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Minutes before the dawn breaks and she must pretend once more, a lone traveler walks the moonlit dunes of southern Hinoeuma and allows herself a moment of introspection over persistent thoughts.
Why, as she organized her notes in Merry Hills for an article on the Grand Gala, did observing Agnea’s sibling embrace catch her breath in her chest? Why, when tailing Throné to New Delsta to ensure the thief followed her destiny to Lostseed, did the sight of Throné mourning a brother-in-arms shake a tear from her eyes? Ori’s familial bond with her brother Oboro had always been one of respectful distance, founded on mutual understanding of humanity’s innate wickedness; she assumed there was never a need to act out such farcical displays of affection. But something had changed within her ever since she…
The mask of the Scrivener cages Ori’s foolish heart and demands silence. The southern walls of Ku’s castle town breach the horizon. No distractions.
Sharp eyes and steady breath, gifts she stole from a childhood under brutal occupation, make a mockery of Ku’s early morning guard rotation. In mere moments she alights undetected upon the palace courtyard, where Obo… the Eagle would be waiting for her beside an old storehouse for arms and armor. Ku knew Oboro as Kazan, the master tactician whose preeminent vision rivaled an eagle in open sky. But she would never grant that name the respect of being spoken. Clan Ku gave Oboro influence and a cover he could manipulate for his agenda, but that did not forgive everything else they had taken.
Today’s visit will accomplish a few simple tasks: report the fates of Harvey and Captain Kaldena to Oboro and search the palace with him for the Darkblood Blade, all under the pretense of composing her news coverage of Prince Hikari’s victory over King Mugen in their struggle for succession. Then, comb the desert for the final Azure Flame. Gliding effortlessly from shadow to shadow, she reaches the rendezvous point and spots Oboro opening the nearby door, his neutral expression lifting slightly into a welcoming smile. The invitation accepted, the Scrivener follows the Eagle inside.
"The Book of Demons and the Book of Night, right on time!" Ori’s voice drips with the carefully crafted spontaneity and exuberance of the Scrivener, even in the presence of the only one the woman beneath trusts with her real face. The mask, at first created to blind the world to her true intentions, now serves to blind herself to uncomfortable truths.
"I shouldn't have doubted your grasp on the situation, brother," she says as she produces the Book of Demons from her satchel. His face subtly scrunches at the sight of the teeth arranged in a ghastly smile upon the book's cover and the binding of abnormally taut human skin. "Harvey's failure to best Osvald, Osvald being too concerned for his daughter's welfare to investigate the shrine further... You predicted every detail, to the letter!"
"I did say to watch the spectacle unfold, did I not, sister?" The faintest hint of bemusement escapes Oboro’s stoic demeanor. "You knew as well as I that Harvey’s ego outstripped his ability. It would have been preferable for him to eliminate the Scholar, but with Harvey we could never rely on only one route to victory. Better to plan so that all routes lead to a victory."
"Mmm, yeah! That's the perfect clincher!" She expounds on the upcoming article about the Eagle's role in Prince Hikari’s ascension she would adapt that quote for, but the headline dies on her lips as her eyes scan the room and come to rest on a nondescript cylindric container stashed near a rack of katana. Its length implied that it held a sword fit for two-handed fighting, but it was far too wide for any blade that would be standard-issue for Ku soldiers. She grasps the container's significance and at once her character shifts, becomes more solemn and hushed. The realization knocks the Scrivener loose, and angst once denied bubbles over before the mask of the Moonshade can assert control.
"Is that...?"
"Yes. We have all we need. I am counting on you, Ori."
Her heart soars with the satisfaction of a plan long deliberated upon reaching a flawless conclusion, and in the confidence bestowed upon her as his grand design advanced to its final stage. But that very finality lays bare the unspoken reality of this meeting and the name of her dread: This is the last time they would speak face-to-face. A silly thing to get hung up on, of course; they had both sworn the oath to deny the dawn, and it wasn’t as if the gods saw fit to grant either of them any comfort in life. That she and Oboro would eventually split off and die never bothered her before, was to be expected even. They simply knew the truth of this wretched world and carried themselves accordingly. So why do her feet now grow cold whenever she muses on their parting?
His word choice and intonation also convey an undeniable undercurrent: Oboro favored "sister" or "dear sister" when addressing her. As she has gathered, he only spoke her name directly when he suspected her of something, as if to allow her the grace of coming clean. He had done so thrice since they became family: First, when she was a child, on the morning after she had snuck out to look for him because he hadn’t come home one night. Second, when she returned from a stay in Wellgrove that exceeded the time expected for her to confirm Prince Hikari's successful interception of a weapons shipment. Third, and most recently, after an unapproved voyage to Roque Island.
On each occasion her masks were enough to convince Oboro and convince herself of her dedication, of her worthiness to follow through with their plan. But she could no longer deny how cracks in the façade, once only the size of a silver coin, had grown. Lately when she wasn't careful, she found her thoughts drifting towards steam engines, towards spreading good news, towards him. A light briefly beheld that now lodged itself deep within and peeled back the comforting darkness that allowed her to pretend that there weren’t things in this life that she treasured and wanted to hold close.
Would that this life had been hers to live.
"I won't let you down, brother." Words spoken aloud to affirm for Oboro her commitment to her purpose, but in truth a desperate attempt to fuse her masks to her face once and for all, to avert her eyes from feelings that may tear her world asunder to speak aloud and make real. He had been her whole world, once; the cunning genius that bore her from the jaws of death, that taught her letters, that gave her meaning. He was the only family she had ever known, and she had lied to herself long enough about how much she valued him.
Could she admit that to him?
Did he care?
Oboro’s reply, as ever, was even-keeled, his voice betraying neither judgment nor compassion. "All of our preparations, everything we have worked towards, have been in service to this moment. There can be no hesitation."
Seconds that span years pass as she fails to find the words to relieve the tension of her traitorous longing, fails to find any words at all. She turns to leave, hoping to if nothing else hide from Oboro just how tainted by sentimentality and weakness his confidant has become. As she twists the door handle, one last memory slips past the Moonshade and the Scrivener to play before her mind’s eye.
She is in Oresrush, building her profile on the new biggest name in business by interviewing Papp Yellowil, the shrewd silver merchant Alrond’s Department Store sources its finest sterling from. Papp’s son makes a surprise visit during the appointment, much to his delight. The two men embrace, and in a quick brainstorming session lay the groundwork for plans that would in time become an intercontinental railroad. When it’s time for him to hit the dusty trails once more, Partitio says…
Ori’s feet take her to Oboro even as her mind stumbles to catch up. Masks fall, one by one, and her heart newly unbound pushes against her fear. She wraps her arms around him, a gesture she had always wanted to borrow but had never allowed herself to. Her own words proved insufficient, so she will make those three she heard that day belong to her.
She will die. She will die with regrets. But before she goes, she could kill at least one.
"I love you, brother.”
…
"I love you, too, dear sister."