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On the day of Atraks’ death, there are only two of them left on the Council. Variks has fled (traitor), Phylaks and Praksis are dead (a hero and a fool, respectively), and Eramis is too far gone. Her eyes are cold and hollow, like the void of space; not even rage burns in them anymore. Only the dreadful, divine power.
They sit together, Kridis and her, face to face in the small white room. On the other side of the glass, Bakris and a few technicians are fiddling with the machines. Other than their distant hum, everything here is funeral-quiet.
“I will do this in your stead,” Kridis says. Her voice is soft, clear without the mask.
Warmth blooms in Atraks’ chest, despite the freezing dread. “I know you would. But I don’t want you to.”
“You are young.”
Frustration, now. She leans into it, lets it melt some of the fear. “And does that mean I’m less worthy of this honour? Less capable? Have I not proven myself beyond my age, kindled devotion where other sowed doubt, have I not given all for our House, if only the youth like me might live to see the world we’ve dreamt of?” She hopes her words come out sharp and biting, she hopes Kridis can’t see her anxiety. “I will be divine. Do not take this from me.”
Kridis hangs her head, and there is such sorrow in her eyes, such pain, that Atraks wants to reach out and take her hands—and hold her, like she herself used to be held when she was barely a first-molted hatchling. So much has happened lately, so much they have lost, and so quickly. There hasn’t been time to grieve. She half expects Praksis to barge in through the white plasteel door any second, to tell her what to do, to guide her to godhood… That was the plan. That was how it was supposed to be—a triumph, a new age. Not the two of them sitting in an empty room, alone.
But the moment passes, and Atraks steels herself. No. This is a triumph, and their losses have only rendered it more noble. She will cross this threshold with her head held high. For her Kell. For her House.
“I want this,” she says, and it is truth. And then she lies, “I’m not afraid.”
Kridis chirrs softly in that lullaby-voice of hers, and Atraks feels a surge of warmth in her chest again. She leans forward and rests their bare foreheads together.
“You are the bravest of us all,” Kridis whispers. “I wish Eramis would…”
Atraks wishes it too, but it doesn’t matter. It is a foolish desire. “It’s enough for me to know I’m doing her bidding.”
“She would be proud of you. She is proud of you.”
“I know.”
“Even if she doesn’t…”
“I know.”
Kridis sighs. Atraks feels her breath on her face. Will she be able to do that, in her new body? What will it feel like, to rest her head against another’s—will it feel like anything at all? Will her metal-skin be warm or cold to the touch? Will it feel like her skin?
There is no use to wonder. She will find out soon enough. For a moment, just the briefest of seconds, she lets herself sink in the dark pit of fear yawning in her gut, and shudders.
And then there is the sound of a keycode being entered on the other side of the door, and Kridis flinches away. Bakris steps into the room with a datapad in hand.
“Everything is ready,” she announces. The look she gives Atraks is a strange one, half-awe and half-terror, but Atraks doesn’t have time to piece any of this apart. She stands up, and Kridis stands up with her.
“I will tell Eramis…” she begins.
“I will tell her myself,” Atraks says. Kridis’ eyes light up at that, even despite the tears in them.
“Then let us meet again on the other side.”
Atraks wants to laugh, wants to joke about hoping to recover in time for the next council meeting, but the words die in her throat and for a moment, again, there is only the fear choking her. Kridis grasps her hands, upper-in-lower, like a parent would, and squeezes.
For her Kell. For her House.
Atraks nods, and lets go, and turns towards the door. She follows Bakris out of the room with her head held high.