Chapter 162

Lilae was already hauling her three bulging bags of books up the stairs toward her room, nearly disappearing beneath the load.

Elise was nowhere to be seen - which probably meant she was already inside the demesne, tearing through her new collection at frightening speed.

Mirri waited for me at the foot of the stairs, arms crossed.

When our eyes met, some of the tension eased from her shoulders, but she still studied me in silence for several long seconds.

“Let’s go get the others,” she said at last, then turned toward the common room.

A few minutes later we were all gathered in our bedroom.

I sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, shoulders tight as I tried to untangle everything Myrrakai had said and decide how much of it I even believed.

Ashlara stood near the door, looking equal parts concerned and irritated by not already knowing what was going on.

Mirri stood directly in front of me, one foot tapping lightly against the floor with growing impatience.

Elise lingered quietly off to the side, hands folded together. Nervous. She’d learned by now that conversations like these were never easy.

Serah sat in the rocking chair by the fire doing needlepoint with calm, practiced precision.

“We’re all here now,” Mirri said. “So what happened?”

I rubbed a hand over my face. “Myrrakai and I had… a conversation.”

“Who is Myrrakai?” Ashlara asked.

“The goddess of arcane impulse,” Elise answered softly. “The current goddess of magic.”

That got Serah’s attention. She set her needlepoint aside and looked up fully.

“And?” Mirri pressed.

“She talked about me. My Faith. What’s happening to me.” I exhaled slowly. “I don’t really know what to make of it.”

“Then let us help,” Mirri said, her voice softening. “That’s what we’re here for. Trust us, Seth. Don’t shut us out.”

I stared at the floor for a moment before finally speaking.

“She thinks I’m changing in a way that isn’t normal. Even for gods.” I hesitated. “She said I’m becoming… too many things at once. That reality doesn’t like things it can’t define. That if it can’t understand something, it simplifies it.”

Ashlara frowned. “What does that mean?”

I looked up at them.

“It strips everything else away. Leaves one aspect behind. Stable. Defined.” My throat tightened slightly. “Everything else goes away.”

Ashlara blinked. “So what? You go back to being the god of belief in the absence of proof?”

“No,” I said. “I lose everything.” I looked between them. “You. The kids. What we’ve built together. The way we are.” My voice dropped lower. “All of it.”

“That’s bullshit,” Mirri snapped immediately. “She’s guessing. She doesn’t know that.”

“Maybe,” I admitted. “She said my aspect was family. But she knew things - about my Faith and how it’s been acting.” I ran a hand through my hair. “She said the instability is reality trying to correct me. And that it’s only going to get worse.”

“If she couldn’t even get your aspect right, then she’s full of shit,” Mirri shot back defiantly.

I hesitated too long.

Mirri’s expression shifted. “What?”

“I’m not sure she did get it wrong,” I told her.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“I’m changing,” I admitted quietly. “I can feel it. And I don’t know who or what I am anymore.”

The room went still.

“You saw it,” I said to Mirri. “Back on Earth. When we fought those gallowborn.”

“What did he do?” Ashlara asked.

“What he did,” Mirri said slowly, glancing at the others, “was save our asses.”

“I don’t know how,” she continued. “But he teleported us or something.”

“Aportation magic is rare,” Serah said. “But not impossible. We effectively do it whenever we enter the demesne.”

Mirri shook her head immediately. “No. This was different. He didn’t move and grab us.” She looked back at me. “It was like he pulled us to him.”

“It wasn’t teleportation,” I said quietly. “At least… I don’t think it was.”

I struggled for the words. “It felt like my perception shattered. Like I was beside each of you at the same time.” I frowned. “And when I touched one of you, that part of me collapsed and joined the others.”

Elise’s eyes widened slightly. “Bilocation,” she whispered.

We all looked at her.

“It is… theoretically possible,” she said carefully. “But every recorded attempt either failed completely or destroyed the caster’s mind. We are not meant to exist simultaneously with ourselves.”

“That was the second time it happened,” I admitted.

Mirri stared at me. “What?”

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Ashlara demanded.

“Because we had more important things to deal with,” I sighed. “We’d just come back from Earth the first time. With Lilae. From the Interstitium.”

Silence - the heavy kind - filled the room.

“It nearly killed me,” I said more quietly. “I was in twelve places at once. Different perspectives layered over each other so fast I couldn’t process any of it.” I rubbed at my temple as the memory resurfaced. “It felt like someone was shuffling reality like a deck of cards.”

No one interrupted.

“But it worked the same way this last time,” I continued. “Whenever I touched one of you, that part collapsed back together and we all joined the others.”

Ashlara crossed her arms tighter. “So what do we do?”

“We fight it,” Mirri answered immediately. Her certainty could have won wars by itself. “We figure out how this works and then we stop it.”

“Myrrakai told me not to define myself,” I said. “Or let anyone else define me either.”

Serah frowned thoughtfully. “That is much easier said than done.”

“Yeah,” I muttered.

The room fell quiet again.

“The last thing she told me was that Miralis knows what’s happening to me.”

Ashlara frowned. “Okay… and?”

I looked at her. “She’s the goddess of preventing the worst outcome.”

Understanding slowly crept across the room.

“I don’t know,” I admitted quietly, “if that means she’s going to help me…” I swallowed. “Or decide killing me is the safer option.”

* * *

“What’s cookin’, good look-”

The words died in my throat as I stepped into the containment chamber.

Within the rings of wards stood a massive figure clad in dark, razor-edged platemail.

The armor wasn’t covered in spikes, but everything about it was built to cut. The joints at the elbows and knees extended just a little too far, turning every movement into something capable of piercing flesh instead of merely striking it. The fingers of the gauntlets tapered into wicked points. The closed helm swept upward at the brow into a cruel horn-like ridge, revealing nothing of the face beneath save a pair of burning eyes.

Long grooves carved across the metal in sharp straight lines, giving the impression the armor had been forged of blades.

He stood nearly seven feet tall.

A brutal two-handed sword rested easily in one hand as he moved through slow, deliberate forms. The blade hissed and sparked whenever it passed near the outer warding circles. Not attacking them - the chains would’ve reacted to that - but skimming close enough to test them.

Or perhaps testing himself.

“Drazhkul, I presume,” I said as I crossed the room.

The armored giant ignored me. He continued the kata for several long minutes, thrusting, turning, cutting through the air with unnerving precision.

I found myself watching despite everything.

For a man that large, he moved with startling grace. Slow motions burst suddenly into explosive speed before settling again into measured control. Every slash, stomp, pivot, and strike flowed into the next with brutal elegance. It felt less like combat practice and more like some ancient, violent dance.

The sequence ended in a thrust that lingered perfectly still for two heartbeats. Then the sword dissolved into blood. The blood evaporated before it touched the floor.

The armor softened next, sharp edges smoothing and folding inward. Black steel faded into parchment-like skin stretched over a woman’s form. Words bled across her body in jagged script before fading and reappearing elsewhere. The helm flattened into featureless black - and then split apart into a constellation of distant stars.

Nyssira watched me watching her.

It wasn’t the first time I’d seen her change shape.

She’d worn Yveth’s face more than once, trying to provoke a reaction - a tactic she abandoned after discovering there were some emotions even she didn’t enjoy touching. She’d borrowed the forms of others too, usually in failed attempts at manipulation.

But this was the first time I’d seen her wear the shape of the god of conquest.

“You’re beginning to understand,” she said at last.

“Understand what?” I asked.

“Don’t insult me by pretending ignorance.” Her eyes narrowed. “It’s catching up to you. And when it finally does…” A nebula bloomed across her face, forming a smile. “I’ll be free.”

I dragged a chair across the stone and set it in front of the wards - straddling it and resting my arms on the backrest.

“And what happens then?”

She tilted her head slightly, considering. “First,” she said softly, “I will strip the flesh from your thralls one screaming layer at a time. I will boil their skulls clean and hang them upon my walls. I will-”

“I get it,” I interrupted. “What comes after that?”

Her expression darkened.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it,” I said. “I know hurting me is ninety percent of what you think about down here. But it’s been four and a half years, Nyssira.” I shrugged lightly. “Surely there’s something else.”

Silence.

“When my family’s skulls are decorating your walls,” I continued, “what then? Do you go get pie? Read a book? Watch a sunset? Dive to the bottom of the ocean?” I leaned forward slightly. “There has to be something you miss.”

She turned away from me sharply, fists clenching at her sides.

“Maybe I can help with that,” I said quietly. “Maybe I can give you whatever it is.”

She spun back around so fast the words across her skin blurred.

“Why do you persist with this charade?” she screamed. “What is it you expect from me? Gratitude? Submission?” Her voice cracked with fury. “Do you enjoy this? Coming down here day after day to watch me rot?”

The parchment skin along her arms wrinkled and split slightly as the writing across her body shifted violently. “Do you expect me to fall into your bed like one of your pathetic little thralls?” she snarled. “To spread my legs in thanks for your scraps of kindness?”

She tore the robes from her body.

Beneath them, she looked less like flesh and more like a woman sculpted from layered parchment. Her skin crinkled faintly with every movement, seams lifting here and there as though the paper had been poorly glued together. Beneath those gaps was not blood or muscle - only more parchment.

This seemed especially prevalent around the soft swell of her breasts, the inside of her thighs, and the hollow between her legs.

Words crawled across her form in frantic, jagged lines. Rage. Distrust. Confusion. Fear buried so deeply she likely didn’t recognize it herself.

“Do you remember what I told you about relationships?” I asked softly. I kept my eyes on her face, not her body. “That to build one, you have to give without expecting repayment.” I spread my hands slightly. “That’s what I’m trying to do.”

The constellation of her face spun like a circular saw blade.

“I’m not asking for obedience,” I continued. “I’m not asking you to like me.” I paused. “I’m asking you to take advantage of my offer.”

Her breathing slowed slightly.

“Tell me what you want,” I said. “Not the ****. Not the ****. Not the ****.” My voice softened further. “What would you do if you walked out of here tomorrow?”

She turned away from me again. The words across her back twisted violently with emotions she refused to voice.

“Think about it,” I told her as I rose from the chair. “We’ll talk again tomorrow.”

* * *

Mirri didn’t come home until well after dinner, looking utterly exhausted.

Today had been the day of sentencing. The six village matrons - along with Mirri as shaman - had passed judgment on Sszarik and the others.

I didn’t envy her.

I’d gone out of my way to stay clear of village politics, and I’d made it very clear that I would not be involved in the trials. Mirri didn’t have that luxury. As shaman, it was her responsibility to stand with the matrons and help decide the fate of six children who had done terrible things.

And I knew it couldn’t have been easy.

She’d been trapped between too many truths at once - the safety of the villages, the horror of the crimes, the fact that these were still kids, and the fact that some of those kids had nearly fed our daughter to a Weeping Gallows.

No matter what she said during those proceedings, someone would judge her for it.

I reheated dinner while she washed up, and not long after the four of us gathered around the table to hear the outcome.

Mirri ate slowly, more out of necessity than hunger.

“Punishment starts tomorrow,” she said at last. “It’s ugly, but no one’s going to die.”

Relief warred with a sense of justice within me. I didn’t know how I felt about that.

“Sszarik murdered a traveler,” she continued flatly. “Tried to kill his own father. Ate another person’s flesh. Planned rebellion. Attacked Issa. Recruited the others.” She stared down at her plate for a moment. “Brakkaali, Drikka, and Thulgraa pushed for execution.”

Her eyes drifted somewhere distant. “Instead, he’s being exiled. Permanently.” Her jaw tightened slightly. “And he’s forbidden from going anywhere near Issa. If he approaches her again, they’ll kill him.”

Silence settled heavily around the table.

Mirri took another bite before continuing.

“Ronren was worse in some ways,” she said quietly. “He seemed proud of what he did.” She shook her head faintly. “He killed willingly. Ate willingly. Planned all of it willingly.”

A flicker of disgust crossed her face. “Brakkaali and Drikka wanted him dead too. The others pushed harder against it.” She exhaled slowly. “He’ll be branded and exiled.”

Ashlara clenched her jaw. I think she felt the same way about this that I did.

“Malcon avoided the worst of it because he never actually killed anyone,” Mirri continued. “That mattered to the matrons.” A bitter little huff escaped her. “So now he gets thirty days of public humiliation and a year of hard labor.”

She stabbed a roasted carrot with unnecessary ****.

“With luck, maybe that’ll teach him **** isn’t strength.”

She ate mechanically for a few moments before speaking again.

“Eira broke down during testimony,” she said more softly. “Started crying halfway through. Said she was scared. Said she just wanted somewhere to belong. The matrons believed her,” Mirri said. “Or at least enough of them did.” She rubbed at one eye tiredly. “She gets a month of ritual shaming and two years helping refugees, travelers, and Gallows victims.”

Elise’s expression sharpened slightly at that.

“Kip gets six lashes. One from each village.” Mirri paused. “And a year of exile. If he comes back after that, he’ll spend another year doing labor.”

She took her time chewing a bite of chicken before continuing.

“Fizzi got the lightest sentence.” Another sigh. “A year working under the village women and she has to publicly denounce the group.” She shook her head. “She ran when they attacked Issa. That counts for something. But she still took part in everything before that.”

The room fell quiet. Not tense. Just heavy.

Mirri finally leaned back slightly, exhaustion showing through the cracks in her composure.

I slid my arm around her shoulders and pulled her gently against me while she finished eating.

Across the table, Ashlara stared into the fire with a troubled look.

Elise sat perfectly still, fingers folded tightly in her lap.

And Serah watched all of us with quiet, ancient sadness.

Not because justice had failed. But because none of us were entirely certain it had succeeded either.