promising route for your repair.”

“It never did, spider. The method to repair my shell most certainly lies in weaving, not… all of this.” Lace eyes the shelves in disgust. Her eyes spark with some realisation. “In fact- I would posit that we ought to spare the bugs above from ever knowing of such vile procedures, and condemn these records to the furnace below.” She scoops up as many as she can carry, and looks expectantly at Hornet.

Hornet hesitates.

“Hornet. You cannot be serious. What justification could there be for keeping them?”

“I only wonder if there might be some beneficial knowledge to be gleaned from this research, even if it might not be used to mend you.” Hornet picks up another tablet. “Believe me, Lace, I share your compulsion to conceal these methods from the eyes of those who might seek to misuse them, but I would suggest that we hide them away, rather than wipe them from existence entirely. To do so would mean that the suffering of the countless bugs who died in these wards was without purpose.”

“If we are never intending to read them, they may as well have been destroyed.” Lace narrows her eyes. “Are you going to pick through each of them for that glimmer of useful information, assuming it even exists? And where could we hide them, that they would never be found? We cannot simply stow them in your Bellhome, you are scarcely there to guard it.”

“But even if another were to read them, there can be no use for these methods without Silk, which you and I alone now possess,” Hornet points out.

“In Pharloom,” Lace counters. “Quite frankly, I do not wish to be pulled apart by bugs seeking immortality.” She strains her claws to pick up another tablet and only succeeds in dropping two. “And there may be others out there, outside this kingdom, who can produce Silk. More Weaver descendants. If we leave any of this research to be found, we risk its being put to use once more.”

Hornet hesitates again. Lace’s arguments are sound in their logic. Perhaps this is not even their decision to make, but anyone else they might ask is long dead. The one thing she is certain of is that leaving this research lying here to be found by curious eyes would be perilous indeed, and there is no time now for her to read it all, even if she could stomach it.

Resigned, she bows her head. “Your words are true. Despite the cost, the risk these texts pose to generations to come is too great. The allure of immortality is a poison strong enough to drown out sense and compassion.” She scoops up an armful of the tablets herself. “Let us take these to the furnace; you have convinced me.”

Lace blinks, seeming surprised, but she shakes it off quickly in favour of conviction. “Yes. Let’s.”

Not ten minutes later, Hornet strikes her Flintslate to spark the furnace anew, and the pile of cloth begins to smoulder. 

“If only we had some of Ballow’s brew,” Lace muses.

“The dust covering the cloths will serve as kindling enough.” Sure enough, the first flame soon rises merrily in the heart of the furnace, speeding through the whole pile within a minute, and for a while they watch the research burn. 

“This was the right choice,” Lace affirms, glancing sideways at Hornet. 

“It was. You were correct, Lace. Aside from the bugs who might have suffered the pains of these procedures in the future, their documentation posed significant threat to both of us by providing an incentive for pursuit of our Silk.” Hornet steps back. “Now, let us descend? The day already grows long, and the Underworks are a perilous path.” 

Lace takes one last look into the furnace. Satisfied, she collects her pin. “Lead the way.”

Hornet obligingly takes her back, through the shifting shadows of the Whiteward. Some of the weight of the air seems to have lifted as the scent of burning fabric follows them back through the rooms. They soon arrive back beside the Mortician’s shredded form, above the mouth of the Unravelled’s prison.

Lace peers over the edge of the pit doubtfully. “We’re going down there?” 

“There is a narrow vent that joins the base of the pit to the roof of the Underworks.” Hornet hops off the edge. “Come, I will show you.”

Through the wall of the pit, along the narrow vent, then past the- Hornet pauses. She is certain she had left the remains of the robotic priest lying behind the confessional, but now there are fragments of it lying in the vent around her claws. Lace, behind her, jabs her in the back. “No stopping, spider! This vent is filthy!”

Shaking off her unease, Hornet scrambles onward, to drop from the roof of the Underworkers’ break room. Thankfully, it appears deserted. Outside, the once roaring machinery sounds distinctly forlorn, hopefully now uncared for.

Lace is still vocally bemoaning the smoke and ash clinging to her shell as they step out into the Underworks proper. Only husks greet them, and the churning crunching of jammed machines. Debris and chewed metal litter the narrow platforms. Those machines which are not choked with debris are lying completely dormant, sometimes ominously smoking. 

“No workers,” Hornet says. It’s a relief, for now, and a count in the favour of the new Ministers, even if she doesn’t trust the emptiness of the lower levels to last. How long until waste begins to collect above again, and they try to justify a return to the old ways?

“Not one. Just smog and dust. I don’t know how you manage, spider, breathing in all of this filth.”

Hornet readies her needle. “Let us make towards the Organ, then,” she says. “Be mindful of the machines; not all of them may be inactive, and debris may come raining from above as we pass through.”

Traversal of the area is easier now that the spinning grinders are mostly immobile, though they are forced back from several paths by caved-in ceilings or molten slag. Nowhere along the path do they encounter another living bug, however; if any Underworkers had survived the quakes and the rising Void, they have long since abandoned their tasks. 

Lace is unusually quiet as they travel, as if deep in thought, and Hornet is grateful for the quiet, keeping her focus on the passage. As they walk beneath the now achingly silent chamber which had been home to the Twelfth Architect, Lace does not even question the gigantic automatons in the walls behind. Hornet wonders if that speaks to familiarity, or to distraction.

They are just leaving the room when Lace finally speaks. “Hornet.” 

“Lace,” Hornet answers evenly.

“...You told me before that you knew what it was to lose a sibling,” Lace begins, her tone clearly questing for more information.

Hornet doesn’t look back. “I did. But our discussion this morning was not so long ago that I have forgotten it, Lace. Can I trust you to remain serious this time, and refrain from mockery?”

Lace looks indignant then. “Yes.”

Hornet springs to the next platform, making her way towards the vents which lead into the Exhaust Organ. 

“... I lost a great many, in truth, but two in particular rise above the others.”

Lace is quiet. 

“One was bound into eternal service, much like my mother. The other chose to take on the burden of salvation. Both gave all of themselves to save our kingdom, though one ultimately failed and the other came perhaps too late.” Hornet sighs. “But it is not quite the same as your situation. My lost siblings will always live on, those two included.”

“Yes, I know. They live on in your heart, or your memories, et cetera. How truly saccharine of you, spider.”

Hornet exhales. “Something like that. Now- are you prepared to descend through the vents?”

“I am.”

At last, they arrive outside the room where the Organ looms. Stopping by the doorway, Hornet gestures to Lace to go ahead of her. “This is the place.”

“So they perished in the Organ room itself,” Lace muses. “It makes sense, I suppose. This was home for Phantom, and the closest they were permitted to venture to Mother’s abode.” She cautiously brushes the fabric covering the door aside, and steps through, out of sight. Hornet waits outside, allowing Lace time for her grief, and dwelling in her own troubled thoughts. She was sure the mechanical priest had been undisturbed the last time she had passed by- so how had its pieces come to be scattered in the higher vents?.

“Hornet!” Lace is calling. “Hornet?”

Startled, Hornet pushes the shroud across the doorway aside. Lace is standing on the plinth before the organ. Her claws rest upon the keys of the instrument. “I see nothing of my sibling in here, Hornet.” she says, puzzled. “Not even a shred of their Silk.”

Hornet looks towards where she remembers Phantom crumpling to the floor, but Lace is right- there is nothing there. She casts about the room, but the cracked mask, discarded longpin, even every last strand of greying silk- all are vanished, plucked from the organ room as if they had never been there.

Phantom- or what little had remained of them- is gone.

Chapter Text

“Perhaps you were only mistaken in believing them to be dead, Hornet.”

The glimmer of hope in Lace’s suggestion is painfully stark; Hornet flinches from it. The two of them squeeze back into the small elevator to leave the Organ behind, and she remorsefully shakes her head. “I regret to say that there was nothing left of Phantom but a shapeless bundle of grey Silk, and that lay undisturbed and unmoving each time I passed by. If they were feigning death they did so for an audience of none, for days on end.”

Lace lowers her head. Her disappointment is palpable, and Hornet is just about to open her mouth to- not apologise, perhaps, but make some attempt at consolation- when she is challenged with, “In that case, Hornet, what do you believe became of them?”

Hornet shifts uncomfortably in the confines of the small elevator as it lifts away. “I suppose it is possible their Silk vanished at the moment of your mother’s death. Much of the rest of her Silk has been torn away across the kingdom, after all, from both husk and structure.”

“I think that unlikely, since Phantom was no longer bound to Mother.” Lace’s voice drips with scepticism.  “And even if that were so, what became of their pin? And their mask?”

Hornet thinks once more of the robotic priest, its parts sprinkled through the vent. Leaning back uneasily on the elevator wall, she gives her worries a voice. “I believe that other bugs have ventured into the Underworks before us. The parts of the automaton scattered in the vent earlier were not of my doing, which can only mean that somebody else has used that path since my last visit. It is possible that scavengers have already scoured the Underworks, and your sibling’s remains have been taken as a prize.”

Lace still looks sullen. “Phantom liked to collect such fragments. They would use them to repair the Organ, or other mechanisms.”

Hornet chooses not to challenge Lace’s frail denial. Instead she grips her needle, staring at the wall sliding past outside the elevator mesh. “I would have liked to know your sibling, I think. Under better circumstances.”

“Well,” Lace insists as the elevator reaches the top of the vent. “Perhaps you may, yet.” The elevator arrives at the top of the shaft, and she impatiently slips out as the door clicks open. “So then, spider. Now that your mind is put to rest over the emptiness of the Underworks, shall we ascend to the Cradle?”

Hornet briefly unfolds her map, grateful for the shift in conversation. “We shall indeed. From here we may quickly access the Grand Bellway via a ceiling vent, and then we need only ascend the same way as before, assuming that you still cannot be persuaded to make use of the Ventrica.”

“Another vent! It is little wonder that I hardly saw you move about the Citadel if you have been crawling through the ducts like a grubby Drapemite rather than treading the halls.”

Hornet disregards the insult. “I am a hunter, not a knight. I prefer to go undetected where I am able, especially where I might be descended upon by countless enemies were I to be discovered.”

Lace just tuts. Hornet tucks away the map, her eyes on the path upwards. “Watch yourself, Lace. The path ahead is lined with spikes.”

“I know,” Lace responds simply, springing forward to begin the climb. Then she hesitates at the base of the narrow passage, and turns her head. “Hornet. If you believe that others have used the same vent we did to access the Underworks, surely that would suggest that others might have also visited the Whiteward before us.”

“My concerns precisely.” Hornet responds grimly. “I hope that I am mistaken.”

“As do I, spider” Lace agrees, before she leaps into the rocky ascent.

Eira rumbles sleepily at them when they re-enter the Bellway, dropping out of the vent in a puff of dust. Her armoured body is curled around her offspring tightly, the four little ones lolled out in peaceful slumber.

“Rest, Eira,” Hornet murmurs. “We are not leaving just yet.” 

The Beast shuts her eyes again.

Hornet looks pointedly, meaningfully at the Ventrica as they pass it, but Lace just shakes her head. “If you knew how to put me back together, spider, only then might I consider it.”

Hornet eyes Lace’s torn claw where it grips her pin, trying to assess whether it has frayed further on their travels. “It is of utmost importance that I learn the method to repair your shell- both to prevent your injuries from worsening any further, and so that we might save precious time moving about the Citadel.”

“And until then I will traverse the halls on foot.” Lace sets out for the Choral Chambers exit again. “Still, if the key to the process can be found anywhere, it will surely be in the place where my shell was first spun, and mended many times since.”

“Fine. Let us climb to the Cradle with haste, then.” 

The bugs gathered in the Chambers pay them less attention this time, aside from a few stray looks of confusion for their reappearance. They soon reach the upper concourse once more, this time heading away from Songclave towards the elevator room. 

Lace is clearly making for that room while Hornet lingers behind, her gaze turned upward until she spies the hole in the ceiling that leads into the Cradle. Thankfully, it has not been closed off. She crouches for the throw, before heaving the needle with a shout through the narrow gap; it lodges in the ceiling with a crunch. Her yell draws Lace’s attention as well as the pilgrims around, some of whom dart off in alarm at the flurry of Silk in the air. When Hornet looks to Lace and extends her arm in invitation, though, Lace backs up.

“Oh, no, not this again, spider. Not when we have a perfectly lovely elevator in the next room.”

“The elevator was shattered by your mother’s fall, much like the rest of the tower that housed it. This is now the only route upwards.” Hornet insistently opens her claw. “Come, and keep a firm grip on your pin this time.”

“Ugh.” Lace reluctantly trails back along the corridor. She grasps Hornet’s claw, and up they go, soaring into the vent. Thus begins the arduous climb, scrambling and leaping through the crumbling tunnels and cramped vents that are all that remains of the tower. Lace is quiet, seeming shaken by the destruction, and Hornet is glad of the opportunity to focus, keeping the pace brisk throughout the ascent but ever checking behind to make sure that Lace is keeping up. She need not have worried; Lace’s agility perhaps even surpasses her own, and the only times she requires aid are for the long ascents through the smooth vents where her silken claws find little purchase.

It is not long before white petals begin to litter the path, and Lace speeds up, her worry evident in her haste as the perfume of crushed flowers reaches them. Before long she breaks into a sprint, leaping out of sight at the end of the passage. Hornet only catches up to Lace when she is already kneeling among the blossoms.

“As I promised,” Hornet says gently, “damaged, but not destroyed. This field- I assume it was your abode?”

“In the sense that I spent much of my time here.” Lace delicately plucks a flower from its stem, holding the pristine petals in her torn claw. “It was only a plinth once, before I found these flowers in Shellwood and was struck by their pale fragility. I cultivated them myself for many years to bring them to a perfect state.”

“They are beautiful indeed,” Hornet agrees. “But then why choose to engage me in battle here, where they should be trampled underfoot?”

Lace laughs. “They would have provided a pristine white backdrop for the spilling of your blood. She could not possibly have ignored my victory then.” She drops the flower abruptly. “I suppose they have little purpose now that Mother is gone, and the tower is in ruins. No pilgrims or hapless spiders will ever grace this field again.”

Hornet says nothing, because she cannot disagree. Instead, she dutifully lines up her throw. Petals flutter around them as she once more whips her Silk outward and upward to soar. Even as they rush skyward, Lace is still looking morosely down into the flowers.

The silence persists through the vents and into the Cradle proper, and so they are able to hear when somewhere ahead, there is a scuffle and a clacking of falling rubble. Hornet stops dead, and she and Lace look at each other significantly before continuing onward, keeping their steps light. Scratching, scraping and little cackles permeate the hollow quiet.

Steadily the sounds grow louder- and more familiar. By the time they climb into the room beneath Grand Mother Silk’s abode, Hornet already knows who they are about to find. Sure enough, digging in a pile of rubble is Grindle, his sack of ill-gotten gains resting beside him.

“Little thief.”

Grindle jumps, quickly spinning around, but he spots Hornet and immediately relaxes. “O-hoho, it’s just you, fancy bug!” He chuckles. “Turns out we got no need to go lookin’ for another world to pilfer. This one’s stickin’ around, so we’s heard!”

“Indeed. Though I might have known that the return of peace to Pharloom would not dissuade you from your scavenging.”

“Not us!” Grindle pats the bag of pilfered objects beside him. “Still plenty of goodies for the snitchin’ while them busybodies below slave away cleanin’! We gots to stock up on tasty goodies to sell ‘em.”

“You have been pillaging the Cradle?” Lace demands before Hornet can say anything else. “How dare you, thief? These highest reaches of the Citadel are off limits to all bugs!”

“Hoho, ain’t you a stiff one! Nowhere’s off limits to a snitchbug. ‘Specially not when we smells goodies.” Grindle rifles about in the fallen rocks, tugging out a scrap of pale cloth. He shakes away the dust, sniffs it, and tosses it aside. “Ugh. Just more scratchings on cloth. Where are all the goodies?”

Lace draws her pin; the glitter immediately catches Grindle’s attention, though not for the reasons she might have hoped.

“O-hoho, shiny poker you got there!” he coos. “Heh… a pretty bundle of clicky-clackies that one would fetch.” He eyes it for a moment, and then begins to dig through his stack of ill-begotten treasures, unearthing a dull gleam of brass. “What say you trade it for this bigger one I sniffed out, eh? Seems a fair swap to us!”

Hornet recognises it at the same time as Lace does. Phantom’s longpin.

“You little cur!” Lace lunges towards Grindle; he dances back from the flicker of her pin. “You took my sibling’s remains from the Organ below!”

Grindle hops aside, pelting her with debris as he scrabbles up the mound of rubble to escape. “Not us! Sure, that’s where we found this pokin’ stick… but weren’t nothin’ else worth taking! Just some scraggly old lengths of Silk and a broken mask.”

“Wait,” Hornet demands, loosely grasping Lace’s shoulder to keep her from chasing Grindle. “Do you mean that the Silk was still in the Exhaust Organ when you found the pin?”

Grindle glares at her suspiciously. “I ain’t talkin’ while she’s still pointin’ that thing at me.”

Lace looks at Hornet. Hornet nods. Lace reluctantly lowers her blade, though she continues to glower at Grindle.

“That’s better.” Grindle sticks his nose up at her indignantly. “Fancy tryin’ to skewer a poor li’l snitchfly for just offerin’ a trade!” 

“Now you will answer the question, thief,” Hornet demands. “You spoke of Silk lying beside the longpin. Though you claim not to have disturbed it, that Silk is now gone. How long ago were you scavenging in the Organ?”

Grindle smirks, scratching his nose. “Don’t remember. Our memory ain’t what it was before we was almost spiked.” His eyes glitter greedily. “Though a few clicky-clackies might help us recall.”

Hornet narrows her eyes. Dipping into her rapidly-lightening pockets, she tosses a handful of loose rosaries on the ground. Grindle dives off the mound of crumbled rock to scoop them up, ferreting about until he had added each and every one to his pouch. “Ohoho, yes… it’s comin’ back… maybe with a few more…”

The rosary necklace is barely out of her cloak before it is snatched from her claw. “Found that pin just this mornin’ in the deep down below,” Grindle says breezily as the beads follow their fellows into his pouch. “Layin’ on a mound of nasty raggy Silk afore the organ, it was. Ain’t nobody wants Silk no more. Wasn’t worth the carryin’ away.”

“If you did not take it, where has the Silk disappeared to since?” Lace says suspiciously. Hornet can see her claw tighten on her pin.

“How’s I s’posed to know? Left straight after, we did! Somebody was scufflin’ about down there makin’ all kinds’ o’ noise.”

Hornet looks at Lace significantly. She leans forward intently. “There were others present in the Organ this morning?”

“S’what we said. Scratchin’ and swearin’ in the vents. Weren’t no snitchbug. We’s got more sense than to make all ‘at noise when we’re pilferin’.”

“But you didn’t see who it was?” Lace presses impatiently.

Grindle snorts.“We wasn’t for staying to greet ‘em! There’s not many in this fancy prancy Sitty-dell is friendly towards a snitchbug.” 

He is already turning away in disinterest, his nose twitching towards the rubble. “Now, be off if you’ve no more clicky-clackies to share! We got more treasures to sniff out!”

Hornet withdraws out of his earshot, Lace trailing behind with her eyes still venomously fixed to Grindle.

“Hornet. I want Phantom’s pin back, and I will not be paying him a single bead for it,” she hisses.

“I understand. We will not leave without it, but I think that we should first venture higher to seek the method for your healing. I do not anticipate that he will leave any time soon.”

“Can we not take it back now?” Lace half-raises her pin, frustrated. “What if he has Phantom buried in his vile little pouch as well?”

“Lace, I know that thief,” Hornet says levelly. “Despite his poaching ways, the secrets he sells for rosaries have never proven untrue.” She glances at him. “Besides, if he had taken Phantom’s Silk, I do not doubt that he would have already attempted to exact a hefty price for it. He likely already regrets leaving it behind if he thinks he might have convinced us to pay for it.”

“If his story is true, then another has been to the Organ.” Lace’s voice is tense. “And taken my sibling’s remains for some purpose of their own.”

“Unfortunately, that seems entirely likely with the information we now have.”

Lace sighs, but offers no argument.

Hornet nods. “It is fortunate that we encountered Grindle here. Without him, we might have never known that Phantom’s remains had been taken. And you shall have the opportunity to recover their longpin.”

“Be that as it may, spider- if we ascend to the Cradle, and my treasures are no longer there because that little poacher has taken them,” Lace mutters murderously, “I shall take great satisfaction in slicing his nose from his face, and you will not stop me. ”

She moves on towards the heights of the Cradle without waiting for Hornet’s response, and Hornet follows along with a last glance at Grindle, hoping for his sake that Lace’s concealed rosaries have escaped his notice.

Lace, to her surprise, leads her into the room of rune cages. Once there, she makes a beeline for a broken cage, buckled and lying on its side. Slipping through a bend in the bars, Lace mutters to herself as she scuffles in the stones, then lets out a pleased hum. “They’re still here!” She emerges from the broken cage with her claws full of pale rosaries, which she carefully sets on the ground, watching to make sure they do not roll away before heading back into the cage for more. She returns again and again, until she has formed a considerable mound of them on the floor. “I suppose I shall have to take them all away with me now, since thieves are abroad in the Cradle.”

“Certainly I would not advise leaving them unattended any longer,” Hornet agrees. “I will carry them, if you wish? My pockets have plenty of room, and you seem to lack any convenient way to transport them.”

“Ha ha. Nice try, spider. They’ll just get all mixed in with yours! If you would lend me but a few strands of Silk, I will thread them and carry them as necklaces.” Lace settles beside the mound of rosaries as if she intends to be there a while.

“How much time might your threading take?” Hornet asks. “The day grows short, and we still must seek the method for your mending.”

“Oh, not so long as to inconvenience you, dear spider. I am not so unsteady of claw as your elderly merchant friend.”

Obligingly Hornet spins out a few loops of her Silk, gathering them loosely about her claws so that Lace can take them. Lace reaches up to capture the strands, and deposits a clawful of pale rosaries in Hornet’s palm in return. “Here, Hornet. I am loath to be in your debt for the repair of my blade.”

Hornet pockets the rosaries without argument. “Thank you.”

Lace waves her tarsi dismissively, but she looks like she might be smiling as she draws out the thread and plucks a rosary from her pile.

“Whilst you go about your work, I will look around this room for anything that may be of use for your repair." Hornet eyes the nearby cages with distaste. “Though if this were the room where you were born, I should be rather surprised.”

“Indeed not. I was given shape before Mother’s cocoon, at the peak, and there I would return time after time to have my wounds mended, like a broken doll.” Lace’s voice takes on a sharp edge. “I am not even sure that she knew I was there, in the later years.”

Hornet peers into the nearest cage. The bars are buckled and bent. Uncertain what she is even looking for, she draws a claw over the runes inscribed into the metal. Lace is speaking again.

“Here is where the Weaver descendants taken from kingdoms afar were brought before their audience with Mother,” Lace slides the first rosary onto the strand of Silk, “and here they raged and wept and begged, claiming to know nothing of her or our Kingdom. I saw so little of her divine form in their rough shells and odd shapes. And yet each of them held within them her gift of turning Soul to Silk.” Lace twines the silver strand around the bead, looping the shimmering thread around itself to form a knot. “That which was denied to me, they received simply by their birth.” She pulls the knot taut sharply, and pauses. “I watched her tear it from their bodies with only envy. At the moment of their deaths at the very least they had her notice.”

Hornet’s gut twists unpleasantly; for a moment she is held above the pit of blackness with great silken claws threatening to rend her shell apart. The pale being raises her high, every strand of Silk radiating an overwhelming aura of spite and fury. Then, a flicker of white on the edge of her vision-

Clack. The sound earths her as the second rosary runs down the thread to join the first, meeting with a solid rattle. She traces another rune carved into the cage’s bars, looking back at Lace. “I knew there were others, before I was brought to Pharloom. In this chamber I read of their captures and their fates. But some of the Weaver descendants your mother spared, did she not? In this very room I read of a quarter Weaver, staked to service like the loyal Weaver I slew in Bellhart. What became of them?”

Lace narrows her eyes. “The quarter Weaver you speak of was Cleome,” she mutters. “Taken from beneath the City of Steel, where she had formed a huge entangling snare to guard herself. If you had hoped to meet her, however, I hate to disappoint but she is long gone. Her Weaver grandmother had mingled with some hulking botanical creatures, and her form was vast. Perhaps that was the reason she was spared, in the hope she might be useful for her strength- but without use of her Silk she quickly withered and died, as a plant cut from its roots.”

Hornet lets out a long breath. “Did you never consider freeing another, as you freed me?”

Lace freezes. “You know,” she says levelly.

“It was obvious, after a while. You are the only one who had the motive, and you have demonstrated influence over the Silkflies and therefore the means.”

“How perceptive of you, spider.” Clack, clack. “To answer your question, however, no. The last to be brought here before you was Cleome, and my resentment of Mother was not yet great enough for me to risk such a betrayal. You, however, would have been the ultimate prize, and I could not stand idly by and allow her to take you.”

Hornet blinks, slowly. “You should know that I am grateful to have been worthy of your intervention, whatever your reasons might have been.”

“Ugh! I didn’t do it for you, spider, don’t be gross. Now be quiet and let me concentrate. Aren’t you supposed to be looking around in here for whatever you think you might find?”

Clack- clack - clack… each rosary slides down the thread to join its fellows. When the thread is almost full, Lace’s white claws cross, loop, pull, and as simply as that, a pale rosary necklace hangs from her wrist. She slings it around her neck and begins threading the next one, looping the Silk as before to tie off the first bead. Despite herself Hornet cannot help but watch, with just a twinge of jealousy.

“I can fashion blades and construct cogworks with relative ease,” Hornet says as Lace pulls the Silk taut, “but for whatever reason, threading beads eludes me. I have no patience for it. As such, I found it simpler in my time here to just allow the merchants to take their cut in exchange for ease of transport.”

“Well, now you have me, Hornet!” Lace brusquely draws another bead along the thread. “And I shall only ask a 20% convenience fee for the favour. I think you shall find it is quite a competitive rate.”

Hornet chuckles. “A generous offer indeed, and one I may just take you up on.”

“Good! I shall be needing countless rosaries to repair my pin if we are going to continue to use the Bellways.”

It soon becomes apparent to Hornet that the room will yield little in the way of information, but it is not long at all before Lace stands up triumphantly, three pale rosary necklaces strung around her neck. “There. I told you it would not take long.”

Hornet emerges from the cage she had been standing somewhat idly inside. “Indeed, you are most efficient. I regret that my own endeavours have been much less fruitful.” She has at the very least gathered up the scraps of inscribed fabric to gift to Scrounge, but nothing else of note has emerged from her search. “Might I carry those for you? Wearing them around Grindle would be most unwise.”

“Ha. I have nothing to fear from that long-nosed little sneak. In fact, I think I shall rub them in his thieving pointy face.”

Hornet sighs. “Very well. Just do not be surprised if you lose them shortly after. Grindle has quite the stickiest claws I have ever known, besides perhaps Frey back in Bellhart.”

“Well, he won’t have any claws left if he tries to take them,” Lace says darkly. “Shall we climb higher, Hornet? It is not much further now.”

Hornet nods. Lace’s rosary necklaces rattle and clatter against each other as she leads the way up towards the very peak, slowing as they approach the entrance of the final chamber.

When they step into the tall room, Lace stops entirely. “I admit- it feels so unsettling to be in this chamber without her,” she says simply, gazing up into the empty space where her mother’s cocoon had once hung like a great pale moon. “When she lived, I could feel her presence always as a dull tugging, but in the Cradle her divine will would resonate through every strand of my being. Now, even here, there is just nothing.” She turns to Hornet, her eyes wide in wonder. “She really is gone. Forever.”

“She is. If you would prefer to remain down here,” Hornet says gently, “I can ascend the rest of the way alone.”

“No. I will come with you.”

Hornet dares to hope that something might appear as they step onto the great dais where she had fought with Grand Mother Silk- some as yet unknown Silk Skill springing into being, or a new Crest to bind- but there is nothing. The platform itself bears the remains of the snare, scattered debris, and a fine dusting of Silk- but little else of consequence. Lace surveys the scene, and then turns to Hornet. “I hadn’t asked, spider, but what are we actually looking for?”

“I hardly expected written instruction,” Hornet admits, “but I had hoped for some remnant of your mother’s essence, perhaps, or even some strike of divine inspiration once we both stood at the peak. Stranger things have occurred since I arrived in Pharloom.”

“And there’s nothing!” Lace grumbles. “Then again, it would be just like Mother to take the secret to her grave.”

“Do not be too hasty to give in. Perhaps it might help if you were to explain in more detail the process by which you were healed.” Hornet settles down on the open platform, needle rested across her folded legs. “That way I might learn how to replicate it."

Lace shrugs helplessly. “I cannot, Hornet. I was not beholden to the process, only the result- a mended shell.”

“Anything you can recall may be helpful, even if it is only to describe the physical sensation of the mending.” Hornet gestures to Lace to sit.

“That is easier said than done!” Lace sinks down to sit opposite Hornet, tapping the point of her pin uneasily against her claws. “What if, first, you describe what your healing feels like? Then we might make a comparison.”

Hornet ponders for a moment. “The sensation of Binding is best described as a swift rushing of Silk from my spinnerets, followed by a gentle crawling beneath my shell as it seeks out any injury. It ends with a sharp sting, as the Silk draws them closed.”

Lace shakes her head. “Mother’s touch was not like that. It was slow, methodical. No pain. Just energy, humming through the strand. I could feel it pass along every loop and coil of my shell, bridging the torn parts with freshly spun thread.”

“I see.” Hornet tips her head. “Would I be correct in the belief that the entirety of your shell is woven of a single unbroken strand?”

“Well, not now it isn’t,” Lace says pointedly.

“When it is whole and undamaged, though,” Hornet amends.

Lace hesitates. “...Yes, then you would be correct. My shell is an uninterrupted loop of thread, binding together the brass fixings of limbs around a hollow core.” She giggles sourly. “And who can say where on that loop Lace is located?”

“Dwelling on your unconventional form will do you no good,” Hornet warns her. “It is better, at this moment, that you put your mind to use in remembering the process of your mending."

“Never mind. This is a fruitless endeavour,” Lace sighs. “I was made to be my Mother’s daughter, nothing more. I was never meant to persist outside of her care. Now that she is gone I must simply wither away.” She lies down on her back. “You may go, spider. I will stay here, and perhaps you shall come back one day to find me an unravelled heap of Silk, like Phantom.”

“Lace,” Hornet leans over her, extending a claw to help her to her feet. “I am not going to leave you here, and I am not going to allow you to unravel.”

Lace swats the claw away. “Why not?” She laughs bitterly. “Do not tell me you have come to enjoy my company, spider.”

“I have told you why. My sincere belief is that you should be able to choose a path for yourself with the life you have been given, as is the right of any bug.”

“I am not a bug.”

“As is the right of any creature, then. You will not convince me to leave you here, Lace, however pedantic you choose to be about my words.”

“I think it rather sick that you wish to be present to watch me unravel, spider.”

“You will not unravel. I know that the skill to repair you is within my reach,” Hornet insists impatiently.

“How can you possibly know that?” Lace retorts crossly.

Because your mother insisted that I should care for you and provide you with Silk. “Because there was another,” Hornet confesses after a moment. “Beyond yourself and Phantom, this kingdom housed one more creature woven from Silk, one not of your mother’s making.”

Lace is so surprised she sits up. “What? Where?!” She narrows her eyes. “More importantly- how?”

“Within a concealed Weaver nest, I met a being encased in an iron cage. She was too frail to persist outside of its bounds, and abandoned by her makers, but hers too was life, spun from Silk.”

“Spun by the Weavers?” When Hornet nods, Lace leans on her pin thoughtfully. “Then they too could mimic life with Silk! How fascinating. I am sure that my Mother thought that skill to be hers alone.”

“Eva lived, as surely as you do.” Hornet corrects her. “Although she never knew the world beyond her confines, she had a mind, senses and wishes of her own.”

“Lived?” Lace narrows her eyes. “You speak of this being in the past tense, spider.”

Hornet knits her claws together. “Not long before I made my dive into the Void, I bound Eva to my own soul. It was by her own request. She longed to be free of her prison and I agreed to bear her out of that place. When I am at rest, I am able to feel her strength pooling within my shell, but all else is buried too deep for me to touch.”

“So she can’t help us either,” Lace concludes, flopping back onto the ground. “You almost had my hopes up, Hornet. How cruel of you.”

“Not necessarily. If there is nothing to be gleaned in the Cradle,” Hornet says, “we might still find something of use in the Weavenest.”

“Might.” Lace echoes mockingly. 

“I cannot claim to know, but I can wish to find it. If my time in this kingdom has taught me anything, it is that wishes hold power.”

“And you wish to be able to heal me?” Lace says scornfully, propping herself up again.

Hornet turns her head. “Of course I do.”

Lace looks a little stunned, but then scoffs. “So that you can be rid of me, I suppose.”

“You insist on considering yourself to be a burden. I do not think of you as such. Though you may be rash at times, or impolite, or juvenile in your humour- these are traits that linger from the childish mould you were forced into for so long. I am curious who you might become, given the time and freedom your pale heritage allows.”

“And if I stay this way? If I never change?” Lace challenges.

“Then at least you have chosen those traits yourself,” Hornet shrugs. “It is my hope that you will develop and better yourself, but I will not force you to do so. You must want the change for yourself.”

“But how long will your patience for my companionship stretch, I wonder?”

“Longer than you might expect, I think.”

“Why, spider. That almost sounds like an invitation to test it.”

Hornet rolls her eyes. “You are incorrigible. If you are content that there is nothing more to be gleaned from here, it is time that we left.”

“Ha! If you believed me truly hopeless, you would have left me in the Void, spider.” Lace gets to her feet. “But yes, let us descend. We must retrieve Phantom’s pin before that grubby little snitchfly absconds with it!”

“Where’d you dig up all those goodies!?” Grindle demands. “Ol’ Grindle’s nose is the best for clicky-clackies this side of the wormtunnels- but we’s been diggin’ in here for hours and found diddly squat!”

“Oho- so the little thief asks to know where I keep my treasures?” Lace says with a harsh giggle. “What a fool I would be to share! Besides, they are all taken now, back safe with their rightful owner.” She preens, adjusting the heavy, shimmering strings around her neck, and his jealous eyes affix to the rosaries with a greedy gleam.

“You Sitty-dell types are all for charity, ain’t ya? Share a few sparklies with a poor li’l snitchbug?” he wheedles, approaching Lace with his little claws reaching for the necklace. “‘Sides, it’d only be good manners. Say sorry for tryin’ to skewer us, earlier.” 

Rather than backing away from his groping claws, Lace raises her pin to block his advance. “I think not. Take another step closer, long-nose, I dare you.”

“Tch. Another one bullyin’ an honest snitchbug. We’re just tryin’ to make a livin’ here.” Grindle backs up, then crouches to pick up Phantom’s longpin, but Lace plants her foot firmly on it and menaces him with her pin again. 

“You’ll leave that here if you prefer your claws still attached, thief.”

Grindle whines. “That ain’t fair! We found it first. Pilfers keepers.”

“Consider it the cost for being allowed to run amok in the Cradle and steal its treasures,” Lace retorts, still balancing on the longpin. “I will not extend the same charity should I discover you here again, thief.”

“Tsch. Bully.” Grindle scoops up the rest of his findings and bundles them into his sack. “Fine, fine, we're leavin’. Put your nasty poker away.” 

He hauls his bag along the winding path back down, the contents scraping along the ground; Hornet leads the way out while Lace treads behind, glaring at Grindle with a pin in each claw.

Finally Hornet drops through the narrow hole into the great concourse, a still-grumbling Grindle just behind her. Just as Lace touches down beside them, a Minister emerges from the room which had once housed the Cogwork Dancers, and stops in his tracks. This Minister is in poor shape; the curved horns framing his mask are scratched, scuffed and in places entirely eaten away in the rippling patterns formed by the Void’s touch. His wings are tiny, shredded nubs and his cloak is torn and dusty. The few pilgrims in attendance still stop and dip their heads in respect, with gently murmured coos of “Minister!” but he ignores them, striding up the concourse and drawing a tarnished pin.

“Blaggards!” the Minister declares, his voice booming down the corridor; the pilgrims flinch back.“Thieves I see, descending from the forbidden reaches above with their ill-gotten spoils.” He raises his blade to point at them imperiously. “Halt, and answer to Pertinax!”

Grindle shoves Lace aside, slings the sack over his shoulder and bolts.

Pertinax launches himself down the corridor towards them, scurrying on all four hind legs in lieu of flight. Anticipating the incoming attack, Hornet readies her needle, but the Minister’s narrowed eyes are only for Grindle and he charges straight past them in pursuit. 

“Hoy!” Grindle complains, still hotfooting it in the direction of Songclave. “How come you ain’t stoppin’ them?”

“They have obeyed the order to halt,” the Minister growls. He glances back, still racing full-tilt after Grindle. “Remain in place, criminals! Pertinax will return in time to apprehend you.”

Grindle flits upward into the entrance of the Memorium, straining under the weight of his contraband, and Pertinax follows in a powerful leap, scrambling out of sight. Like that, both are gone.

Bemused, Hornet relaxes the limbs which had been primed for a fight. Lace just giggles. “Well- that one presents a rather more bellicose approach than I might have expected for a Minister!”

“Quite.” 

There is a pause. Lace taps her pin on the ground. “So. Are we to remain here, then, in order to be apprehended?”

Hornet shoulders her needle, shaking her head in amusement. “I think not. I suspect Grindle may lead him on quite the merry chase. We would need to remain here for hours.”

“And it would not do to miss the evening’s revelry in the meantime!” Lace prompts. 

Hornet sighs. “I suppose not.”

“Come, spider. I find myself rather curious to see how the pilgrims go about their celebrations.”

“I can already imagine. It will certainly involve much singing.”

“Oh, perfect! Maybe we will get to hear some of the songs written about your heroic feats.”

Hornet tries for a withering glare, but Lace is quite unaffected, darting ahead with a giggle as they enter into Songclave. 

The area around the First Shrine is busier now with weary pilgrims, returned from the day’s work. Fearful and curious eyes in equal amounts are drawn to Lace’s white shape as she flits through the bustle, closing in on one particular resident; Hornet hurries to keep up. “Hide these away for a moment, would you, Hornet?” Lace suddenly presses two necklaces into her claws. “I have decided to trust you with them for just a short while- I have business to attend to.”

Bewildered, Hornet obligingly tucks them safely into her cloak, and Lace continues her beeline for Jubilana. 

The merchant views Lace with a wary eye as she approaches, but her scepticism almost instantaneously evaporates at the sight of the pearl rosaries strung around Lace’s neck. “Well, well… if you weren’t telling the truth after all, white knight! More pearl rosaries than ever these old eyes did see, indeed!”

“And now I want that brooch,” Lace demands. “Do you still have it?” She slips her remaining necklace off, dangling it alluringly before Jubilana’s face.

“You are in luck, white knight! Verily I do.”Jubilana immediately delves into her pack.  Several rags and a bottle of brew are tossed from the bag before she triumphantly draws out a glint of silver.

Hornet cranes her neck to try to peer at the brooch cupped in Jubilana’s palms as the merchant passes it to Lace; Lace idly lets Jubilana snag ahold of the string of rosaries in return, and Jubilana busily begins to count them, pushing them along the thread.

“Wherever did you find this?” Lace asks, angling the brooch in her claw to catch the light with a bright sparkle. Her expression is half scrutiny, half admiration. “I have spent so long in these halls and never seen its like before.”

Clack, clack. “Up in the halls of memory,” Jubilana says absently, “‘Twas half-buried in the rubble and much dulled by time. Polished up lovely with a bit of elbow grease, though.”

“Might I look?” Hornet asks. 

Lace narrows her eyes, clutching the brooch against her chest. “I saw it first.”

“I know, Lace. I assure you I have no interest in purchasing it, but I would like to see if it might have some concealed use.”

“How pragmatic of you, spider.” Lace does, however, offer the jewellery for inspection.

Hornet slowly turns it over in her claws. The silver has been carefully crafted into the shape of an opened flower, each smoothly curved petal studded with small colourless crystals which glint like dewdrops and a larger stone set into the centre. A latched pin on the back would attach it securely to a cloak or cowl. It sparkles prettily, but seems otherwise without purpose. “This is a fetching trinket, nothing more. Are you sure you wish to part with so many rosaries for an object so frivolous as this?”

Jubilana scowls at her. “There ain’t no need to be rude just because it’s not to your taste, red-cloak.”

“It may serve no purpose, but I want it anyway,” Lace says after another moment, “Besides, I have the rosaries to spare.”

“Then sounds like it’s a done deal!” Jubilana stuffs the pearl rosary necklace into her pouch promptly. “Pleasure doing business with you, white knight. ‘Fraid I don’t offer refunds or exchanges.”

“And none to be returned from a whole pearl rosary necklace?” Lace asks, her eyes wide.

Jubilana blusters. “Well, it’s quite the pretty thing. And one of a kind, that I’ve found anyway. ‘Sides, wouldn’t want to have to break such a finely strung necklace.”

Hornet tenses, waiting for Lace to offer some sharp retort, but her companion just shrugs. “That is fair reasoning. Farewell, then, good merchant."

“'Tis nothing, white knight! I shall be quite sure to reach out if I should find any more!” Jubilana calls after her cheerily. 

As they walk away, Lace gazes at the pretty trinket, looking far, far too pleased with herself. Hornet tilts her head curiously. “I cannot help but notice that you made no attempt to haggle,” she comments. “After you chided me for the same behaviour this very morning.”

Lace laughs. “Ohoho, but I did not need to, Hornet! Not when I had already received quite the generous discount. This is cast from silver and set with real zircon crystals, if I am not mistaken. Such valuable metals and jewels were reserved for only the highest castes. Not even all three of my necklaces could have paid for it when it was first crafted.” 

Hornet narrows her eyes. “You said you had seen nothing of its kind before.”

“That was no lie! I have not seen one of this shape before.” Lace flutters her eyelashes innocently. 

Hornet rolls her eyes, but opts for changing the subject. “And how exactly do you intend to wear it on your form? It might be used to fasten a cloak, but you have no such garment.”

“I do not need one. Provide me a little more Silk?”

Hornet obliges.

Lace winds the Silk securely around the binding pin of the brooch, three or four times to be certain it will hold, then ties the strands in a loop behind her neck, drawing the brooch close to her throat like a pendant. “There. It is quite lovely against my pristine shell, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I still do not quite understand its appeal given its lack of function, but I suppose the aesthetics are pleasant enough.”

“You cannot deliver a compliment to save your life, spider, but I will accept your attempt anyway.”

“Red maiden!” Sherma appears before them, rescuing Hornet from further banalities. “You have come to join the festivities, I hope? The night is upon us, and very soon all of Songclave will raise our voices in joyous song!”

“I have not the voice for song, Sherma” Hornet replies, “but I may perhaps provide a tune on my needle as accompaniment.”

“Ah, red maiden, all voices are welcome no matter their quality! ‘Tis a blessing to share in your company and your music.” Sherma enthuses. He turns to Lace. “White maiden, you too are welcome among our company! Any friend of the red maiden is a friend of ours- I am sure you will join us in singing her praises!”

“Oh, most certainly,” Lace giggles. “It may take several repetitions before I am familiar with the lyrics, however. Might you sing them for us several times?”

“Gladly, white maiden! Some are of my own making, in fact!”

Hornet looks away, her stomach coiling itself into knots. Not far away, several pilgrims are stoking a large fire with rags; swirls of smoke rise into the air, just to be drawn away into unseen vents above. Many more cloaked bugs are gathered around the flames, huddled together over bottles of brew and bowls of steaming stew from the great cauldron that bubbles atop the flames.

Spotting an empty perch, Hornet settles innocuously into the ring of bugs, and lets out a soft sigh as her feet finally get some rest. Her needle she props up against the stone she sits on, and in its place, Jubilana pushes a beverage into her claw which thankfully looks a lot more palatable than Ballow’s noxious brew. Hornet takes a grateful sip of the sweet liquid as Lace nudges onto the seat next to her and waves off Jubilana’s offer of her own cup. The stew is served, the drinks are poured, and tools are downed as the night draws in around them.

“Fellows!” Sherma clambers onto a rock, though his cowled head still barely reaches the height of those around him. He waves his staff for attention. “Tonight we are blessed! Among our company tonight is the red maiden of our tales, who lifted Pharloom from the shadows and gave selfless aid to so many of its bugs! I ask that we raise our voices together in gratitude- our prayers for her safe return have been answered!”

The resounding cheer from the pilgrims of Songclave bounces off the Citadel walls to echo in the space above, and many cups and bottles are raised into the air to toast to Hornet; she lowers her head, uneasy at such focus and praise. 

“Speech!” a few pilgrims cry out, looking around, and Hornet shrinks even lower. Sherma turns towards Hornet with a bright smile, which slips away as he notices her cringing down in her seat. Determinedly, he raises his chimes in his claws, and begins striking out a simple melody. “Will you not join me in rousing song, good fellows?” he calls cheerily, before beginning to trill out a pleasant little ditty. Jubilana’s croaking tones quickly add to the mix, and more and more voices lift the melody to rise with the plume of smoke.

“Ho, fellow pilgrims, join voices with me,

Onward we tread, in blessed company!

Brothers of the winding track, merrily do sing, 

Sisters of the rugged trail, let glad voices ring!

Call wye, aye, Citadel on high

Hear our song, your children draw nigh!

Hi, fellow travellers, whomever you be

Together we climb to the towers holy!

Friends upon the uphill trek, share our melody,

Comrades on the thorny path, chant in harmony!

Cry ho, lo, to the Citadel we roam

Hear our prayer, and welcome us ho-oome!”

“Now let’s have the Ode to Old Mount Fay, little one!” Jubilana calls after the last note has echoed away. Several more pilgrims declare their assent, while others call out alternatives. Sherma strikes up another tune, and away they go again.

More laughter, more singing, more drinking follows, and Hornet, slowly, unwinds. She still waits in trepidation for the songs of her deeds to begin, but Sherma is unchallenged leader of the music, and much to Lace’s disappointment he never strays towards the subject of Hornet again. 

“I am not going to request to hear them,” Hornet says flatly when Lace complains into her ear. “I have no desire to become a legend; I do not want to hear adulations or revel in admiration. If creatures believe a hero will save them from every difficulty, they will only grow idle in the waiting instead of facing the challenge themselves.”

“Ugh. You are ever a delight, spider. Might I remind you that we are at a party.”

“Now we should ‘ave a dance!” a bug at the back of the crowd cheers, and the rest of the gathering pick up the chant. “A dance! A dance!” Musical instruments begin to appear in sight and sound; the trill of pipes and jangle of bells rising sweetly with the sparks of the fire, and strings plucked by claws both skilled and amateur. 

“I do not believe I have ever danced,” Lace says. “The tunes of the Choir hardly lend themselves to it.”

Hornet gestures to the floor. “Well, now is as good a time as any to give it a try, if you think that you would enjoy it.”

Lace springs to her claws eagerly, then hesitates. “You won’t join me?”

“I am afraid not.” Hornet doesn’t elaborate further, just extending her claw to take the pair of pins from Lace’s claw.

“And I cannot convince you?” Lace beseeches, holding onto the pins.

“Not at all. I do not dance.” Not any more.

“Then you can just guard the pins and mope, I suppose.” Lace crosses her arms. “So much for joining the celebrations.”

“I am here, sharing in the drinks and the music and the warmth of the fire, when I would rather be accomplishing more important tasks. That shall have to suffice.” Hornet drains the last drops from her cup, and watches Lace slink off towards the dancing pilgrims.

Lace sidles into the group of dancers uncertainly at first, and by virtue of their nervousness she is left a considerable space to work with. Her initial few jolting, arrhythmic steps quickly turn to graceful arabesques and delicate flourishes as she captures the flow of the music, each motion of her body as disciplined as the swing and pierce of her pin. Pilgrims duck backwards before the slightly aggressive-seeming motions, wary eyes fixed on the white shape in their dull midst, but she is lost in concentration. The dance is clearly supposed to be somewhat of a group performance, but Lace has taken it for a solo.

The music picks up and Lace speeds up also, adjusting to the change in tempo with barely a missed beat. Lace’s style of combat might be considered halfway to dancing anyway, Hornet thinks as she watches on. Lace already seems to take the same joy in it. More and more of the pilgrims fall back just to watch her in her twirls and leaps and spins; every step is planted secure but light, arms flung out or swept high in a rhythm all her own. The light from the Citadel above shimmers off her pale form, her body seeming to glow against the dusky backdrop. The jewelled brooch at her throat captures shards of firelight in its gems, reflecting the flames in fragments of brilliant orange. 

“Pretty thing indeed, that one,” Jubilana mumbles beside Hornet, her voice slightly slurred with the brew. Hornet accepts another cup from the merchant’s claw, keeping her eyes on Lace’s graceful white form.

Then, over the music, a light murmur of voices comes from above their heads. Hornet twists around, and stills uneasily, pausing with her cup almost to her mouth.

Not far above, two figures look down from a balcony, golden horns glinting in the firelight. Silently they regard the gathering below. After another moment, or perhaps noticing Hornet’s scrutiny, one of them drifts away from the edge, out of sight. The second figure remains, gazing down into the crowd. Slowly, Hornet traces the direction of their attention. She lands on the open space in which Lace is dancing still, the threads of her silken body shimmering in shades of amber and yellow against the fire. The figure leans further over the balcony, resting their elbows on the balustrade.

Hornet stares at them. Every nerve in her body thrums with disquiet and distrust.

Just then the song judders to its climax, and Hornet is startled from her suspicions as Lace flops down beside her, her smile wide. “You are missing out, spider.” She waves off another offered bottle of brew. “I truly enjoy this idle pastime of dancing. I am so glad that I decided to descend from the Cradle after all, or I might have missed this experience.”

Hornet nods slowly, but when she looks back up at the balcony, the Minister is gone. The pit in her stomach only deepens.

“White maiden, how blessed we have been to bear witness to your grace!” Sherma hurries over, beaming from ear to ear. “I wondered though, red maiden, if you might now lift our spirits still further with a tune on your fine instrument?”

Hornet casts one last glance towards the balcony, then tries to shake off the worry. “Gladly, little one,” she murmurs, picking up her needle, and Sherma beams.

“Gather around, friends, the red maiden would like to offer us a tune!” the little pilgrim announces brightly, drawing many curious eyes and ears to gather around Hornet.

Trying to ignore all of the eyes on her yet again, Hornet strums her claws across the silken threads, getting a feel for the notes before she begins to play. The music that comes to her, unbidden, is Karmelita’s song- that haunting melody the lost queen of the Skarr had shared in her final, glorious performance. A song long lost to Pharloom now, preserved only in Hornet’s memory. This feeble strumming is a pale imitation, but Hornet swiftly grows more confident in the tune as she continues to play.

The fire crackles, but there is no other sound. The pilgrims of Songclave sit entranced. Sherma’s eyes are wide, and after a while of careful listening, he begins to gently tap his chimes along with the melody, adding the soft metallic sound to the melancholy strings of the Needolin. 

Hornet plays on, allowing more and more pilgrims to adopt the tune and add to the beautiful orchestra of the piece. She hopes Karmelita would have been gratified to know that her song will live on.

If the nights are for mourning the dead, though, Hornet has more dirges to add. She slowly segues the tune of the Skarrsinger Queen into the lilting cadence of the Green Princes of Verdania, then into the sturdy march of the Crust King, and onward into the gentle twinkling, rising notes of the heart of Shellwood. Each time she allows the other musicians to pursue and catch her, to each perfect the melody, before moving on.

You know not what you have lost, Pharloom, but I can try to share with you these last remnants before they fade. 

Soon the other instruments have picked up Nyleth’s forgotten lament as well, and there is but one more lost soul to memorialise. Hornet looks at Lace, who has been listening reverently with the others from beside her, and changes her tune for the last time. As she begins to mimic the notes of Phantom’s organ, not the cacophony of their frantic final stand but the enchanting, aching tune of the Mist, Lace’s eyes widen and her claws clench in her lap.

Sherma’s eyes glitter; he is peering at Hornet’s claws as they dance across the strings, and he readies his chimes to take up this melody too, and lead the other musicians in its learning.

But before he can, Lace starts to sing.

Her voice rises frail and trembling at first, but soon strengthens. She gives the song no words, only airy notes, but to Hornet at least they carry their meaning just as well. Grief for lost family, as raw as her own, and an ache for reunion that may never come. 

Eventually, Hornet lets the final notes trail away, and Lace quiets with her. She obstinately does not look at Hornet, staring fixedly down at her claws.

“You bless us indeed with such wondrous song, maidens,” Sherma whispers. 

Lace just sniffles. Hornet feels a twinge of guilt; perhaps she should not have pulled Lace’s grief out into the open. She looks meaningfully towards Sherma.

“And now the time is nigh for sleep, brothers and sisters,” Sherma says quietly, turning away. “Rest now; tomorrow, we continue towards the rebuilding of our beloved Pharloom.”

“Ya heard the Caretaker!” Jubilana says gruffly, starting to douse the fire. “Bed. Or at least hush up so’s the rest of us can sleep.”

All around them, pilgrims grudgingly settle to rest, soft whispers and murmurs drifting in the cooling air as they each mark out a cosy patch and lay out their sleeping bags or mats. Sherma bustles over to them, his short arms full of loose cloth. “I hope this will serve you well enough as bedding, friends! Our spare mats have long been claimed, but there are cowls and robes aplenty to keep off the chill!”

Hornet takes them with a nod. “Thank you, Sherma.” 

“I will be close by if you have need of me, red and white maidens!” he chirps, nestling down into a cosy nook near the door of the First Shrine. “Sleep well, friends!”

A few pilgrims echo his sentiment, others just grunt from beneath their blankets. As she works to shape the loose rags into a suitable nest, Hornet listens to the little settlement slowly fall silent. Lace stands over her, pin at her side. Even in the dim light reflecting off the Citadel walls, her pale form still seems to glow, stark against the darkness.

Nest complete, Hornet settles down with her legs folded beneath her. She hardly feels sleepy, still well rested from her two days of slumber. As such, she is content to sit as sentinel over the settlement, watching for the gaze of the Ministers or the vengeful questing of a particular snitchfly.

But in the dusky light with the sounds of other bugs all around her, Hornet suddenly and sharply aches for home. Hundreds of years have passed now since she had last curled up in the dark village in Deepnest, surrounded by the coos of the Weavers as they shrouded themselves in silken blankets, or in the shimmering depths of the Hive, snuggled into the soft fur of the workers with their buzzing breaths humming in the air. And yet if she closes her eyes, she can return to them as if she had been there yesterday.

So compelling is the memory that she initially thinks nothing of the brush of soft Silk against her side, for that too is achingly familiar. 

“Move over, spider!” Lace burrows into the nest of rags beside her, jostling Hornet aside. “It seems we are to share sleeping space once more.”

“I am not tired, but you may sleep if you wish.” Hornet shuffles aside to allow Lace more room. “I can only apologise, by the way, if my mimicry of Phantom’s playing caused you distress. I ought to have allowed you to mourn in your own way.”

Lace thinks for a while. “I do not mind it, Hornet. I would not want to forget the sound of their music, so I am glad that you have committed it to memory." She pauses, looking at the longpin lying beside her. "...When we recover their Silk, would you to play it for them again?”

“You have my word.” Hornet lays her needle across her lap. 

Lace curls up then, clutching both of the pins close to her chest. Her eyes close, and within just a minute or so, she has gone perfectly still. No steady breathing, no heartbeat; it is more than a little unnerving. Hornet cranes her neck; Lace’s eyes are closed, no soft glow piercing the ebony surface of her mask. 

Hornet looks back up at the balcony. Still empty. She tightens her grip on her needle. 

It is going to be a long night.