"What you do here today will make no real difference," he said, "Shanaken will fall. All of Pandeia will fall."
She stepped close, raised the shield, and smashed it into the side of his head.
Mara
The woman thrashed and muttered in her sleep, sweating and breathing hard. Not only was she emaciated, her skin was pale, her clothing worn to shreds, her hands so calloused they resembled ruined leather. The doctor hissed a shocked intake of breath upon first seeing her, and would have recoiled if he wasn't a professional.
"What happened to her?" The doctor whispered to Mara.
"I'm sorry, Doctor, I have no idea," she replied. He shooed her out of the room, closing the door behind her. She ran to her room, worried for the woman but terrified for herself; what was happening? Where had this stranger come from? Ermoor was spotless and beautiful, all its citizens properly dressed and bathed as God demanded. To be dirty and dishevelled was to be disrespectful to God. Did this woman want to bring God's wrath down on Mara? On Riffolk? A horrible thought occurred to her then; what if this woman was some kind of trap? Some kind of awful test of her faithfulness? Or even worse, an attack on Riffolk?
Despite his distance and violence, Mara found herself desperately wishing her husband was here with her now. He would know how to handle the situation. He was a genius, after all. She couldn't get the woman's feral appearance out of her head, nor the stench from her nostrils. It clung to her as though she was still in the room. She wanted to shower again, but with a doctor and servants rushing around just outside her bedroom, she didn't have the privacy.
And the thing that dropped the woman at her feet... Its evil, horrifying face kept swimming into her mind's eye, glaring and snarling. It wasn't human, she knew that. It was evil, and demonic, and the woman it had thrown into her life was going to cause trouble. She knew this was either a test or a trap; but had no way of knowing which. If it was a test, it could be God Himself testing her. But if it was a trap, it could only be the Devil. Just as her heart starting speeding up, faint, shouting voices echoed from the lobby. Riffolk!
She knew his voice. Her fear suddenly vanished, she left the bedroom and waited for her husband in the corridor outside the spare room. He swept into the corridor, his mouth set in a grim line. His eyes sparkled when he looked at her, and his features softened. She couldn't wait another second; she ran to him. He embraced her, kissed her briefly, then glanced towards the spare room.
"Why didn't you send for me?" he said.
She blushed, suddenly embarrassed. "I thought... I thought you would be too busy. I thought your work would be more important than – than her."
He stared at her for a moment, with an expression Mara couldn't read.
"Yes, well my work is far more important, of course," he muttered, more to himself than her, "but when it comes to inexplicable strangers in my home, I would prefer to be told as soon as possible."
She nodded quickly, although she had no idea what inexplicable meant. Riffolk often used long words that soared over her head. He stepped past her and strode to the spare room. He disappeared from her view, entering the small room and closing the door behind him. Mara stood for a few moments, then returned to her bedroom. The need to bathe returned, this time overwhelming; she hated feeling unclean while her husband was in the mansion. She wasn't allowed to lock doors while Riffolk was home, so she stood shivering under the cold water of the shower, staring at the closed bathroom door and straining to listen for any noise beyond. The power hadn't come back since the night before when she'd snuck out, otherwise she would have set the water on the hottest temperature possible. She hated being cold.
After her shower, she dried herself and slipped into a silk robe. She meant to dress herself in the bedroom; she'd forgotten to pick new clothes out from one of her wardrobes and hang them in the bathroom the way she usually did. But when she opened the bathroom door, Riffolk was sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting for her. The silk robe was partially see through, and barely covered her nakedness. She suddenly felt exposed and vulnerable, and his eyes wandered slowly over her entire body.
He stood, beckoning to her. She went to him immediately; she had learned to obey him without hesitation in the bedroom. His temper was short when he was aroused. He pushed her to her knees. Without waiting to be told, she unbuckled his belt.
As soon as Riffolk was done with her, he strode from the room, leaving her still on her knees feeling used and sick. There was a small part of her which felt exhilarated by the experience; each time he used her this way, that part grew a little. It still felt wrong, and scary, but that growing part of her seemed to get some thrill out of it. Her stomach seemed to flush and churn with different feelings; disgust and fear, but also an odd satisfaction. Then there was a sickening excitement. It made her feel as though she was about to throw up, while at the same time flooding her with a tingling sense of desperate anticipation; as though being used by Riffolk sated some deep, unknown hunger.
He'd left her a mess, as he usually did. Mara showered again, hugging her arms around her body as the cold water froze her skin. It was shockingly cold, but it still felt better than the sticky mess her husband left on her body. Her stomach still roiled with conflicting emotions.
She knew he wasn't doing anything wrong. She was his wife, and using her this way was his right. But it still felt... off. Of course she couldn't talk about it with her friends; if it was normal for men to behave this way, they would make fun of her ignorance, and if it wasn't normal, she would be seen as a disloyal wife for speaking ill of her husband.
Besides, the sick feeling was much weaker now. He loved her, she knew he did; he'd said it on her wedding day with tears in his eyes, and he'd said it once or twice again since. He wouldn't do anything to hurt her. It was just her inexperience clouding her mind. After her shower, she dressed in a modest slip and sat on the bed for a while. When her heart wouldn't settle, she got to her knees and prayed, clasping her hands with her elbows resting on the soft bedsheets.
God did not speak to her. Suddenly, being on her knees felt awful, and she wondered why she must take the same pose to pray as she did to pleasure her husband. In that moment, a sliver of doubt pierced her perfect faith, and it was enough to bring her to tears. She sat on the bed, thought about her husband and her God, and wept.
Riffolk
Riffolk stood slowly, sore and furious. The Shenza woman was far more talented than he'd anticipated. Miscalculation left a bad taste in his mouth. She knew a lot, he was sure, but he'd planted the seed of doubt in her mind, and she would be second-guessing everything she had found. It was a small victory, but all he could do in the circumstances. Even in failure, however, Riffolk found opportunity. He would be upgrading his security systems using what he'd observed of the Shenza assassin.
For now though, he got to work repairing the cage. Energy output from the tank was at a dead zero. For a savage who lived in a tree, the Shenza had done a remarkable job of sabotaging his equipment. And her fighting ability... surely there was a way to harness whatever magic the Shenza used. He made a mental note to look into it. His sentinel, now a pile of scrap metal on the floor, could well do with an upgrade if he could find and secure one of those black swords.
He had a lot to think about. The delays to his project were going to set him back with Symond; he'd had to fight just to get it this far without being shut down. Symond's state of mind was clearly compromised; the Lord Commander wavered between ruthless ambition and moral crisis on a daily basis. The man had no drive, no backbone, and no sanity.
If there had been a way to remove him permanently, Riffolk would have done it years ago. But his hold over the Twelve Crowns was tremendously convenient for Riffolk's work, and besides; despite his obvious insanity, he was intelligent and talented. Riffolk hated giving the man praise, even silently within the confines of his own thoughts; but credit had to go to Symond for his decades of military service. He was a good leader.
The wire
s drawing power from the creature were utterly destroyed. The Shenza had even done a half-convincing job of making it look like pests were chewing on them. It might even have convinced him, if not for two glaring facts: the lab was not at all accessible to pests, and the wires were made of a material that could not be damaged by anything short of magic. She had no way of knowing exactly how difficult it was for him to acquire some of his equipment, but her goal had been to stall his work and she had done just that.
She was using the air ducts, as he'd surmised. And his trap worked perfectly too; only the mysterious magic she used could cut through even the re-enforced metal armour of his sentinel. But her magic had a weakness. He saw the hand gestures she needed to make to activate it. His next trap would focus on restraining hands. Crushing them, maybe.
Mara
Mara woke slowly, the silk of her bedsheets slipping over her skin as she turned with her eyes closed. These were her favourite moments; half-awake, superbly comfortable, the worries of the day ahead as murky and ethereal as the dreams of the night before. She remained in this state for as long as she could every day. It was over a week since the woman appeared in front of her from the fog, and the stress of having a wild stranger stay only a room over from hers was taking its toll.
It had taken a few days for the power to come back on, and that only added to her stress; cold showers were absolutely awful, almost as bad as not showering at all. But one comfort which couldn't be taken from her was the half awake bliss she felt before she had to rise in the mornings. Occasionally she would be forced to get up early; a party in the afternoon she would need to prepare for, or a visiting representative from one of the Twelve Crowns. This morning it was the sound of her bedroom door opening. No knock had preceded it; it wasn't a servant. Her mind drew the only conclusion it could.
"Riffolk?" She asked sleepily, turning once again and opening her eyes. The horribly skinny woman from the street stood in the doorway nervously, staring as though Mara was made from food. She shot upright, crawling backwards and slamming into the headboard behind her hard enough to bring bright pinpoints cascading over her vision. The woman moved towards her slowly, and Mara screamed in horror.
"What do you want?"
The woman stopped close enough to the bed to reach out and touch it, marvelling at its softness.
"What... is this?" the woman asked.
"It's silk," Mara replied without thinking, "obviously. You've heard of silk, haven't you?"
The woman shook her head absently, stroking the bedsheets in wonder. "It's so soft. I never knew anything so soft existed."
Mara frowned. Silk was everywhere in Ermoor. Everybody knew what silk was. She moved cautiously to the side of the bed, slipping off the side while keeping her eyes on the woman. She was no longer filthy, but she still looked... wild, somehow. Like she'd grown up in a forest. Dear God, she thought suddenly, what if she's one of the tree people? She circled wide around the woman, who was still preoccupied with her bedsheets, and made towards the light switch closest to the bed.
"Let me turn on a light for you, and we can-"
"NO!"
Mara flinched, freezing mid step with her eyes wide.
"Please, no. There's enough light in this place. I don't know how you can stand it."
Mara glanced around the room, wondering if she was going blind. Her curtains were quite thick, and other than a thin bar of golden sunlight slanting through the top, it may as well have been the middle of the night. She could see across the room, but everything was layered in shades of grey, the shape of the furniture foggy and uncertain.
"Stand it? The curtains aren't even open, there's almost no sunlight in here."
"Sunlight?"
"What? Yes, sunlight... light from the sun."
The woman looked incredibly nervous.
"What's the sun?"
Mathys
Something terrible was happening in Ermoor. Mathys felt it as surely as he felt the ground beneath his feet. First a murder spree, then an attack on Dreadhold and a total power outage throughout the city. The Twelve hadn't told him much of the attack, and their secrecy made alarm bells chime in his head; they were notoriously secret about most things, of course, but an attack like that fit squarely into his jurisdiction; covering it up from the Commander of Security made no sense.
It was almost enough to make him want to investigate further, even if the Twelve clearly didn't want him to. But he had enough to worry about. The clean up from the Gilded Goblet was still going, and there was some damage and some unrest as a result of the power outage, especially in the poor districts.
He was also dealing with some retaliation from thugs who were previously in Massey's employ; apparently whatever he was paying them was enough to inspire an incredible amount of loyalty. Usually the thugs just stuck to whoever paid most, or friends and family, but Massey stood out among the criminals of Ermoor. It was going to be a difficult few months.
Most of the civilians from Ermoor's upper districts had never even been south of Riverford or Dawnton; as far as they were concerned, Ermoor was perfect. Mathys was different. He grew up in the lower districts, before he'd enlisted; he knew them, and the people who lived in them, well. He'd never fit in with the rich and powerful.
When he was far younger, before he joined the military, he wished more than anything to have a house in Riverford, or even Ironhaven. He would have given almost anything for the chance. After he was promoted to Commander after serving honourably in the exploratory force at Shanaken, he was given exactly what he wanted. He hated it. The mansion itself, a cosy little place in Dawnton, was perfect; the lifestyle, the people... not so much.
After a couple of years spent trying to fit in, and only being judged and misunderstood, he'd finally resigned to spending his time alone. He'd always enjoyed his own company, so it wasn't a particularly difficult decision; but he remained disappointed with the "upper classes" of Ermoor.
So he spent as much time as he could in the city's southern districts, where both his job and his heart belonged. But even so, there was a sense of not belonging. Ever since his promotion, he had to use a disguise when he wasn't there on duty; to everyone who lived in the poor districts, he was now one of the rich and powerful.
He didn't belong with the rich, and was no longer accepted by the poor. But at least he still had a friend or two; solid contacts he'd built over decades, people he could rely on. It felt good, and despite the animosity, and the danger, and the filth; the poor districts of Ermoor still felt like home.
Looking at it now, Mathys almost understood the disdain on the faces of Ermoor's wealthy when they talked of the southern districts. After the power outage, there had been chaos.
Arthor
Arthor thought of himself as a good man. He took care of his wife, he was loyal to his country and God, and he worked hard every day. He wasn't perfect of course; nobody was. But he was clearly a better man than many. Certainly he was a better man than Overseer Hayne. Wasn't he? The project was going ahead, approved by him. Ermoor, in the name of God and for the good of all, would be butchering thousands, tens of thousands. Maybe even more.
In the name of God. For the good of all. Lately, the phrases had lost their meaning. They sounded empty to him, but something worse; they had become ominous. Almost menacing. They were thrown around by all of Ermoor's leaders to justify any decision. He would never say it out loud, but laying in the comfort of his bed, with Ellie asleep next to him, he could think freely.
Thinking was all that was left to him most nights; he never got much sleep any more. Not since the voices had gotten worse. He knew he was crazy. Nobody else heard voices in their head except for their own thoughts. But it felt to him like a real voice, not just some errant crazy thought. It spoke to him, gave him information he couldn't possibly have otherwise known.
Arthor didn't believe in magic. He barely believed in God, if he was honest with himself. He followed the scriptures, attended church services, and made
sure to repeat the sacred words whenever it was required; despite all that, the belief in an actual real God slightly eluded him. But the voices he heard were definitely something else. Almost certainly not magic, but something out of the ordinary. And if he were to believe the things those voices said...
The air shifted, close to his face. His eyes sprang open. Pitch black greeted him, soft smudges of grey showing the tops of the walls between the furniture. A heavy silence hung in the room. He'd lived in this mansion his entire life; his family owned it going back five generations. He'd slept in the master bedroom for twenty years, since his father had passed away. It was his sanctuary, the place he felt safest and most comfortable. Now it felt different. He rolled slowly onto his back, and saw the thing on his roof.
It stared down at him, a demon made of shadow. He knew instinctively this was the thing that had been talking to him. He glanced over at his wife; Ellie slept on beside him, undisturbed. Part of him was tempted to wake her and ask if she could see what he saw.
"Don't wake her."
He looked up at it.
"It's you, isn't it? The one who speaks in my head?"
The shadow shifted slightly.
"Of course," it snapped, "I am here to tell you that your goal has changed."
Arthor's skin tingled, suddenly cold. It had never changed its mind before.
"What must I do?"
"Stop the scientist. He meddles in things he does not understand."
An intense wave of relief washed over him, almost as strong as his fear. Finally, he had a reason to put Hayne's inhuman project down. But the shadow was the one who originally told him to approve the project in the first place; and it had been terribly convincing. He couldn't question it's motives directly. Whatever it was, it was powerful. As confusing as the change was, his new goal aligned perfectly with his moral compass, and he was glad to obey.
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