Valiant: The Covenant Chronicles

[Covenant #41: The Road Paved With Good Intentions]

Log Date: [3/11/12765]

Data Sources: Jayta Jaskolka, Raikaron Syntaritov

Event Log: Raikaron Syntaritov

Dandelion Drift: Common Room

7:16am LST

“Lots of percussion… that’s lots of percussion, for someone that’s typically in the pop circuit…” I mutter to myself as I mark out the notes on the sheet music. It’s the day after Jazel’s metamorphosis, and I am doing my best to capture the song that aided his transformation. I already have the lyrics written down, and I am presently working on the orchestral arrangement, to get it into a format that would be presentable for delivery to Wicked Wolf. Even though it’s a song only partially contrived of my own genius, I know it’s the one that has been eluding me, the one I had been trying to write all along. A song for this moment in time; an anthem for a galaxy about to go to war.

The clumping of a fridge door and the rattling of glasses draws my attention; I turn on the piano bench to see that Sång is rooting through the cabinets of the minikitchen in the common room. She’s already acquired an egg, half of bottle of Milor’s Venusian whiskey, a chocolate truffle, and a single orange slice, and as I watch, she sets it all down on the counter next to a patterned whiskey glass. So far she’s not said a word or acknowledged me; I’m fairly certain she must know I’m here, but being what she is, she largely ignores anything that does not catch her interest or which is not related to her duties.

As she uncaps the whiskey bottle, I decide to venture a question to her while I have the chance. “A pleasure to see you this morning, your grace. Are you recovered after yesterday’s exertions?”

“Recovered? No. I am reinvigorated. It has been a long time since I wrought the old magic, and I find myself pleasantly refreshed by its primacy.” she answers as she pours the whiskey into the glass. And not a small pour, either. “The magery of the youth nowadays is so needlessly technical and complex. Stripped of emotion and instinct, packaged and conformed to a standardized practice that leaches all the power and creativity out of it. It isn’t feral and raw, the way magic is whenever a world or a new species is first created. I find myself refreshed, having had an opportunity to practice the ancient magic again.”

“Indeed? Well, I suppose you were present during the creation of Rantecevang, so that stands to reason.” I remark, putting a pause on my composing for the moment. “It is good to hear that you so enjoyed yourself.”

“And did you enjoy yourself, son of Syntaritov?” Sång asks as she cracks the egg on the edge of the glass, dumping the yolk and the white into the whiskey. “This ritual sprang from your perverse genius. I had imagined you would be pleased to see your scheming bear fruit.”

“I wouldn’t quite call it scheming. More along the lines of… curiosity.” I demur. “Surely you have felt the same curiosity at times? The desire to push mortals, to see what they are capable of if they will allow themselves to be worked upon?”

“That impulse is unique to you and your ken. The rest of us know our place, and know better than to transgress it.” Sång says, curling her fingers into a fist and crushing the juice out of the orange slice, dribbling into the glass along with the whiskey and egg. She is quick to wash her hand afterwards, throwing the orange pulp into the decomposition disposal. “But perhaps I am too swift in my condemnation. I will amend my statement: I feel that same curiosity. The difference between you and I is that I only act upon it if ordered to do so. You and your family would pursue that impulse regardless of whether or not you were given permission.”

“I suppose there is a certain truth in that.” I concede. “It is often within the nature of my family to ask questions that other dare not ask. To point out truths that others are uncomfortable with. It is simply what we do.”

“Too often the doings of your family vex the immortal community. Do not take this occasion as license to grow more bold in pushing the boundary.” Sång warns as she unwraps the truffle, looking it over before dropping the chocolate sphere in the glass. “These were unusual circumstances that warranted unusual solutions. The Old City and the Rantheon would not have agreed to your scheme otherwise. Should you seek an encore of this ritual without due cause, you will very quickly find that you do not share your ancestor’s immunity to divine reprimand.”

“Oh, I’m perfectly aware.” I grimace, thinking back to the Witchling’s intrusion into Sjelefengsel. “I know when to stay in my lane.”

“Good. Now, have the mortals come to see the necessity of the witchling’s metamorphosis yet?” Sång asks, snapping her fingers and setting the surface of the whiskey alight in doing so.

I fight back a derisive snort, taking a moment to compose a more dignified response. “Hardly. It’s only been a day; they are still recovering from how suddenly it happened. The only one responding reasonably to it is the Viralis Synthetic, but that’s to be expected. The others are… their investment in the issue is primarily emotional.”

“Unfortunate. They will have to accept the witchling’s evolution, as it cannot be reverted.” Sång says, taking a swig from her glass. I do my best not to wince as she downs the flaming combination of whiskey, orange juice, raw egg, and half-melted chocolate without so much as flinching.

“If you would humor my curiosity…” I say, trying to take my mind off her monstrosity of a drink. “…I know that he will now enjoy increased strength and endurance as a result of the ritual, but do we know if he will also enjoy the privilege of Ranter magic? I had assumed as much, and if it is true…”

“Then he will need to be trained in it.” Sång concludes. “The answer to his question is yes, he now enjoys the privilege of the Diaspora’s arcane heritage. That is to be expected, when you take a shard of a hypernatural into yourself… you need not trouble yourself over it. I will be teaching him what I can in the six days we have before arriving at Tirsigal.”

I fold one leg over the other. “Indeed? Six days to learn the fundamentals of an entirely new system of magic, to say nothing of its intricacies and nuances… and Ranter magic is extremely broad in terms of what one can learn, and choose to specialize in. How much progress do you think he’ll be able to make?”

“Not enough for him to use it with any degree of finesse. But enough for him to understand how it works, and how Azra may be using it against him and his friends.” Sång replies, taking another sip from her glass as she puts the whiskey back in the cabinet. “Azra has a strong predisposition to fire, and that may have carried over to the witch boy by virtue of the transitive property. If that is the case, I will see if I can begin there and use that natural affinity as the starting point for teaching him the fundamental principles.”

“I wish you all the luck with it, then. I do not envy the task of having six days to train a neophyte to confront a demon goddess.” I say. “Though I will lend my help if it is asked, of course.”

“You have other matters to mind. See to your responsibilities, and I will see to the witchling’s training.” Sång says as she turns and begins to make her way to the door. “The mortals will soon be waking. I will go check on him, and see how he is adapting to his improved vessel. If he is not too disoriented, I may try to commence his training today.”

“I do not envy him either. He will have much to adjust to.” I say, nodding as Sång starts to take her leave. “Thank you for taking the time to grace me with conversation, ancient one.”

“It was no act of charity. You are the only one on this vessel that gives me the deference I am owed.” she replies. “We will speak again, when I next have need of your assistance.”

The door spirals shut behind her, ending our conversation on that note. Unfolding my legs, I turn back towards the piano, taking up my pencil as I return my attention to the sheet music on the stand. It was true that I had responsibilities to tend to, and this was one among them.

So I’d best make as much progress on it as I can, before the mortals started waking up and I have to turn my attention to a more difficult set of responsibilities.

Event Log: Jayta Jaskolka

Dandelion Drift: Common Room

3/12/12765 8:11pm LST

Staring at them, I just can’t help but slowly reach out towards them again.

I freeze when Jazel growls, pulling my hand back from his ears and scowling. “I didn’t even touch them. How did you know?”

“I could hear your sleeve rustling. And I can feel air movement near my ears.”

“Ears that big, I’m sure you could hear someone sneeze on the far side of the ship.” I mutter under my breath, wrapping my arm back around my knees. Jazel’s sprawled on the couch with his eyes closed; he’s worn out after a day of training with Sång. Apparently he can now use Ranter magic in addition to witch magic, and Sång wants to teach him as much as she can before we face off with Azra again.

“I get why Kaya was so picky about her ears now.” Jazel mutters into his pillow. “They’re sensitive. Having people constantly try to pet them would be so annoying… I was only allowed to touch her ears when she gave me permission, and I had to be gentle.”

I don’t say anything to that, at least not right away. I’m still adjusting to the fact that Jazel isn’t human anymore. It’s just so hard to get my head around that — in my mind, he’s still this gangly awkward human, and when I look at him and see this lean, strong young morphox, it takes a second for me to realize that that’s my brother. Fluffy, white-tipped ears; a bushy red tail; thin red markings over relaxed muscles. And the eyes…

“What about the tail?” I ask, trying not to think about that last part.

“Tail isn’t as bad. Would still be annoying if people were constantly trying to pet it.” he says, with said tail twitching a little and flopping to one side. He’s currently wearing cargo shorts, which are apparently Kayenta’s, not his — they’re the only bottoms on the ship that he can wear comfortably at the moment. Evidently all of Jazel’s jeans and pants were chafing the base of his new appendage because the waistline cut wasn’t made with tails in mind. The entire bottom half of his wardrobe, rendered unwearable in a single day.

“And how does everything else… feel?” I ask hesitantly.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Like, how does it, y’know… feel? Does it feel different from… being a human?” I ask, trying to find the best way to phrase what I’m trying to ask.

One of his ears flicks. He doesn’t answer right away. “It does. Everything feels… just a little bit sharper. Clearer. Like I just found out I needed glasses, and once I put them on, everything came into focus. I could see and sense everything before, but now it’s sharper, clearer, more detailed. It’s so crisp that it almost feels a little harsh at times.”

“Are you… happy with it?” I venture a bit further.

Instead of an immediate reply, he lifts the arm that’s hanging off the side of the couch, bringing it up to his face, opening and closing his fingers. His eyes are open, but I can’t see them from here. “There is… much to like about it. It feels nice to have this kind of strength. You don’t know what it’s like to be naturally strong until you are, and it makes such a difference. You feel like you can do so much more.”

I nod along to that. “Yeah, I know the feeling.” I say, my eyes flitting down to the manacle marks on my wrists. “It feels nice to know that you’re stronger than other people. You feel like you can do so much more.”

“The magic is hard to get used to, though.” he goes on. “It isn’t like Aurescuran magic. Ranter magic is like a living thing… it’s wild, and you really have to focus on controlling it when you’re using it. You can feel when you have a lot of it built up inside you, and you can also feel when you’ve spent most of it and need time to rest and recharge. It’s nothing like Aurescuran magic.”

“Is that how you feel right now? Like you’ve spent most of it?” I ask.

“Yeah. Sång was telling me that Ranters refer to their magic as a ‘pool’, and I spent most of my pool training with her today. There’s only so much in it, but it refills every day. It’s not like Aurescuran magic, where you can just keep creating spells if you have the components for them.” Jazel explains, uncurling his hand and lighting a small flame over two of his fingers. “Ranters can only cast as many spells as they have energy for. Once their pool is tapped out, they’re done until they get some rest and some food. For Aurescurans, they can cast as many spells as they like; the only limit is that they have to have taken the time to prepare those spells beforehand. If they run out of prepared spells, then that’s it. They’re done until they take the time to prepare another spell.”

“So what you’re doing right now — I assume that’s burning up energy from your ‘pool’?” I guess, nodding to the flame.

“Yep. Not a lot, though.” Jazel confirms. “That’s the benefit of Ranter magic, I guess. If I wanted to do this with Aurescuran magic, I would have to get up, go down to the lab, grab some spell paper, dig through my component closet, and put together a candle spell that I could load into my grimoire. But with Ranter magic, I can just focus a little bit, push a little energy towards it, and bam. I’ve got a flame, all without having to get up or hardly move a muscle.” He pauses for a moment, then adds: “Ranters also don’t really have… ‘spells’, I guess? Like, Aurescuran spells, they do specific things. They have very specific durations, results, or effects. If you create an Aurescuran candle spell using the standard formula, it’s going to burn for an hour. Each time, every time, without fail, whether you want it to or not. The only thing stopping it is if you break the spell circle or dump water on it. But with Ranter magic, you just kinda of… keep the spell going for as long as you’re willing to pay attention to it, and feed energy to it. This flame right here — I could keep this going for two minutes or two hours if I wanted. Ranter magic doesn’t have definite boundaries; it’s just limited by your focus, energy requirements, skill level, and learning the techniques for the more complicated stuff. Like… this.”

As I watch Jazel tilts his hand, bringing his thumb up level with his other two fingers, The flame starts to bend and stretch, curving over his thumb, then slowly arcing back around to its point of origin. Now, instead of flickering teardrop, it looks like a little halo of fire, floating in the air over his hand.

“That’s pretty neat. Did Sång teach you how to do that?” I ask, leaning forward a little.

“Yeah. It was one of the exercises we practiced today. She said that Azra had a predisposition towards fire, so she thought it would be a good element to start me on.” Jazel says, tilting the halo around some. “She used it to teach me a lot of the basics, and I used it to practice a lot of the exercises she was giving me. Most of it was about learning control. Raw power will only take you so far if you can’t control it.”

“Yeah. Makes sense, I suppose.” I agree as my mind starts to rove. “What are you gonna tell Mom next time you see her?”

The fire halo above his hand sputters and flickers out, probably because my question has distracted him. “Shit. I hadn’t thought about that.”

“What? You hadn’t thought about that?” I say incredulously. “You’re going to see her again eventually, and you’re gonna have to explain to her why you— you— you have, y’know, a tail! And fluffy ears!”

“Don’t remind me.” he groans, rolling on his back as he rubs his hands over his face. “I don’t know, okay? I don’t know what I’m going to tell her. I mean, I’m still me, right? It’s just a little bit of… extra stuff on top of it, right?”

“You tell me, you’re the one that threw back a demon goddess’s soul shard like it was a shot of whiskey or something like that!”

“Yeah, and it burned like hell going down. A shot of whiskey would be like a glass of water, compared to that.”

“Plus it’s more than just some ‘extra stuff’, Jazel! It’s not like a pizza, where you just throw on some extra toppings; you’re an entirely different species now! Don’t you think Mom’s gonna freak when she finds out her son is half-fox?”

“I mean, she didn’t seem too put off by the possibility of having morphox grandchildren when I went back to New Aurescura for vacation last year…” he mutters.

I freeze at that. “What? You and Kaya… were planning on having kids?”

“No! I mean, well— not right away, but maybe eventually… I mean… Kaya seemed like she was excited about it, since she was the one suggesting testing out compatibility between humans and morphoxes… or maybe it was just a joke about having an excuse to have sex, I dunno, sometimes it’s hard to tell with her…”

Jazel. Having sex. Logically speaking, I know that he’s an independent adult now, and he has his own life and can do whatever he wants, but it had never occurred to me that there would be that kind of dimension to Jazel’s life, since that was never a dimension of himself that he expressed when growing up. My awkward, socially inept brother? Having sex? No, that couldn't be right. Everything about that just felt wrong, like the world had been flipped upside down. What would that even look like? He never had any game growing up; did he learn how to pull the moves on someone while he was away from home? It didn’t seem like it; he seemed like he was only slightly less dense than he was as a teenager. I couldn’t imagine him trying to seduce someone… or, well, I could, but it wouldn’t seem like the Jazel I knew. Actually no, I don’t want to imagine that at all.

“Okay, so like…” I say, rubbing my knuckles over my forehead as I try to dump those images in my mental trashcan. “…you’re saying that you want to have kids? Eventually? With Kaya?”

“I mean yeah, I think so.” he says defensively. “Why, is there a problem with that?”

“No, no, there’s nothing wrong with it, I just, like… expected you would’ve warned me that I’m about to become an aunt or something. That’s kind of a big deal, you know?”

“Well, it’s not going to happen right now.” he points out. “When I said eventually, I meant in a few years, if it… y’know. Feels right. When things are more stable, and not crazy like they’ve been.”

“Okay okay, yeah, that makes sense, I suppose… and your kids, when you and Kaya have them, they’re gonna be…”

“They’re gonna be morphoxes, yeah. I mean, they were always going to be morphoxes. Rule of thumb for cross-species humanoid compatibility is that the mother’s genes decide the race of the offspring, while the father’s genes decide the sex. Kaya would be contributing the morphox genes, and I’d be contributing the X or Y chromosome that decides the sex.”

“I know that part. I went to college to study science, Jazel. That’s Biology 101.”

“Yeah, well, there’s a lot of people that seem to struggle with understanding those concepts. I had to explain it to Mom the simple way.”

“But now you’d be contributing both morphox genes and the sex chromosome, right?”

“I mean… yeah? Like, it isn’t gonna change anything. Adding chocolate milk to a glass of chocolate milk isn’t gonna somehow make it more chocolatey.”

“Yeah, but now they’re gonna be like… full morphox. No trace of any human genetics.”

“You realize that the human genome and morphox genome are probably something like ninety-six or ninety-seven percent comparable, right? Humans and morphoxes have almost the exact same genes.”

“Whatever. You know what I’m getting at.”

“I literally, actually don’t.”

“It’s the sentiment of the thing! Instead of human-morphox, it’s going to be pure morphox-morphox!”

“Jayta, that literally doesn’t matter! My kids are going to be morphoxes either way!”

“Ugh. You don’t get it.” I huff, rolling my eyes. “Look, just ask Kaya when you get her back. She’s going to be happy that the father of her children is also a morphox, even if it literally doesn’t matter from the genetic standpoint.”

“Why would you say that? You haven’t even met her!”

“Just do it. You’ll see that I’m right.” I let my legs down from the chair, stretching them out a little. “Why are you all called morphoxes anyway? Like, I get that you’re half fox now, but where does the ‘morph’ part come from? What does it mean?”

“Oh, that. It’s because morphoxes are the only vashaya’rei that can assume a fully animal form.” Jazel says, starting to sit up. “Sång showed me how to do that today. I just have to…”

I jerk upright as he bursts into flames without warning, a bright red blaze that hides him from view even as he starts shrinking, the flame condensing along with him. It collapses to about a quarter of his original size before it fizzles out, leaving behind a red fox in the place where he was originally sitting. “Jeez! Warn me before you set yourself on fire next time, why don’t you!”

He opens his jaw in a vulpine grin, letting out a high-pitched whine that sounds vaguely like a hehehe. Folding my arms, I scowl at him. “Yeah yeah yeah, very funny. Turn back! Unless you can speak while you’re a fox too.”

Evidently he can’t, because he catches fire again, the blaze swelling this time back into a humanoid shape. Though this time, when it fizzles away, it does so with the distinct scent of incinerated fabric, and a fading swirl of ash. My eyes widen when I realize that the blaze of transformation has burned away Jazel’s clothes… all of them.

“Whoa! Okay! Could’ve warned me about that too!” I say, jerking a hand up to shield my eyes.

“What are you— oh shit!” I hear a scramble as Jazel yanks the blanket folded over the back of the couch and wraps it around himself. “That must've been why Sång had me strip down when she was teaching me how to do this earlier…”

“She didn’t tell you morphing would do that?” I say, lowering my hand once he’s got himself covered.

“Wow, is something burning in here?” Both of us look around to that Ozzy’s wandered into the common room in his pajamas, with his tumbler in hand. Spotting Jazel awkwardly wrapped in a blanket, his confusion suddenly clears up as he taps the side of his nose. “Ah. You tried to morph without a morph cell, didn’t you.”

“A what?” both Jazel and I ask at the same time.

“Morph cell. They’re common among the wereckanan and the Ranter colonies.” Ozzy says, shuffling over to the fridge as he pops the lid on his tumbler. “The problem with shapeshifters and species that morph is that it’s just the body that morphs. The clothes don’t come with you. So they just fall right off, though it looks like your transformation actually puts off enough heat to burn your clothes right off you. A morph cell would help with that — it’s calibrated to store anything you’re wearing in an enchantment matrix, then release it back into its original worn configuration when you morph back into your human form.”

“Really?” Jazel says, his brow furrowing. “So how does that work…? And is a morph cell something you wear, or carry on you?”

“I mean, it comes in a number of forms.” Ozzy shrugs, pausing to fill his tumbler with ice before going on. “The morph cells of ancient days were often wood-chip bracelets inscribed with the enchantment, and required manual activation. Over the ages the form’s evolved; they eventually began containing the enchantments within gems, which have improved matrix capacity and could hold additional enchantment lines, enough to tie the enchantment to the action of morphing itself, and to turn the morph cell itself into a magical weave bound into the wearer’s animal form. With the enchantment tied to a gem, it meant you could also integrate it into different bits of jewelry — bracelets, necklaces, broaches, rings, you name it. If you could inset a gem into it, you could use it as a morph cell. Made it a lot more discreet, which was a game-changer for wereckanan that were looking to infiltrate human societies. Oh, and it used to be that a morph cell had to be tied to a specific set of clothing, but somewhere down the line there was a breakthrough in enchanting principles that allowed the enchantment to extend to whatever the user was wearing, rather than just a specific outfit. Back in the day, really rich wereckanan would have multiple morph cells, since you needed a unique one for every outfit you had, and you couldn’t mix or match outfits, or the morph cell would only store the part of the outfit it was keyed to. Honestly, it’s some really fascinating stuff once you get down into the nitty-gritty of it. There’s a whole history behind morph cells going back to the earliest days of morphing species. Oh, I almost forgot — morph cells can be tattoos too! Some of the wereckanan tribes and clans preferred that approach. After all, the function is stored in the enchantment itself, not the gem, so as long as you can get the enchantment down on a surface, it’ll technically do what you need it to do. And for some clans, that surface just happened to be inked skin.”

I just stare at Ozzy for a moment before blurting out “Where do you find the time?”

Ozzy glances up at me as he finishes filling the tumbler with tap water. “Pardon?”

“You just spit out an entire Encyclopedia Galactica summary.” I say. “Where do you find the time to memorize all that information?”

“Oh, I used to be a professor at a college of the arcane. Not as prestigious as the Preserver Academy, of course, but it was nothing to scoff at, either.” Ozzy says as he tightens the lid on the tumbler. “Learned a lot from the other professors, even took some of their courses. Did you know that in ancient Rantecevang, the creation of wartime support golems could be credited to the Wildcat mercenaries of legend? It began when they kidnapped a set of guard golems from a castle they were raiding. Little tiny circle golems with a mage laser for zapping rats and tagging robbers, called ‘em Doombas. Anyways, the Wildcats took a few of them home back to Cranberry City, and started rigging up more advanced frames for them that could project magical shields or fire more powerful mage lasers—”

“Can you tell us anything about Azra that we don’t already know, Ozzy?” Jazel interrupts, redirecting the rambling.

“Oh, Azra? I mean… you already know she’s the firstborn daughter of Maelstrom and Radiance. Demon goddess of tyranny, ruler of the hell that is also called the Maelstrom.” Ozzy says, scratching his chin. “Depends on what else you want to know, there’s plenty about her. She fought in Rantecevang’s Void Wars before she was banished to the Maelstrom. In legends, she’s always stirring up trouble. Corrupting mortals with promises of power and dominion if they worship her.”

I give Jazel a pointed look, and he lays his ears flat against his head. “Don’t look at me like that! She possessed my mate; I want her defeated more than anyone else here!”

“Yeah, and you sucked down a chunk of her soul trying to get more power to defeat her.” I point out. “That doesn’t raise any red flags for you?”

“I did what I had do. I have everything I need to defeat her now.” Jazel insists. “Next time we fight her will be the last time. We’ll be putting an end to this for good.”

“Well, at least during our lifetimes.” Ozzy says, sipping from his tumbler. “She’ll probably possess another nine-tailed morphox eventually, but in a thousand years or something. We’ll all be dead and gone by the time she finds her way back to the mortal plane.”

“That’s good enough for me.” Jazel says, glaring at Ozzy as he gets up off the couch. “Now if you all would excuse me, I’m going to bed. Sång ran me into the ground today, and she’s probably going to do it again tomorrow.”

“You know, it’s actually a great honor to be trained by one of the Faroea.” Ozzy says as Jazel starts making his way to one of the common room’s doors. “They’ve been around for over twenty thousand years, I think, and they were present when Alt was shaping Rantecevang, or at least that’s what the myth says. I mean, technically Alt created them while he was forming Rantecevang, so they showed up about halfway through the process, but you get the point. Anyway, it’s said that the Faroea have extensive command of magic, and they have ancient knowledge that even some of the gods of the Rantheon lack. Kinda funny when you think about it, because a lot of the Rantheon gods came into being after the Faroea. Really makes you wonder where they stand in the Rantheon, doesn’t it? I mean, obviously Sång serves Maelstrom and Radiance, but now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure she’s older than both of them by at least a few thousand years, since Maelstrom and Radiance attained their godhood during the third age of Rantecevang. Anyhow, the point I was getting at is that Sång’s gotta be wicked powerful, a master of the arcane arts, considering how long she’s been around. She probably understands magic at a level—”

“Got it. I’ll ask her if she has any neat tips or tricks for me tomorrow.” Jazel says, waving over his shoulder. “Goodnight, Jayta.”

I hurry to get up, knowing that if I don’t turn in for the night, I’ll be trapped in here with Ozzy’s rambling. “It’s about that time of night for me as well. Have a good one, Ozzy.”

“Bit early to be turning in, isn't it?” he remarks as he checks the clock. “Not even nine pm yet—”

“Oh, you know! Early bird gets the worm and all that!” I say, skipping to the doorway and fleeing without further ado. While I’m in no rush to head back to the room I share with Raikaron, there are some things that are worse than sharing a bed with your partner while the two of you are fighting.

Event Log: Raikaron Syntaritov

Dandelion Drift: Guest Quarters

3/13/12765 11:33pm LST

I’d been expecting that Jayta would already be asleep by the time I returned to our quarters, but when I phase through the wall, it’s to find that she’s sitting on our bed with her arms folded, and her legs crossed. She’d been staring at the door, but redirects her attention to the part of the wall that I phased through.

“I was trying to avoid waking you up, but it seems I should’ve just used the door.” I say as I solidify once more. “Have you been sitting there this entire time?”

She scowls. “Don’t mock me.”

I press my lips together, though it’s an attempt to suppress a smile rather than express displeasure. I know she’s upset with me, but she is cute when she is peeved, and I know she will not appreciate being told as such. “I’m not mocking you, love. I am curious how long you have been sitting there. It can’t have been comfortable if it was a long time.”

She works her jaw around before spitting out: “A couple hours.”

“I’m sorry for that.” I say, slipping my shoes off before crossing the room towards her. “I figured I’d work late and come back while you were sleeping because you’re still upset with me. I thought it might help reduce some of the friction.” Upon reaching the bed, I first consider sitting down on it next to her; but with the mood she’s in, placing myself on equal ground with her might not help matters. So instead, I take a seat on the floor in front of her, folding my legs up beneath myself as I sit down. This allows her to look down at me, and though the effect may be subconscious, this should allow her to feel like she is in a position of power, rather than being looked down on. “I assume you want to chew me out about the ritual that I helped your brother with.”

“It was your idea, wasn't it!” she accuses. “He wouldn’t have tried it in the first place if you didn’t put the idea in his head!”

“I made the offer, and he accepted it. It was in the interest of giving him the tools he needed to close the gap with Azra.” I say. “It may not look like the kind of help that you and the Drifters wanted, but it is the help I was able to provide.”

“Okay… okay, but why didn’t you tell me?” she demands, unfolding her arms. “I think I deserve to know when something that monumental is going to happen to my brother!”

“You already know the answer to that, Jayta.” I answer patiently. “You know full well that if I had told any of the other mortals about the ritual, they would’ve tried to stop it. I could not afford the courtesy of advance notice when doing so would’ve prompted you or the Drifters to sabotage the ritual.”

“Well maybe that should tell you something, Raikaron!” she snaps. “When most of the people here are against it, maybe you should think twice about what you’re doing!”

I start to answer, then pause, and instead reach forward, taking her closest foot and gently pulling the sock off. Her leg twitches, as if she was considering kicking my hands away instead, but she seems to find the restraint to avoid doing so. “Are you upset because your brother is no longer what you knew him to be?”

“I’m upset because you talked him into eating a shard of a demon goddess that could’ve corrupted him if he hadn’t been able to control it!” she complains. “And it did corrupt him, partially! It turned him into a morphox! You knew that was going to happen, didn't you?”

“I didn’t know it with certainty. I did accept that his physical form likely would’ve been altered by Azra’s influence in some capacity.” I say as I carefully strip the sock from her other foot. “So your anger is that I put your brother in danger without letting you know?”

“What do you think, Raikaron?” she demands sarcastically. “There’s not really much else for me to be pissed off about right now, is there?”

“I suppose not.” I say, setting the sock aside and lifting her leg a little so I can start massaging the sole. “I understand why you’re angry. At the same time, I want you to know that I didn’t do this for mischief or for my own amusement. I did it to help your brother. I understand that the help is not in the form that most mortals are accustomed to, but that does not diminish the sincerity.”

She sighs, leaning back on her hands and lifting her leg a little to make it easier to work over the muscles in her foot. “It’s always you and your twisted altruism… just for once, could you offer some normal help? Instead of making it into some sort of weird… thing that comes with these strings attached or risks that have to be taken?”

“I myself cannot do that, no. Nor would I want to. Power should not be given freely or gained without cost — without strings attached, as you put it.” I say, my thumbs working their way down to her heel. “As a matter of fact, my view on that is inverted from what yours seems to be. It is those that give power freely, without price paid or risk taken, that should be viewed with a suspicious eye. Nothing of value comes without a price, Jayta. If someone purports to give you something of grand value without a risk attached or a price demanded, then they are either lying to you, or they have elected to take the cost of that gift upon themselves. In the first case, they are not someone you should trust, and in the second case, they are someone that cares about you quite deeply. And you will usually know which is which.”

She tilts her head away, avoiding looking at me, and I know that it means she sees the logic in my reasoning, but does not want to accept it or acknowledge it. I do not press the point, instead working over the sole of her foot a little more before letting it down and starting to work on her other foot. If nothing else, it seems to be helping her relax from the tensed state she was in when I came into the room.

“I just… wish there was a better way for you to have helped him.” she says at length. “Something that wasn’t as risky, wasn’t as dangerous. Something that didn’t change him the way it did.”

“I think we all wish that, Jayta.” I answer. “For what it’s worth, your brother only seems to have changed physically. And, I suppose magically, in that he now enjoys the privilege of Ranter magic. But in matters of the spirit and soul, he is largely the same person he was before. It is true that there is a little bit of Azra inside him now, and that may influence him in subtle ways over the longer arc of time, but your brother is strongwilled and hardheaded to an extent that approaches Azra’s own stubbornness. Her influence over him will be far more muted than it would be with most other individuals. And who knows — Azra is not wholly evil. Perhaps the fact that he is now partially a demon goddess will help him grow and broaden his social capabilities in positive ways.”

She snorts at that. “Jazel is dense. I doubt anything, even shoving a piece of the sassy foxbitch into him, will change that.” Lifting her other foot, she uses her toe to poke my cheek. “And I can’t believe you’re saying that Azra isn’t evil after she killed an entire planet full of people. If that doesn’t make her evil, what does?”

“I never said that wasn’t evil, just that she’s not entirely evil.” I reply, clicking my teeth warningly at her poking toe. “Good and evil are not a monochromatic dichotomy; they are a sliding scale of hues, from black to grey to white, and occasionally multiple shades at the same time. Azra’s destruction of Tirsigal qualifies as the latter. On its face, the action alone, when considered in a void, is simply evil — the termination of billions of lives. But if you place it against the backdrop of the Collective’s long history of assimilating planets against their will, then the color of the action changes. Is Azra’s genocide still an evil action? Certainly, but there are a great many who will justify it as a response to a slower, more insidious force that has claimed far more lives than were ever on Tirsigal.”

“So you think that two wrongs make a right?” she challenges, shifting a little to get comfortable on the bed.

“No, of course not. Morality is not math; multiplying two negatives will not produce a positive.” I say, knowing where she’s going with this. “Answering one wrong with another will not make things right. But something it can do is prevent more wrongs. That is why, in some cases, we execute murderers — by so doing, we prevent them from committing the wrongs that they intend to pursue if left alive.”

“But that’s not gonna stop the Collective.” Jayta points out. “Nothing stops them. You could burn another five Collective planets and they would just keep on assimilating other worlds whenever they think they can get away with it. What Azra did — it didn’t solve anything.”

“Perhaps not.” I concede as I finish working over her other foot. “Maybe it wasn’t about solving the problem, because the Collective aren’t a problem that can be solved. Maybe it was just a primal scream, lashing out and laying waste because that’s all that you can do when confronted with a problem like that. Standing up and doing something, even if it’s ultimately pointless, because it’s better than dithering and fretting over it.”

“That just makes it sound like a tantrum.” Jayta mutters as I let her foot down.

“Perhaps, from the outside.” I say, folding my arms over her knees and resting my chin on them. “Consider it from Azra’s shoes, even though she prefers to go barefoot. What would you do if you were the Witchling, and you saw the Collective assimilating New Aurescura? Or any of the other Aurescuran worlds? Would you just sit back and let it happen?”

She shifts uncomfortably, looking away. “I guess not.”

“Precisely. And yet that is what the Rules demand: that hypernaturals stay out of such affairs, and that mortals should fight the wars of mortals without the interference of higher powers.” I continue. “Hypernaturals like Azra can only watch as the worlds where their followers live are consumed by the Collective. All that power, and yet they are unable to use it to protect those that pray to them. Assuredly, they can answer prayers on an individual basis — here and there, miracles sprinkled around in moderation. But acting in a large-scale capacity to protect a planet that from a threat that is decidedly mortal, if terrifying? That, they cannot do. Are forbidden from doing. Because if they do that, it opens the door for the Collective to begin utilizing their own divine interventions for the welfare of their people.”

“But they wouldn’t be allowed to do that if they were the aggressors, right?” Jayta asks, looking down at me. “There has to be an exception made for defensive divine interventions, right? The Gathering wouldn’t allow an offensive divine intervention, would they?”

“No, they wouldn’t. But it’s more a matter of escalation. Hypernaturals are like fusion bombs; once they have been introduced to a conflict, it opens the door for the other side to do the same.” I say, tracing little circles on her thigh with a finger. “The level of devastation and destruction hypernaturals can wreak is so exceptional that their large-scale involvement in the wars of mortals is forbidden. Azra is proof of why this rule is in place. Genocide is an exceptionally easy thing for someone with as much power as a hypernatural.”

“Then doesn’t that give the Collective permission to bring their own hypernatural into the fight?” she points out. “Since she threw the first punch?”

“With anyone other than the Collective, it might’ve. The Gathering is willing to take a light hand with Azra because many other hypernaturals want to send a message to the Collective. Politically, it works out perfectly for the Gathering — the Collective finally gets the pushback everyone has wanted to give them, while Azra takes the fall, even though she was just doing what many gods would’ve done if they weren’t afraid of the consequences. Azra is remanded back to her parents for punishment; and they will punish her, but not to the severity that the court of the Gathering would otherwise deliver.”

Jayta sighs, reaching down to take my glasses off and run her fingers through my hair. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. It’s just too much. Too much… moral ambiguity. The more you talk about it, the more I start to wonder who the good guys are and who the bad guys are. I just want it to be black and white, good and evil… and I hate that me and my brother have gotten dragged into it.”

“Life is messy.” I say, reaching up to take one of her hands and kiss the back of it. “I know you just want to be done with this crisis, and we are almost there. Soon we’ll be able to put all this behind us, and things will go back to normal.”

She presses her lips together. “My brother won’t go back to normal.”

I exhale softly. “That is his new normal, Jayta. And while he is too busy to fully appreciate it now, once this crisis is resolved, he find that he is happy with what he has become.”

“You don’t know that—” she begins.

“I do know that, Jayta.” I say firmly. “I’m not saying it to be contrary or to spite you. Your brother is going to find considerable satisfaction in his new form, once he has had the time to properly explore it while not under the duress of preparing to fight a demon goddess. This might not be what you expected he would become, but he isn’t always going to be the brother you knew. People grow and change; and in Jazel’s case, it’s more than just his personality that’s growing and changing. But that isn’t always a bad thing.”

She frowns down at me. “You’re just saying that because you want to believe that what you did to him was for the better.”

“Of course I want to believe that, Jayta. But I do actually believe it.” Unfolding my arms, I shift to my knees, straightening up so that I’m at eye level with her. “I don’t want to fight with you. I know you’re still upset, and I’ve explained myself as best I can. Will it make you feel better if I apologize to you?”

“Couldn’t hurt.” she mutters.

“Very well, then. I am sorry for not telling you what I was planning with your brother.” I say, then rest my forearms on the bed as I lean in closer to rest my head against hers with my eyes closed. “I am sorry for causing you distress, and making you worry.”

I can feel her tense up a little. “Keep going.” she murmurs.

“I’m sorry this hasn’t been the vacation you’d hoped for.” I say, our noses bumping together as I gently nuzzle her. “I’m sorry that I didn’t get along with your mother.”

“She doesn’t understand me anyway.” Jayta mumbles, tilting her head a little to press her lips against mine. I sidle in a little closer as we kiss, with Jayta angling her legs so she can hook them around my back. “Tell me you’re gonna make it up to me tonight.”

“Well. It’s been a minute, hasn't it?” I murmur, slipping a hand behind her and under her shirt, slowly tracing the tips of my fingers up her spine, producing a shiver and a slight arching of the back. “I’d say you’re due for an exceptionally thorough ravaging. Might help you burn off some of that stress we’ve all been dealing with.”

“Yeah… yeah, I think that would help.” she agrees, her hand finding my tie and starting to loosen the knot. “And I imagine, with all the work you’ve been doing, a big bad demon Lord like you could use a bit of playtime.”

“I’ll admit there’s a certain strain that comes with dealing with the administrative work. Herding the cats, signing the papers, making arrangements, trying to keep everyone happy…”

“Well, I know a couple ways you can keep me happy.”

“I’m all ears.”

“That’s nice. But I’d prefer your hands. Right here, and here…”

Event Log: Jayta Jaskolka

Dandelion Drift: Kitchen

3/14/12765 8:54am LST

“And there she goes again. Gods, what I wouldn’t give to have that kind of one-on-one training.”

It’s the first thing I hear as soon as I step into the kitchen, and for a moment, I assume that Milor’s talking to me. But then I realize that his gaze is just slightly past me, and I look over my shoulder to see Sång leading Jazel to the biosphere for another day of training. “You know he’s not actually enjoying it, right?” I say to Milor as I grab a coffee mug from one of the cabinets. “She’s working him hard.”

“Mm. I’ve love to have her work me hard.” Milor says, returning his attention to his phone. “The kid just doesn’t appreciate how good he’s got it.”

I open the fridge, looking through the offerings inside. Milk, orange juice, cranberry juice. Cranberry juice sounds good. “What’s your deal? Are you just the resident lech?”

“I’m the lowest common denominator, daddy’s liddl’ demon.” Milor replies as he takes a bite of the bagel he’s got. “Farm boy from the frontier, your everyman on the street. Keepin’ it real.”

I make a face at him. “Don’t call me that.”

“There’s no point in denying it, lassie. We both know you’ve got daddy issues.” Milor says without looking away from whatever he’s reading on his phone. “It’s obvious you and Jazel were raised in a single-parent home, and everyone can tell that the red bastard fills that daddy-shaped hole in your life.”

“He does not.” I retort stiffly, pouring out a mug of cranberry juice. “If anything, the fact that you lech around so freely just tells me you’re the one with parental issues. Apparently no one ever raised you to act like a real man.”

“Well, you ain’t wrong there, lassie. Mum and Dad didn’t quite do right by me, so Gramps had to raise me. M’sure he did the best he could. For my part, I know I didn’t make it too easy on him. Didn’t think it at the time, but the man was a saint for picking up where my dad left off.” He pauses for a moment, his phone lowering a little. “…I should give him a ring sometime. See how he’s doin’ before the galaxy goes to shit an’ all that.”

That gets my attention, and I look around from the pantry where I’d been seeing what was available for breakfast. “Before the galaxy goes to shit? What do you mean by that?”

He raises an eyebrow at me. “Exactly what I said. I’d give it… two weeks at minimum, and two months at max. Depends on how quickly the Collective settles on their targets, and what message they want to send. They won’t have to wait on fleet mobilization because Tirsigal already got them all perked up and ready to move out. At this point it’s just a matter of picking the targets and pulling the trigger.”

I let the pantry door drift closed. “Are you saying the Collective are going to attack?”

Milor shrugs, taking a sip from his mug. “I wouldn’t say attack so much as retaliate, but yeah. Collective’s gearin’ up to go to war. My sources are pretty sure we can chalk up Juncosa to normal people, not gods. And that means the Collective has someone they can go after for it. Someone to blame, someone they can punish.” He leans back in his chair. “Technically speaking, it’s more likely to have been a nation or an extremist group, but you get the drift. Once we know who’s responsible, the Collective’s going to go after them. These genocides aren’t the end of it. There’s going to be a war.”

I glance around, perhaps hoping there would be someone else around I could check his claims against. But it’s just us in the kitchen right now; either everyone else has already gotten breakfast, or they haven’t woken up yet. “Raikaron hasn’t said anything about a war.”

Milor snorts. “Why would he? He’s a demon Lord, he doesn’t care about what happens to us puny mortals. He doesn’t care about our problems unless there’s gods or demons involved, like there was with Azra.”

“That’s not true!” I protest. “He does care about mortal affairs! And if you think that mortal wars wouldn’t affect us down in hell, you’re an idiot. What do you think happens when bad people die? They go to hell! And what do you think happens in a war? People die! A lot of them! Just because we’re demons and we spend most of our time in hell doesn't mean your wars don’t affect us. If a war happens, it’s not just your problem; it’s our problem too, because we have to clean up the mess when the souls of depraved murderers and war criminals start showing up in Sjelefengsel!”

“Whoa, okay. Didn’t know you felt that strongly about it. My bad.” Milor says, putting his hands up. “It’s just that your boyfriend doesn’t strike me as the sort to care about what happens to us normal people. There’s a type — the ones that just see people as numbers on a screen, problems to be fixed. You usually see them in the C-suite in major corporations. Hell, he even dresses like one of them, except with a lot more red and black.”

A retort comes up my throat, and I fight with it, but can’t hold it back. “You are a number. All of us are numbers, to someone else. That’s how it works. You can’t care about every single person you come across; we’re not designed that way. You care about the people that are close to you, and a little less about the people outside of that, and then everyone else outside of that is just a number, just another face among billions and trillions and quadrillions of other people. He does the best he can with the position he’s been given, and I’d like to see you do half as well as he does. Except you won’t, and you can’t, because people that leer at ancient nudist angels don’t get trusted with that kind of power and authority!”

He leans back in his chair, setting down his phone as he sips from his coffee and sizes me up. “…alright. I dig it. Callin’ me on my shit. Attitude like that, I assume you do the same to him every now and then?”

I scowl, sipping my cranberry juice. “He’s not as irritating as you are, so I don’t have as much reason to do it.” I don’t mention that Sjelefengsel’s power hierarchy makes upward confrontations rare — the occasional insolence I show to Raikaron wouldn’t be tolerated with other Lords or higher Circles.

“Well, that’s better than expected. As quiet as you are sometimes, I’d been gettin’ the ‘meek housewife’ vibe off of you.” he says, picking his phone back up. “With everything that I’ve heard so far, it’s more that you admire him, isn't it? You look up to him, and that’s why you defer to him.”

“I respect him. When I have a question, he answers. And he is honest — even when he knows I won’t like it, he still gives me the answer I need to hear.” I say, taking another sip and folding my arms. “I’m not some submissive housewife; I don’t just roll over whenever he tells me to. But when he asks me to do something, I usually do it because I trust him, and I respect him, and I know he will tell me why if I ask him.”

“And he told you why he left you out of loop when it came to stuffing a shard of the foxbitch in your brother?” Milor asks skeptically.

“He did. And I didn’t like the answer. And it’s gonna be a while before I get over that. But he respects me enough to give me an honest answer, and apologize for what he did, even though he would do it again if he had to.” I retort.

“See, that’s the part I take issue with.” Milor says, shaking his head. “Him saying he would do it again if he had to. What that tells me is he’s not sorry about what he did because he views it as necessary. It gets a lot easier to justify your crimes when you start rationalizing the things you’re doing in the name of the greater good. It’s just a hop and a skip to hell from there, though maybe that’s how he ended up working as a demon Lord in the first place. Good intentions gone wrong.”

“I suppose you would know all about that, since you used to be a Challenger.” I shoot back. “You got some personal experience that you’re drawing on there?”

He makes a face. “Bit of a cheap shot, lassie.”

I shrug. “If you can’t take the heat—” I begin.

“Are you going to tell me to stay out of the kitchen?” he guesses, raising an eyebrow as he gestures around the room.

“No. If you can’t take the heat, don’t pick a fight with a demon.” I say. “It’s hot in hell. Don’t be blowing smoke if you’re not comfortable with fire.”

He clicks his tongue, tilting his head to one side. “Mm. That’s a good one. I might steal that and use it sometime.” he says, sipping from his coffee. “You’re a catch, liddl’ J. I hope the red bastard understands that.”

“Oh, he knows.” I say, turning and heading for the door. “And don’t let me catch you shit-talking him again. He might play nice, but I don’t have to.”

He chuckles. “Whatever you say, liddl’ J. S’ppose there’s not much point in fightin’ the man when you’re in love with him.” He raises his mug to me. “Cheers. To the road paved with good intentions. I hear demons get a lot of mileage out of that one.”

I give a hmph to that, departing the kitchen. I’ll probably come back later when he’s not there, and grab some breakfast. One thing I know for sure, though: weeks of dealing with Milor’s frontier snark is giving me an appreciation for how civilized and amiable Raikaron is by comparison.

Event Log: Raikaron Syntaritov

The Dreaming

3/15/12765 4:45am LST

The bridge that joins Azra and Jazel’s minds is a curious one, to say the least.

I have not given much thought to its existence before now, but as I tread its length on my way to check on Azra, I realize that it’s an uncommon thing. The point at which the mortal and divine meet, a barren space that holds very little in the way of influence between those it links. Glittering black sand beneath a starry sky — it doesn’t look like anything that I think Jazel’s ever seen, and it doesn’t seem like something that Azra would choose of her own accord. Had I the time and inclination, I might be able to delve deeper into its genesis — but this close to the Drifters’ final encounter with Azra, I don’t believe I would come away with much of value for digging into the question.

Instead, I find myself drawing near to the rock shelf where Azra keeps Kayenta’s cage. She is waiting for me there at the edge, giving off that numinous scarlet glow, her tails all a-flare behind her. As I step into the light she gives off, she lifts her chin, her hot green eyes saturated with suspicion as she scowls down at me.

“Azra.” I greet mildly, coming to stop and neatly folding my arms behind my back. “You look well.”

“Spare me the trash, Raikaron. If you’re gonna give me a compliment, give me an actual compliment deserving of my divinity, not some shitty small-talk that’s barely fit for socialization.” she retorts.

My eyes flit to her tails, then the rest of her. Exceptional in every physical regard, but that would be expected for a goddess. “Do you really want a blazon of your appearance? For those of us that can appear as we wish — that are not bound by the chains of an immutable physical form — it is no great thing to take the form of an object of beauty or attraction. It is one of the least things for those of us that have the privilege of altering our form to be whatever we want it to be.”

“Don’t give me that.” she scoffs. “I may be a goddess, you may be a demon Lord, but we both know that the compliments are still desired. It recognizes the work — and you are perfectly aware of that, with the work you’ve put into your own vessels.”

“I suppose you have a point.” I say, lifting a hand and looking it over. It is not my physical body, of course, just a projection of what I appear to be in the Waking, but I see what she’s getting at. “You are proud of the work you have put into perfecting your form?”

“What do you think, Raikaron?”

“Fair enough. The ego answers the question.” I say, returning my hand behind my back. “I suppose you’re going to insist on concluding this affair the hard way, as it seems you’ve declined to return to the Maelstrom of your own accord.”

“What is this, the ‘last chance’ visit?” she derides me. “You know damn well I’m not interested in yielding to you, or the Gathering, or my parents. I’m doing what needs to be done. I’m not going to stop just because you asked me to.”

“No, I suppose you wouldn’t.” I sigh gently, looking around, taking in the desolate plateau around us. “Reshaping Tirsigal back into a world that Ranters can live on again, mm?”

She narrows her eyes at me. “You would do the same if you knew the weight of my responsibilities.”

That draws my attention. “Your responsibilities? I had not thought you had any. At least, none that were given to you by your parents, or the rest of the Rantheon.”

“Just because they were not given does not mean they are not there, Raikaron.” Azra says, squaring her shoulders as she stares disdainfully down at me. “Power comes with responsibility, whether that power is given or gained. I may have been banished; cast down, and cast out; but I am still a child of Rantecevang, and a member of the Rantheon, even if they would prefer not to have me. Just like all the other members of the Rantheon, I have a responsibility to watch over the Diaspora. To guide, to advise; at times to protect; and if necessary, to punish.”

“The Collective are not yours to punish.” I point out softly.

“And Tirsigal was not theirs to take, but they did it anyway!” she snaps back at me, hand curling into fists as her tails ripple in the semblance of flame. “You are not a god, Raikaron, and you likely never will be. And because of that, you will never understand the weight of this obligation. The prestige of your family’s name may be great, but it does not approach the sacred burden of a hypernatural’s mantle. If you’re expecting me to be penitent, to be humbled and to ask forgiveness, you will be disappointed. You may be the Lord of Regret, but I do not regret what I have done, and I would do it again if given the opportunity to do so. I will never apologize for that.”

I don’t reply right away. Demon goddess she may be, but there is a certain righteous fire in Azra’s tirade; a bloody justice, a balancing of the scales of recompense. And I know, from my many centuries in Sjelefengsel, that hell has as much ability to dispense punishment as heaven does. “So mote it be. The weight of your divine mantle must be considerable; yet I would not place it in competition with the name of my family. You are right; I will likely never be a hypernatural, nor do I believe I would desire that. It is enough for me to be a Syntaritov — we have our own set of obligations we must rise to meet.”

Azra’s lips draw tight. “Oh so demure, all while working in the shadows and pulling strings in the background. I see right through your modesty, Raikaron; do not think I underestimate you just because you lack the power of a god. The boy has not been here in several nights; that is your doing, isn't it?”

I give a mild shrug. “Perhaps.”

“Don’t play coy with me. What are you hiding?” she demands, starting to pace a little.

“I would hate to ruin the surprise.” I demur. “Besides, you won’t have to wait very long, your majesty. Two days hence, and we will meet again in person; surely your patience will carry you that far? I’ve prepared something special for you — I think you’ll appreciate the uniquely twisted humor in it.”

She narrows her eyes at me. “I know better than to trust a gift from a Syntaritov.”

The corners of my mouth lift slightly. “You injure me, your highness. Is that attention of a Syntaritov not a honor in and of itself?”

“It’s a hassle, because your family only ever creates trouble.” she growls. “If you are only here to vex me on the eve of our confrontation, then I’m gonna ask you to leave. I have a lot of work to do before your little circus of mortals gets here. Planets don’t terraform themselves.”

“I was hoping we might avoid the confrontation altogether, through your peaceful return to the Maelstrom.” I confess. “But since that will not be happening, I suppose I will excuse myself.” I turn to leave, then pause and look over my shoulder. “You know that I am on your side, correct, Azra? It may not look like it, from where you currently stand, but I am doing what I can to ensure this affair ends well for you. As well as it could end, considering the circumstances.”

She had started to turn away as well, but pauses at that. “You want me to believe you’re my friend, even when you’re so clearly my enemy? Working for the Gathering, and keeping me from finishing what I came to the mortal plane to do?”

“It is those very things which allow me to protect you, Azra. I am trying to ensure your survival, and to return you to the place where you will be safe under the jurisdiction of your pantheon.” I explain softly. “I was not asked to help you complete your vendetta. I was asked to help keep you alive.”

It seems like she’s winding up for a fiery retort on hearing that, but catches herself at the last second. “Keepin’ me alive, huh… normally the mortals would call that a guardian angel, wouldn’t they? Mom and Dad couldn’t even be bothered to get me the real deal. Got me the budget version from one of the hells instead. And made it a Syntaritov too, just to really rub my nose in it.”

I chuckle a little. “Sorry to disappoint.” I hesitate on what I’m about to say, then decide I may as well say it. “Your parents do care about you, Azra. As do I, to an obviously lesser degree. You are a very flawed person, and I do not agree with many things you do… but I understand why you do some of them, and I do not entirely fault your reasons, though the methods often leave something to be desired.”

One of her ears flicks, and it seems like she’s about to deliver a snarky rejoinder. But again, she hesitates. “It’s been a while since I’ve had someone like you, Raikaron. I think I could almost call you a friend.”

My lips twist in a rueful smile. “A common feeling for those of us that have spent centuries among the damned. The rest of the universe has no sympathy for us, so we demons have to look out for each other.” I take my hands out from behind my back, tucking them in the pockets of my waistcoat instead. “Perhaps we can share a drink once all of this is over with. You still have that box of Dreaming draughts I brought for your centennial, after all.”

I turn and leave on that note, knowing there’s little else for us to discuss. We both know how this ends; neither of us is looking forward to it, even though I know it’s necessary, and she probably understands the same. From the outside, it might seem like a black and white matter; to the Drifters and the Collective, she is the villain, and nothing will change that. But I, with my long history in hell, and my knowledge of the immortal community, know that there’s more to this crisis than what shows on the surface.

And that all too often, being the hero of your own story makes you the villain of someone else’s.

Event Log: Jayta Jaskolka

Dandelion Drift: Bridge

3/16/12765 1:54pm SGT

“You ever seen one of these up close before?” Jazel murmurs to me as we both stare through the forward windshield of the bridge.

I shake my head. “This is my first time.”

“I didn’t know they were so big.” he says, his voice soft with some combination of awe and dread.

And I can’t blame him for it. We’ve arrived in the Honaus System, where Tirsigal lies, and the Collective are here in force. Currently the Drift is gliding past one of the hiveships posted in high orbit, though I’m not sure I can call it a ship. You don’t have an appreciation of how large these ships are until you’re right next to them, and realize that they’re more like mobile cities. The exterior appears to be entirely organic — like hardened fungi or calcified wood, laid down in stratified layers, occasionally interrupted by swollen, bulbous regions that cross over several of those layers. Pinpoints of light peek out from those layers — windows, possibly, stacked layer upon layer upon layer, with each layer having an overhanging ledge. The Drift is a big ship, what with the biosphere in the center, but it’s dwarfed by the hiveship, which is longer, taller, and more massive by a far margin. We can barely see the top of it from here, and the bottom is out of view — though that might just be due to how close we are to it.

“How do you even fight ships this big?” I ask as we continue to glide past the hiveship.

“Size isn’t everything.” Milor says from the chair where he’s slouched, his boots kicked up on one of the consoles. “Collective ships trade physical resilience for sheer size and the ability to regenerate over time. They’re made out of organic material — kind of like wood, or a beetle shell. It can grow dense or hardened, but it’ll never have the rigidity or tensile strength of reinforced metals that most other ships are made out of. That’s partially why they grow their ships so big in the first place — it takes more firepower to destroy bigger targets. The damage is diluted simply by virtue of having so much surface area to attack.”

“Hulls composed of organic material can also be grown much thicker than hulls on manufactured ships.” Dandy adds from her place in the captain’s chair. Since she’s integrated into the ship, there’s no need for bridge officers — she basically manages the functions of the entire ship, and is running everything through her core, which has a hardwired connection to the ship’s systems. “Hull plating on Collective ships can be up to a dozen feet thick. It may not be very durable, but the regenerative qualities means that the Collective has some of the best ablative hull armor in the galaxy.”

“So this is what the Confederacy was fighting in Mokasha?” Jazel asks as we start to pass the end of the hiveship. “How much ordnance do you need to destroy a hiveship?”

“More than they had available to them. Besides, hiveships don’t mind taking hits.” Milor says, taking a swig from his flask. “They can survive it. Part of their fleet function is that they draw fire away from the smaller Collective ships so that those ships can get in close for attack runs or boarding actions. And they usually bring a swarm of smaller ships with them wherever they go, whether they’re latched onto the hiveship, or nested inside of it, or traveling separately. That’s their primary strategy: overwhelm with numbers. Throw so much shit at you that you literally don’t have enough ammunition to shoot all of it down. And the more ammunition you waste on the hiveship, the better. It means that more of the smaller ships survive to get in close and wreak havoc.”

“And they have dozens of these things?” Lysanne asks, watching as the hiveship slowly passes from our field of view.

“Thousands, actually.” Raikaron says from where he’s been silently watching, standing not far from the captain’s chair. “In this galaxy. In the Milky Way, they have a little over a million hiveships active, though their utility there is restricted to mass transit, evacuation duty and disaster relief, mobile science survey, and galactic edge patrol. The Collective took over the Milky Way after our ancestors fled, and assimilated all other races and nations that were left. As a result, the entirety of the Milky Way is Collective territory. Their hiveships have no almost no combat utility, since there is nobody for them to fight in that galaxy.”

“Wait, the Collective exist in more than one galaxy?” Ozzy says, looking at Raikaron with alarm.

“Oh yes. They exist in a few galaxies in the local supercluster. They originated in the Milky Way as an offshoot of humanity, along with many of Myrrdicato’s major races.” Raikaron says conversationally. “They took over the Milky Way after the conclusion of the second war between the Dragine and the Shyl-tari, though some of them accompanied the original Milky Way races during the exodus to Myrrdicato. Over the last billion years they have undertaken the project of spreading to the galaxies neighboring the Milky Way. Thankfully, Myrrdicato is quite some distance from the Milky Way, so the Myrrdicato Collective cannot receive support from the Milky Way Collective.”

“Are they going to take over Myrrdicato as well?” Jazel asks, turning and looking at Raikaron now that the hiveship is beyond our sight.

“They will try. It is a long project for them, something they will be working on for hundreds of thousands of years. They are in no rush to get it done in our lifetimes, or in the lifetimes of your descendants a hundred generations hence.” Raikaron explains. “The only reason they managed to take over the Milky Way in less than a hundred thousand years is because there was a power vacuum after the second war between the Dragine and the Shyl-tari. And technically a population vacuum as well, since the war left almost everyone in the galaxy dead, I suppose. Here in Myrrdicato, there is far more resistance — not just from mortals, but from the hypernaturals that watch over them, as we can see in Azra’s case.”

“Pretty sure you’re drinkin’ her fizzwater if you’re describing a massacre as ‘resistance’.” Milor says, taking another swig from his flask. “Not that I’m on the Collective’s side or anything. Just sayin’. That’s a lot of words to try and justify genocide.”

“The context is important. Without it, you end up with a far different story, one that hides the history that led to this moment.” Raikaron warns calmly. “Do not let their current placidity fool you. If they could get away with it, they would board this ship without hesitation and assimilate everything. Especially since the Drift is an ecological arkship. Your biosphere, containing many rare and endangered species, is particularly tempting to them; it is a genetic treasure trove. They would not hesitate to assimilate it, and the rest of you, if they thought they could do so without repercussion.”

“And what, they’re avoiding doing that because you’re onboard?” Lysanne says, folding her arms.

“I present some level of deterrent to them, yes.” Raikaron says modestly, pulling out his pocketwatch and checking it. “But it is coupled with the fact that we immediately communicated with them upon our arrival in this system, and announced our intention. That, and the fact that this vessel has almost no combat capability, is why they are letting us pass without harassment. Speaking of which, we are due for our next call with them, now that we have arrived in orbit.”

“Channel is prepped; initiating comms request.” Dandy says, one of the panes of the forward window transitioning over to a screen. The screen itself remains black even after the request has been granted, similar to the way it was when we first arrived in the system. “Channel is active, one-way audio. They can hear us, but we cannot hear them if they are speaking.”

“I expected as much.” Raikaron says. “Greetings, Collective.”

Text immediately begins to scroll silently across the screen. [Greetings, Dandelion Drift.]

“As you are likely aware, we have now arrived in orbit over Tirsigal.” Raikaron continues.  “We will be dispatching a vessel to the surface to address the cause of the catastrophe that took place on this world. We would ask that you do not interfere with, or otherwise impede this vessel.”

There’s a brief pause before text starts scrolling across the screen again. [The surface of this world is currently not suitable for living creatures. Atmospheric conditions are likewise dangerous and present a substantial risk of crashing while attempting to land on the surface.]

“We are aware. We will be taking the appropriate measures to ensure that we can safely land and operate on the surface.” Raikaron replies.

[Unfortunately, we cannot allow this, as we have a duty of prevention where it regards the safety of guests in our territory.] There’s a pause in the text, as if to give us time to absorb that, before it continues. [For your own welfare, we cannot permit you to visit the surface of Tirsigal.]

“I see.” Raikaron says simply. It’s fairly apparent to everyone that they’re trying to stall and prevent us from going down there; the only reason why no one is pointing it out is because we all know they can hear us, even though we can’t hear them. “Is there a Harbinger present that I can speak with?”

[This is the will of the Collective.]

“I understand that. However, Harbinger will be privy to information that is not widely available to much of the Collective, which in turn may inform the decisions that are made here. Therefore, I would request an audience with Harbinger.” Raikaron insists firmly. “Otherwise, we will be forced to proceed with our mission regardless of whether or not we have your approval. I would hate for there to be an adverse encounter between our groups as a result of unnecessary obstruction.”

“Not exactly being subtle there, dead red.” Milor mutters, chewing on his toothpick.

“Oh, I’m aware.” Raikaron agrees blithely. “I figured I would take the opportunity to emulate your standard approach, and test its viability.”

Milor gives Raikaron the stink eye, but doesn’t say anything. On the screen, there’s no response from the Collective; the white cursor simple continues blinking on the black background, and its failure to move anywhere feels ominous. I’ve seen a lot of ship communications portrayed in popular media and fiction, but this is much different than those, like there’s a power imbalance. We can’t hear or see the people we’re supposedly talking to; can’t read their expressions or draw conclusions from their tone. All we have is that white text on a black screen, blunt and formless, speaking as though it was the voice of a faceless multitude.

And just when the tension on the bridge is beginning to crest, the cursor finally moves, although the relief is shortlived. The answer is short and simple, almost as ominous as the silence.

[Harbinger will speak with you.]

Nothing follows after that; no further text on the screen. We wait in silence, eyes fixed on the screen; though movement in my peripheral draws my attention, and I turn my head to see the hiveship we had passed earlier is beginning to draw even with us once more. Almost in that same moment, I feel a faint whispering at the back of my head; twisting, winding, imperceptible at first, then growing more discernible.

O lost children, hear me. For I am Harbinger, the voice of the Collective.

I wince, twisting my head away, and around the bridge, I can see the others are similarly discomforted, shaking their heads or squinting their eyes. Dandy and Raikaron appear to be the only ones that are unaffected by the voice, which is unlike anything I’ve ever heard before. There is a single voice at the forefront, but thousands of other voices in the background, all echoing the same words a quarter-second behind — just enough to sound unified, but delayed enough that you can tell the main speaker apart from those that echo.

“Mmm, no sir, I do not like that.” Milor grunts, grinding his toothpick between his teeth. “Wish they would’ve stuck to the keyboard.”

Whoever Harbinger is, they must be able to hear through the channel that’s been established, because Milor’s remark gets a response. Be not afraid, for I have answered your call for audience.

The eyes of those on the bridge go to Raikaron, clearly expecting him to answer since he was the one that requested this. After a moment, he looks to me; and in that single look, that bright green gaze, I know what’s about to happen. I know there’s no way for me to warn the others of what’s about to happen; no way for me to explain what they’re about to see. All I can do is take a few steps backwards, raising a hand to push Jazel back as well as Raikaron takes his glasses off, folding them up as the light on the bridge starts to dim. The shadows coalesce around him as his outline starts to twist and bulge, deforming and beginning to grow into his demon manifest.

“Whoa, hold up — what’s going on?” Lysanne demands, reaching for the bracelet on his wrist. “Jayta? What is he doing?”

“Stay calm. Just keep to the edges of the bridge.” I say as Dandy quickly rises from the captain’s chair and backs away from Raikaron as his eldritch form starts to come into definition. The wolven outline takes shape, though it remains hunched and looming, since it cannot rise to its full height — the ceiling of the bridge is too low.

“Holy son of a nun, what the hell is that thing!” Milor yelps, falling out of his chair and scrambling to get away.

“That’s him.” I say quietly. “What he really looks like.”

Raikaron begins shifting his limbs to accommodate his surroundings; where the bridge had once seems spacious, it now seems cramped and confined, barely large enough to fit the massive demon now filling it. Even so, the black arms lining his chest maw unfold, and I can hear that familiar, terrible voice issue forth — Raikaron’s voice, but dropped down half a dozen octaves and run between two slabs of rough granite grinding past each other. A voice that easily travels farther than the room we’re in, rippling out into the space that separates the Drift from the Collective hiveship.

Hear me, Harbinger. For I am Raikaron Syntaritov, the Blackthorn Demon, the Lord of Regret. I am the one that demanded an audience with Harbinger.

The contrast between Harbinger and Raikaron all too easily sets them apart; where Harbinger is a soft voice amid a chorus of whispers, Raikaron is an ancient, primeval force speaking from the depths of dreams. We know you, Blackthorn, and the Collective has granted you audience. What would you say to us?

You are Harbinger. You know my commission. Raikaron’s sinewy forearms settle in front of him, around one of the consoles, almost as if was folding his arms before himself. Stand your forces aside, and no more obstruct the will of the Gathering. These mortals will do what must be done, and swiftly depart afterwards.

Your course does not serve justice, lord of hell. The voice of the Harbinger is everywhere and nowhere at once, seeming to come from all directions. You know it is but a facade. Follow this path to its end, and you will seal your complicity in this genocide.

Through the holes in the white mask covering his wolven head, two of Raikaron’s eyes remain fixed on the hiveship passing alongside the Drift. I do not appreciate your assumption that this crisis was an act of arbitrary malice, when we both know very well that it was not. I have had this conversation more times than I care to count over the last two months; I will say to you what I have said to others: this is the harvest the Collective has sown for itself. I do not approve the act, but I do not deny the reason for its occurrence. Your actions are not without consequence; your many transgressions are not forgotten. If you would no longer reap the suffering of your people, then you will stop sowing the seeds of your misery. But we both know you will not, because the Collective knows that this is the price for the pursuit of its grand dream of unification.

The price need not be paid if one will look beyond the immediate discomfort to the greater joy that lies beyond. Though we may assimilate, we eschew death where it is possible. No matter our ambitions, we would not see so many lives needlessly wasted, even in the depths of grief. With it comes a sensation of guilt, and it takes me a second to realize that it’s a psychic suggestion being pushed by the Collective, rather than my own feelings. You know that if you persist in this course, justice will be frustrated.

There is no justice to be had here. There was no justice in your conquest of Tirsigal; there was no justice in Azra’s destruction of it. There is only the continual cycle of ambition and vengeance, consuming itself in a perpetual circle, and I am here to put an end to this particular branch of it. Raikaron’s thick, clawed digits open and close, almost like a cat trying to knead a pillow as he concludes. Therefore answer me. Will the Collective stand in the way of the Gathering’s ruling?

We will stand aside, for there are no lives to be saved by standing in your way. Harbinger replies. The Collective will remember your part in this, Blackthorn.

I wanted no part in this. But your actions a thousand years prior created this crisis, and my duties in the present day have called me to answer it. Raikaron answers. I take no pleasure from any of this. I have no desire to lecture you because I know the Collective will not change; and in time, this tragedy will happen again, whether in a thousand years or ten thousand, because you cannot restrain your hunger. You push people to desperation, and they will do desperate things. It does not make those things right, but neither can you absolve yourself of your part in creating the impetus for this crisis.

You would blame us for this tragedy we have suffered at the hands of another? It almost seems like Harbinger is prodding Raikaron, trying to get him to talk himself into a compromising position.

I would, and more. You do not get to play the victim here. My sympathy for your loss has its limits, because I know the history that has led up to it. Raikaron’s shoulders shift and square slightly, though even that small movement has the dead foliage on his back scraping against the ceiling. But I am not here to litigate blame. That is for the courts of the Gathering; I have been tasked with seeing this matter to its conclusion, and am expected to do so with all due expedience. I trust you will leave this vessel unmolested while the mortals embark to the surface to complete their assigned task.

If this is the will of the Gathering, then they may go in peace. Harbinger’s voice is starting to fade, but we can still hear her parting admonition. But we will be watching.

Harbinger’s presence fully retreats with that, leaving the bridge silent; Raikaron’s form darkens and begins to liquefy, starting to compress back into his human vessel. It’s only another few seconds before the last tendrils of darkness are slithering back into the folds in his whitecollar shirt, and he makes a point of straightening his tie and checking his buttoned cuffs as he apologizes. “I am sorry that you all had to see that. I try to avoid burdening others with my fully manifested form, but this occasion demanded a certain approach.”

For a moment it looks like Lysanne’s about to say something, but then she shakes her head, waving her hands. “Whatever. If it’s enough to warn off the Collective, I’m just gonna roll with it at this point.” she says, giving me a look that says that’s what you’re sleeping with? “I’m going to get something to drink. I need it after what I just saw.”

“Yeah, ditto on that.” Milor grunts, getting up to follow Lysanne to the door. “Next time, give us some warning before you hulk out, dead red. I know you told us you were a demon, but goddamn, I was expecting horns and a tail, not whatever the hell that was.”

“I, uh, I-I- I think I’ll come with you two!” Ozzy says hastily, scrambling to get after them.  “A stiff d-drink sounds like just the thing to have right now…”

“A paragon of courage, that one.” Raikaron remarks drily once Ozzy has departed the bridge. With that, he turns his attention to Dandy. “Ms. Dandelion, I believe we will deploy to the surface tomorrow. That should give you sufficient time to make the necessary preparations in terms of getting us into position for deployment to the surface, and will give the Drifters sufficient time to rest and prepare before the confrontation.”

“It will be enough.” Dandy concurs. “I will see to it that the necessary arrangements are made.”

“Good.” Raikaron says, finally turning his attention to Jazel and myself. “You didn’t recoil as much as I thought you might, Mr. Jaskolka.”

I look to Jazel, who shrugs. “Supernatural creatures don’t always look the way we expect them too. It would’ve been nice to get a picture, now that I think about it. It would’ve made for a good research paper on the difference between how demons are portrayed in media, and what they actually look like when expressing their true forms.”

Raikaron raises an eyebrow. “I can see why you ended up mated to a morphox. Though I suppose that remark makes less sense now that you are a morphox… perhaps it would be better to say: I understand now why you became a Preserver.” He looks to me next. “You and I should start making our own preparations for the confrontation tomorrow.”

I nod, walking over to him while glancing back at Jazel. “See you at dinner?”

“Yeah. I’m going to go check in with Sång and see if she has any last lessons for me before tomorrow.” he says. “See you tonight, Jay.”

“You too, Jazel.” I say as Raikaron and I take our leave of the bridge, heading back to our quarters and our last hours of peace before we come face to face with Azra again.

Event Log: Jayta Jaskolka

Dandelion Drift: Hangar

3/17/12765 7:58am SGT

Standing in front of the environmental shield that holds in the atmosphere of the hangar, I stare through the transparent blue film at the bruised black clouds of Tirsigal below.

I’d seen the pictures of what it looked like before this; a green sphere, with occasional swathes of blue, the perfect picture of a habitable world. More mountain ranges than you’d normally expect, but otherwise, it was the kind of world that usually ended up holding a population that ran into the double-digit billions. A world that other nations would’ve been happy to have, if it didn’t already belong to the Collective.

But now it’s just a roiling ball of black and dark grey. The surface cannot be seen beneath the thick layer of volcanic ash that clots the stratosphere; ripples of lightning illuminate the clouds from beneath, driven by the friction of all the ash ejected into the sky. Whatever paradise it might’ve been in the past, it’s been lost now.

“Sång says that she knows that we’re coming.” Looking to the side, I see Jazel arriving beside me, dressed in the traditional witch cloak of our coven. He has the hood down; I assume that he can no longer wear it comfortably, now that he’s got fox ears.

“Azra knows?” I ask, looking for clarification even though I’m fairly certain I knew what he meant.

“Yeah.” he answers. “She’ll be waiting for us down there.”

“Raikaron says we have someone on the inside that will help us. And he will ensure that no one else interferes while we’re fighting Azra.” I say, looking back down to the black world below us. “He said she wouldn’t make it easy, though.”

“I wouldn’t expect her to.” Jazel says, turning one of his hands and tapping it until the pentafractal grimoire glows to life on his palm. “She won’t just roll over and give up. We’ll have to fight for every inch.”

“Do you have all the spells you think you’ll need?” I ask as he flicks through the spell circles in the depths of his grimoire.

“I prepared a lot of them. Raikaron said I may use some of them, but that there’s only one spell I’ll truly need.” he says, closing up his grimoire after a a moment. “I have it here, ready for the chance when I can use it. If Azra knows about it, she’ll be able to guard against it, so I have to keep it close to my chest until the moment arrives. What about you? Are you prepared?”

I lift my hands, checking the manacle marks around my wrists, and the bracelets that have the shotgun and spaceball bat charms dangling from them. “Ready as I can be, I think. Unless Raikaron’s going to give me more chainlinks or something else to use, I have everything that I’ve got available to me. And I know he’ll be there, watching over me as well.”

“That must be comforting, with how powerful he is.” Jazel says, letting his hand drop back into his cloak again. “I know the others don’t like him because he’s a demon Lord, but it must be nice to have someone with so much influence and power on your side. I still wonder what he did to get CURSE off our case — they haven’t said anything since he went and talked with him, and they’ve let us have everything we need.”

“Yeah. It’s nice, sometimes.” I say, tucking my hands in my pockets. “It has some downsides, but it is what it is. Like Mom used to tell us — everything nice comes with a price.”

“Yeah.” he says softly, his hand coming up to touch the red triangle markings on his face. “Everything has a price.”

Even though I don’t know what he went through during the ritual, it’s obvious that it still weighs on him from time to time. “Do you ever… struggle with it? The piece of her that got fused into you?”

He lowers his hand, studying the thin red lines running over the back of it. “No. Not really. I confronted her during the ritual, answered her challenge and held my own. I haven’t discussed it with anyone else because I think it’ll come across weird, but… she’s a part of me now, like one of my past lives. My past lives, they’re… they are me and not me at the same time. I used to be those people, even though those people aren’t who I am right now. And since Azra’s one of them now, it’s… I am Azra. I was Azra. She was one of the people I’ve been.”

My brow furrows at that. “But she wasn’t; that was just something that was added to you, remember?”

“It was, but… how do I explain this… it’s like… it’s not the way they show it in movies and fiction where it’s like two people in one body.” he says, clearly searching for a way to get his point across. “It’s like… well, I know what it’s not like. It’s not like oil and water, where they separate out no matter how much you try to mix them. It’s more like… mixing a drop of red dye into a glass of blue water. No matter what you do, you can’t unmix it, or extract the red dye. It’s part of the water in the glass now. This shard of Azra, it isn’t oil; it’s a drop of red dye. It’s a part of me now, a piece of who I am, of my identity. There are thoughts I have sometimes; feelings and ideas that are things that Azra would have come up with. But they are my thoughts and feelings. They don’t feel like they belong to someone else; they feel natural. That’s what helped me realize that I am partially Azra now. Still mostly Jazel; still mostly a blue glass of water, but with that drop of red changing the color ever so slightly.”

Part of me wants to tell him that he’s wrong, that it isn’t right. That he isn’t some diluted, hybridized version of Azra; that he’s my brother. But when he looks at me, it’s not the ears or the tails that tell me he’s right; it’s the eyes. Those eyes that I’ve avoided looking at directly, those eyes that have made me so unsettled whenever I look at him. Jazel’s eyes have always been a muted moss-green; an uncommon eye color, but still modest.

But ever since the ritual, and looking at them now, they’re that hot, bright shade of green that I saw the first time Azra fixed her gaze on me in the Maelstrom.

Sighing, I step over and wrap my arms around him in a hug. “Even if you’re partially Azra, you’ll always be my brother.” I say. I hated to say it; I hated to concede it; but as always, Raikaron was right. People change as they grow and evolve, and Jazel was growing and evolving, in ways I didn’t really understand and wasn’t sure I liked. It was still him, but if I was looking for the person he was when we were teenagers, I wasn’t going to recognize the person he’s become. “Just don’t make her mistakes. Take her soul if you have to, but leave her sins behind.”

He hesitantly puts his arms around me, returning the hug. “Yeah… of course. There isn’t enough Azra in me to do the things she’s done.”

“Just enough to head down there and give her a taste of her own medicine.” I say, giving him a last squeeze before letting him go so I can start towards the skipper that the others are loading into. All the preparation that can be done has been done; the only thing left to do is to put it all into motion and see if it’s enough. “C’mon. Let’s go kick her ass and get your mate back. I’d like to finally meet my sister-in-law.”