Shackles and Shards: Shattered - Chapter 10

This is a draft chapter. It has not been properly proofread and typos may still exist. Contents may change between now and final publication. This is currently being made available for free as a thank you for helping the PRIDE: Brighter than the Stars Bundle on Itchio meet its goals. A new chapter unlocks with every $500 milestone.

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The metal is always warm. Not warm in an uncomfortable way, but the collar around her neck is never cold, even when she is outside; it generates its own heat. The aclaere Oksana had infused it with must always be at work. It’s even warm when in the sanctuary of her meadow.

“Can you help me remove it?” She plops down next to Zephyr, exhausted after a day of reassuring parents their children were not dead.

Reassuring for the parents. But she knew that their fate was worth than death; death is peaceful, tranquil and protected in Dana’s embrace. What these children were enduring was worse. And yet the parents were relieved, for they could not imagine such harm even existing.

I’ve already tried, Zephyr says.

She bites her lip and leans back against him, running her hands over his scales and then through his soft feathers. It has already been decided that most of the governmental and religious institutions in the region will be closed tomorrow as the slow-moving blizzard settles in over the Novakov valley; no one can say how long it will linger before moving eastward over the Makarov strait.

It had taken several days for Kiut Tshu to recover from Volkov’s aclaerical attack, and Sresca has been to scared to leave her rooms or the Temple, fearful that she will run into the monster that had her leashed, even though she knows he should be back in Krylla by now.

The only safe place is the meadow with Zephyr.

“Teach me something,” she says. “I need to find a way out of this. Teach me more about obscura.”

Zephyr lays his head down, his tongue flicking out at her. You can only use obscura when there are shadows around to wield and echoes enough in your talisman. It is a very limited form of aclaerical use. But that does not mean it is not powerful.

She remembers again the night he introduced her to obscura, to the power that can turn shadows into weapons. She remembers what she was taught about the echoes, the source of the power. Limited, but dark and deadly.

You can shroud yourself in shadows to hide, this you already know. But you can manipulate the shadows to move or impede objects. And… He pauses, lifting his head again and regarding her, his tongue slow as it flicks out. You can also touch the shadows of others, and from that you can do many other things.

“Touch other people's shadows? And do what?”

Many things. I will teach them all to you in time, but much of what you can do with this tactic is far too advanced and requires a lot of echoes. For now, I will teach you to inhabit your own shadow and extend it without moving your body.

She crinkles her nose, not sure what he even means.

She’s thrown backwards in her own mind, once again a rider in the carriage, no longer holding the reins. She feels the shift as Zephyr drags her from her body and deposits her in her shadow. Without eyes, without ears, just a mass of darkness at her own feet. And yet, she can still sense her surroundings, she can somehow still see. She looks back up at her own body, eyes lifeless, but still steadily breathing.

Seeing herself, her empty eyes and motionless body, terrifies her and she tries to scream. But her mouth does not move, and she has no other means of releasing her fear, verbally or otherwise.

Relax, Zephyr tells her. You are safe. It is just you and I here. No one can harm you.

She has no means of calming herself down, though. She cannot steady her breathing, she cannot inhale for several seconds, hold it, and then exhale just as slowly. She cannot run her fingers along something soft or silky, she cannot breathe in the scent of lavender, she cannot do any of the small activities that Zephyr has taught her in order to steady herself.

She is floating in a void of nothing, existing in the emptiness of shadow. There is no chill, no heat, no breeze. True, she can never feel those things when she is in the meadow or cave with Zephyr. But this is somehow different, somehow even more disorienting.

It might be disorienting now, but I promise you will get used to it. And when you do, I can teach you powerful skills.

She tries to settle her consciousness into the form of the shadow, inhabiting it like a body. She tries to nod her head in assent, feeling the shadow neck move and the loose strands of shadow hair brush against a shadow cheek. And as she does, the body above her does the same.

She moves a shadow hand, raising it up and the body matches the movement of her incorporeal form.

You can do so much more than this. A lot more, but we cannot rush this.

A gentle tug pulls at her mind and then a wave of cold and static jolts her back into her body. She gasps for air like she is emerging from the cold lake on the temple grounds after another acolyte pushed her in off the rickety dock. Her hand flies to her chest as she looks back down at her shadow, now following her body instead of the other way around.

“If I move in my shadow… Can I walk? Will my body walk, too?” She has so many questions that she does not know which to ask first.

If you want it to. I will teach you how to use your shadow to puppet your body and how to detach your shadow from your body so that you can move about. But, all of this is contingent on you having a shadow. There is danger if you choose to leave your body behind.

“What danger?” She keeps glancing between the shadow at her feet and her body; she has taken physical form again but the only sensation she can feel is the warmth of the crystal at her neck. It’s warm enough that she can guess that she used up much of the echoes she had collected.

If light enough approaches that the shadow disappears, you will be trapped outside of your body until shadows form again. But the longer you are out of your body, the more difficult it will be to enter it again.

She swallows; she can guess what he will say next. “And if too much time passes?”

It may be impossible to enter again. Your body will waste away and you will become an echo yourself.

“Is that… Is that what happened to you? Is that why you are trapped here in the meadow? Is that why you cannot join me elsewhere?”

This meadow is a place that only exist in your mind, Sresca. You made them. For now, my spirit lives here, but you made it.

“Did I make you, too, then?”

No. But I can answer no more questions about this today.

The dream she’d had months ago flashes in her eyes and suddenly she is imagining herself riding on Zephyr’s back and setting fire to the estate before flying away from Novakov and returning to the temple. Freedom. Zephyr could be her freedom. Her hand touches the metal collar at her throat.

No, my love. I cannot do that. Not now. I wish I could. But you can free yourself. And once you do, then we can work on freeing me. But I am in no rush; I am content with you. Focus on freeing yourself.

“How?” She falls to her knees and grabs fistfuls of violets in her hands, pulling them up from the ground and tossing them at Zephyr. “I’m trapped here.” Impossible images flash behind her closed eyes. A dark night in front of a large palace, a cold evening wandering the streets, a chilly morning waking up in a dilapidated hovel—memories that aren’t hers, can’t be hers, won’t be hers.

She has over thirty winters, but she feels like she only has seven. She feels small, vulnerable, and out of control.

Breathe, he tells her. Slowly. In through your nose. Slowly. Hold it. The year is 3046. It’s the month of Feodovsk and you are in Novakov. Can you name five things you can see right now?

She wipes her nose with the back of her hand like a child, not trusting Zephyr to be truthful but listening anyway. “I see your scales and feathers, I see the violets on the ground. I see the wisteria trees in the distance. I see…” She draws a blank, looking around her meadow—a place that apparently only exists in her mind—and wonders what else she should be seeing. Shouldn’t there be more?

It’s fine, you are well and safe. No one can hurt you here. Do you see anything else?

“Should I?”

If you want to. You created this place, you can change it. You are in control here.

---

His voice still echoes in her head and Sresca tries to drown it out, but it won’t stop reverberating across her mind. She wanders the grounds, collecting echoes as she goes, deliberately avoiding anywhere close to the cabin that marks the secret entrance to Oksana’s underground school. She is just as much a prisoner now as the “students” learning the aclaerical arts underground. Maybe even moreso, she thinks, hand instinctively reaching for the smooth metal band around her neck.

“You will be our princess,” Volkov had told her after she finished her duties at the temple that morning, rising from the pews after every other petitioner had left, pulling back the hood of his cloak and revealing himself. The sun is high; it is nearly spring but while that means less snow, it doesn’t mean no snow. Long days, short nights. Light snow. But far more likely for blizzards to bring hard-frost with them. She did not bring her ice skates, so she hope she does not come across any of that hard and slippery snow while she tries to calm her nerves.

She doesn’t want to be a princess—especially as Dana has revoked her blessing on monarchs. But any time she thinks being a princess, living in a palace in Krylla, her mind becomes a flurry of thoughts and impossible memories—vivid but impossible memories. She fled Krylla with her sister before the revolutionaries brought down many of the ducal manors in their Night of Falling Towers, and well before they brought their Storm to the royal palace. She never really got a chance to experience life under the monarchy, nor truly with the Republic; she’s been safe in marble walls behind loom mountains. But Dana supports the republic; She blessed the new government. But She had also blessed the monarchy before they lost Her favor.

But something, somehow, feels far too familiar whenever Volkov has trots her out like a prized mare before nobles who survived the revolution. Familiar in the way that tugs on recollection. He seems familiar. Petra seems familiar. She somehow knows the stories Volkov is telling the other scions of the Great Houses before he finishes them.

“You will be our princess,” he had said to her. “And we will be taking a trip soon to Krylla for you to be reintroduced to more of the nobility.” The band around her throat burned beneath her purple robes as he whispered his threats. “But to prepare you, we will be taking a trip to the theatre next week to see how your lessons in manners and comportment are coming along. Now, be a good girl and study while I am away. I am leaving for Khotov for a week, and I expect you to be ready when I get back.” He had then patted her head like she was a child and left.

The snow is too hard for her to grab a fistful and pack it into a ball. She wants to throw something; she needs to hurl something and watch it explode. But all she can do is gather echoes as she walks. She cannot even wrap herself in shadows for the sun is too bright and the snow too reflective for there to be anything but weak spots of shade.

You should go inside, there’s something out here. Or someone. I am not sure. Rarely has Zephyr been anything but a wellspring of calm and tranquility in the maelstrom of her mind. She shivers despite not feeling the cold at all. She is bundled in her silks and wools, the oil on her leather boots still fresh enough to keep her feet dry. But the fear she can feel intruding from Zephyr sends her back in the direction of the estate.

She hopes that Volkov has already departed for the capital region and she will not run into him when she heads inside. The lands traditionally governed by his family, the Khotov region, have historically held the capital within their borders. As such, his family had long been nearly as powerful as the monarchs themselves. No wonder he is so eager to claw back what power he can.

The doors swing open before she can reach out to grab the handles and a dozen government officials pour out, all ones she recognizes as working for Volkov. She slinks into the shadows and lets them pass, doing her best to make herself as inconspicuous as possible with her obscura. A few paces behind his staff, Volkov exits, and to her relief, he does not see her. She stands frozen at the entrance to the estate, certain that he will turn around any second and spot her. But he keeps walking until a carriage greets him and his staff.

The sun has set and the carriage has long since departed when she feels safe enough to leave her shadows and enter the estate.

A haunting and melancholic melody greets her and her eyes dart immediately to the piano at the center of the grand entrance. Petra, now the lone person in the entranceway, is perched at the piano, alternating between striking the keys and scribbling in a notebook on hir lap.

Sresca stares, transfixed, her hand reaching up to the band around her neck again. Petra sets down the notebook again and cracks hir fingers before again placing them on the keys. The music starts again, dark and brooding; notes of anger, regret, and sorrow. Hir voice rises over the piano. No words, just held notes and glissandos.

The tempo picks up, and Petra throws hir whole body into it, hir shoulders heaving with emotion, hir feet tapping at the pedals with frenzy. A body that is a weapon, a body that is an instrument. A perfect body that had, for a brief moment, melded with Sresca’s not that long ago. She studies it; the muscles, the joints, the energy buzzing around hir with each movement. She wants to touch Petra, to reach past all the complications between them and just touch hir.

The melody repeats, Petra easing off again, hir voice fading away as sorrow laces itself back into the song and the anger dissipates. One final note rings out, echoing through the marble halls.

Sresca approaches slowly, not wanting to break the spell but needing to be closer to Petra. It doesn’t matter anymore that Petra had dragged her back here, or that Petra held the other end of her aclaerical leash. It does not matter if Petra is her jailer: her body ached and only Petra could provide the salve.

“You could have at least clapped,” Petra says, not turning around.

“It was too beautiful to be followed by clapping,” Sresca says, coming to a halt next to the piano. “Who is the composer?”

“Me,” Petra says with a chuckle. “I’ve been working on it for a few months. Ever since I brought you back here.”

“Is it…” She’s afraid to ask. But some part of her is squealing like a lovesick adolescent, wondering if the song is for her, even if it is full of anger and sorrow.

“It’s my villain song,” Petra says, cutting her off.

“A villain song? What does that mean?”

Petra stares at her, hir hands falling to hir lap, eyebrow raised. Sie shakes hir head, opening hir mouth as if to say something before closing it again. Just as Sresca is about to say something—anything to break the silence—Petra slouches, sighs, and says, “Ah. You never studied opera?”

Sresca shakes her head.

“The villain of the story often gets their own solo. A song about their evil plan, why they want it, and how much better things will be once they’ve destroyed the hero and obtained their goal. It’s often at a higher tempo than the heroes ‘I want’ song, and usually in a minor key. It often has more percussion, is written in a lower register, and pieces of it are often incorporated into the final number when the hero and the villain battle each other.”

“You’re surprisingly well-versed in this,” Sresca says, trying to recall what she knows of Petra’s history. Hir father, Pyotr Hohenov, had been a member of the Great Houses and the Order of the Silver Fox. Petra was not his only child, but sie was the only one to survive to adulthood. Pyotr Hohenov had been not just a great tactician, but a skilled strategist. But all of his talents had been turned against the monarchy when he allied himself the revolutionaries. Certainly, he had trained his child in the martial arts. But where had Petra learned music? Sie was teaching it to you… Sie tried to teach you shortly before the Storm. Sresca closes her mind off from the voice, tries to close the door and lock away the memories she shouldn’t have.

“A secret passion. I love wielding a sword, swinging an axe, throwing my fists… I grew up wanting to be a Champion—the knight dedicated solely to Princess Kyra, to be her protector, her savior, her most loyal companion.”

“Like out of a story,” Sresca says, her voice taking on a faraway cadence, like another self coming forward, a younger self. But…

Don’t worry about it, Zephyr chides.

“Yes, like a story. But what knight does not know of other courtly arts? On the days when…” Sie shakes hir head, grimacing. “There were days I sometimes, for one reason or another, could not train. On those days, I studied literature, art, music, even flower arrangement. But opera is what I loved the most. The marriage of story with music; what words cannot express, music can convey.”

Sresca does not bother to get permission, she takes a seat next to Petra, placing her fingers on the keys. “You could never be a villain. Not to me,” she says, tapping at the keys at random.

Petra’s hand snakes across Sresca’s shoulder and comes to a rest at the back of her neck, hir thumb slipping under the collar. “And yet I have not saved the princess—not the real Kyra, and not even the false Kyra. I have not protected either. The princess is my prisoner; I have her leashed and collared. I am a villain.”

Oh, but that is just as romantic, a stray through flits across Sresca’s mind. The villain falling for the princess and reforming their ways. Enemies becoming lovers. I like that.

---

“Are you awake?” Hir voice is soft, almost apologetic. But Sresca still groans and tries to drown out the rhythmic knocking at her door. Petra has been outside her chambers for several minutes, but each time Sresca opens her eyes and peeks towards the window, she can’t help but note that it’s still dark outside. She hopes that Petra will eventually give up and go away.

“I know it’s still early, but Volkov-lir wants you to train with Oksana-salor. She’s waiting for you.”

A jolt shoots down her back and she feels a tug at the base of her neck. The band warms from slightly uncomfortable to nearly burning in just a few seconds and Sresca rolls her eyes. Not only is she leashed, but apparently Petra can tug on it at any time and from any distance. “Give me a moment,” she calls. She splashes her face with water and slips on a robe, pulling off her slippers and sliding her feet into her boots. She grabs her coat from a hook and pulls it tightly around her body. She moves as quickly as she can in the dark—something she perfected long ago at the temple—not wanting to find out if the collar can do anything worse if she dallies.

She stumbles out of her rooms, Petra leaning against the wall, arms crossed. Sie raises an eyebrow and looks Sresca up and down. “You’re going like that?”

Sresca rolls her eyes again and closes the doors to her rooms, locking the doors and tucking the key back into her pocket. “I did not know I had time enough to choose a more fashionable outfit.”

“What do you mean?”

Sresca points to the metal ring around her neck. “You made it burn me.”

Petra’s jaw drops and hir face falls. “I didn’t even know that could be done. I swear, I did not…”

Sresca holds up a hand and shakes her head. “Let’s just get going.”

“You know, I still don’t know what to believe.” Petra grabs her wrist and pulls her closer, peering into her eyes with too much intensity. “The way you just moved your hands, the way you shook your head… If you’re an imposter, you are quite good at it. Impossibly good. But if you are her, I can’t figure out why you are lying to me. Volkov, I can understand. But me?”

Sresca takes a step back, not sure what to expect—anger or sorrow—trying to twist her wrist free. “I don’t…”

“At the piano… The real Kyra would have known that, I was teaching her just before… So was that an act? Or are you just a good liar? But I can see her. I can see her in your eyes right now.”

“I swear, I don’t—”

“No. Just listen. If you were her, you would remember what I told you. What I showed you. You would understand why I have to go along with Volkov.”

Sresca briefly considers unlocking that door, searching through the memories she wants to forget she has, rifling through them for understanding.

“And it is gone again.” Petra releases Sresca and shoves hir hands in the pocket of hir jacket and sighs. “Very well. Let’s go.”

The sun is bright and the snow is nearly solid. The trek over top of it, occasional thin patches breaking and causing them to stumble as their foot sinks through the hard snow unexpectedly. Petra opens hir mouth and attempts to start a conversation once or twice, but Sresca merely glares at hir and sie eventually gives up.

They arrive at the seemingly abandoned cabin and Petra unlocks the door, waving Sresca inside without a word. It does not seem as grim and forboding in the daytime as the sunlight slips in through the cracks of the boarded up windows. Songbirds can be heard even as the steps creek beneath her weight as she descends into the vast basement where the children are being kept captive.

She recoils as her nose fills with the acrid smell of burnt flesh and hair and her ears are bombarded with agonized wails and infuriated shouts.

“I don’t care! I'm done! Go back to your rooms!” Oksana gestures to the far end of the training room. “Tomorrow, I want you all to be better.” A wisp of smoke curls around her face and as the children file past her, she holds up the ends of her hair and sighs.

“One of them miss?” Petra asks.

“That is the story, but I think it was intentional.”

She can't hold the words back. She doesn't even know she wants to say them before they spill out of her, her words strangely clipped and her register lower; it barely sounds like her own voice. “Maybe training stolen children to be weapons comes with consequences. You can't blame them for hating you.”

Oksana frowns. “But using aclaere makes them special. They are going to be on top. They will be given special dispensation to use aclaere once the old laws are restored. They will rise above their station.”

“They are children,” Sresca says. She doesn't know why it matters to her so much. She doesn't like children. She has been relieved since the day the main healer at the Temple gave her the herbs to stop her courses. But she can't help but feel strangely protective of these children. She wants to do whatever she can to save them from this abuse, so they can just be children again.

Like I never got to be, a voice says in the back of her head. But then the thought is gone before she can even question where it came from, forgotten as quickly as it came.

“It doesn't matter. Once they are properly trained, no one will be able to hurt them. No one will be able to touch them. I’m helping them. Now, we must start. Offensive spells again today. I want you to try to summon fire again, and then instead of hurling it at the targets, I want you to ignite the targets themselves.”

Sresca looks to Petra, hoping to have some support. But takes a seat in a corner and picks up a book from a stack. Sresca imagines the fire in her palm, opening her eyes to see it dancing between her fingers.

“Now make the target on the other side of the arena ignite.”

She looks between her hand and the straw-stuffed target. Too far a distance to throw it. But she hasn’t any idea how to do it. Biting her lip, she wishes she could ignite Volkov. It would be an easy way to get our revenge, the old-new voice says.

“Ha! I knew I was right about you.” Oksana claps her on the back.

“What do you mean?”

“You did it!”

Sresca had not even noticed; for a moment, all she could see was Volkov set ablaze. But the target is engulfed in flames. “Oh.”

“You are gifted. I need to train with you more. You have so much potential! But you’ve only been trained in one of the aclaerical arts.”

“I… I don’t really know what you are talking about.” Holding back a cough, she tries to fan away the smoke curling toward them.

“I arrived at the Temple when I had just seven winters. I was there until I had seventeen. I left just before the Storm.” Oksana waves her hand and a book floats from a desk to her hands.

“You told me you left as an Acolyte of Silver.” Sresca wonders if Oksana is going to put out the flames or if she is expecting Sresca to somehow do so.

“That is not the point.” She flips through the book, turning the pages rapidly, scanning the contents. “You aren't in here.” She hands the book to Sresca, open to a page near the back.

It's a list of new initiates. The flames are rising, and without wondering if she even can, Sresca imagines the flames extinguishing, flickering out until all that is left are ashed.

“3022. That is the year I arrived. 3023 is when I left. What year did you arrive?”

“I arrived in 3018. I had three winters.” Without even trying, the image in her mind becomes reality. But she is exhausted. She should have insisted to Petra that they have breakfast before coming here.

“Are you sure? You are not on that list.” Oksana leans in, rising to her tip toes to peer at the book, thumb under her chin.

Sresca stares at the pages, but suddenly, she cannot remember how to read. Her name is on the list, it surely is. Right under Yelena's. It has to be. Just because her vision is blurry doesn’t mean she isn't on the list. “Maybe an oversight. It was the start of the succession crisis. There were a lot of orphans.”

“Maybe. But I don't remember you.”

“It's a large Temple. There are always at least a few hundred acolytes at any time, not to mention those who live in the priory.” She wants to go back to bed so badly. She is sure it is not even noon, but she feels like she has been running for hours.

“See. I thought that at first, too. But then Volkov-lon mentioned that you got into his office without him seeing you. I saw something like that only once.” She takes a step forward, reaching out to take a strand of Sresca's pale hair in her hand. “A Mercy.”

Sresca glances again at Petra, hoping sie will intervene. Her hand instinctively reaches for the amethyst as a voice inside her head tells her to deny it. “I don’t know what you mean. I am just a priestess.”

“A priestess from a commoner family that somehow has command over an aclaerical art that only a select few can use yet struggles to command fire or wind.”

“I am just a servant of Dana. I do not know anything about some rare aclaerical art. I promise, I am just a priestess.”

“And you're about to be Empress of Tsvetokrasa.”

“I don’t want it. Would you?”

“Empress? No. But before I entered the Temple, I had nothing. ” She takes the book back from Sresca and send it flying to the desk once again with just a jerk of her hand.“ I would do anything to just be left alone to study aclaere and never be on the bottom again.”

“Including abuse children. Well done.” The words come out before she can stop them, the old-new voice simmering in the back of her mind.

Oksana bites her lip but doesn't argue. “Next target. I want you to destroy it with wind. But I should not feel so much as a strand of my hair fly out of place. Precision is what you need.”

The flames had come easily; fire is useful in a nation of ice and snow. But wind?

You have done it before, Zephyr says as the image of a laundry room floats to the surface of her mind.

“You know, before the revolution, when aclaere was first starting to appear in the land, it first started appearing among the nobility. Well, maybe it was only noticed among the nobility and people made assumptions. Anyway, it was soon regulated. You needed a license and training to practice it.”

Too scared to even open her mouth, terrified that she will say something without meaning to. Again. She just keeps concentrating on wind—one strong enough to destroy a sack of straw.

With a sigh, Petra puts the book she has been reading back in the stack and strolls across the arena. On the other side, the whole wall is lined with bookshelves. Gulping down her anxiety, Sresca focuses on just the target, forcing Petra from her mind. If Petra is standing too close when the straw goes flying, it’s hir own fault.

“But they only gave that training and those licenses to nobles. And soon it was decided that aclaere was a gift to the nobility from the gods; another sign that they were blessed and their supremacy was divinely ordained.” She is speaking like a teacher, as if she is instructing Sresca, but there is a note of derision in her voice.

“But under the Republic,” Sresca says, holding up her palm, considering if creating a small storm in her palm might be a better idea to start with. “No one can use aclaere.”

“Because they are working under the same faulty logic. They believe magic makes us unequal. They believe it was only given to certain people, too.”

“You are saying it wasn't?” It isn’t working. Maybe if she can mix the heat of fire with the chilly air in the basement. Something tugs at her memory. A cold night, very cold. A fire held in the palm of a hand…

“No. It can be used by anyone. It’s like knitting or woodworking. Like signing or riding a horse.” Her words speed up, her voice rising. “Anyone can do it. You just have to practice. It’s a skill, not a gift. Maybe it comes easier to some, but with enough hard work, anyone can do it.”

“Then why are you allying with Volkov? You are not from nobility. If he succeeds, you won’t be able to practice either.”

A breeze blows Oksana’s curly red hair from her face. She raises an eyebrow and jerks her head in the direction of the target. “Volkov-lon has promised me he will change the system. He will allow anyone to use magic so long as they are in the military he is building. And look at these children. They were destitute. I know what the Republic wants people to believe that they've solved the issue of poverty. But it still exists. He’s taken these children out of squalor and is giving them useful skills. Skills they will be well paid for once the monarchy is restored.”

“But they didn’t choose this,” Sresca presses. “And their parents miss them.”

“They were all caught using aclaere. They were poor and trying to use aclaere to better their lives. Volkov saved them, he gave them the option to learn more or face the consequences for their actions.”

She wants to keep arguing. Oksana is just making excuses. Or maybe she has been fed lies by Volkov. Her story doesn’t line up with what she’s heard from the parents. Even if they were caught using aclaere, they might have been given a choice, but it was not a free choice. She wants to ask if the children knew how hard they would be punished, how dangerous it would be to learn to use aclaere as if it were a weapon… If they knew they would be deemed ‘missing’ and their friends and families left to assume them dead.

Sresca has no idea what the consequences are for being caught using aclaere, but she can't imagine that it is worse than what is happening to the children now.

“Besides,” Oksana says softly. “Most of them are over thirteen. They are not children anymore. I started doing hard labor when I was just five, and it didn't hurt me none.”

Sresca tries one more time to summon some sort of wind before falling to her knees, struggling to catch her breath.

Easy, Zephyr tells her. You are using too much of your own aclaere.

“No,” she says. But the words are not her own; not one of her voices—but Zephyr’s, through her. “You just think it’s fine to push children to the brink of exhaustion and drain them of their life. There's absolutely nothing wrong with that.”

“What are you talking about? Drain them of their life?”

He’s chastising Oksana, but also Sresca, and she knows it, allowing him his moment of anger. “The aclaere! It has a cost! You are not letting them rest enough to replenish their reserves.”

“Seriously, what are you talking about? I never heard of that. Where did you hear that?”

Zephyr fades to the background, leaving Sresca to answer the uncomfortable questions. She knows she can't say that she heard it from the strange, winged-snake that lives in her head. She considers saying that it was taught at the Temple, but Oksana would know that as a lie. “I don’t recall…”

“Because it’s not true. Aclaere is limitless, it's infinite. Why would it have a cost? That is just an excuse. Unless you know some form of aclaerical use that I am unaware of.” She looks at Sresca meaningfully.

“I don’t…” She says again.

“Very well. Then get up. You are not leaving here until you have destroyed at least three targets.”

Sresca follows Oksana to the center of the arena and prepares herself to try again, stealing a glance in Petra's direction. The traitorous electrarch has hir nose in a book that looks ancient. The embossed title is still legible, however. “On the Transference of Consciousness Between Bodies.”

---

Ludmilla approached her. She thought through all the gossip she had heard over the last week, hoping it would be ‘good intel’ as Ludmilla called it. Good enough to earn her a little extra money this week. She never knew what Ludmilla would deem ’good intel’ but it didn’t matter to her. She got her money, Ludmilla got whatever it was she wanted. And everyone at the palace wanted something. Sure, she was grateful for Ludmilla getting her the job in the laundry rooms and taking her as her ward, but she still vaguely remembered her days on the street and the lessons learned there: trust no one. That was until Ludmilla. Nadia wanted to learn to trust someone.

But I remembered everything. I remembered father. I remembered what he did. I remembered Ogneshka. I still heard her crying every night.

But you? You remember nothing. You want to remember nothing. You are content with the story you tell yourself; content to just be nothing but an empty vessel other people can shove their wants into.

“Hello, Nadia. Are you well?” Ludmilla unties her kerchief and tucks it into her pocket, running a hand through her tangled hair.

Nadia shrugged, her feet swinging back and forth as she looked up at the night sky. The servants only got a small courtyard, but Nadia enjoyed it anyway. I didn’t understand it, though. We’d spent how long outside and she still wanted to sit in the cold? “Well as can be, I s’pose.”

“Good. Good. You’ve been a great informant for the last few years. And I wanted to know if maybe you were interested in… more.”

“How much more?” She raised an eyebrow, trying to guess how heavy Ludmilla’s pockets were.

“Come with me and you can find out.”

We had nothing to lose. Ludmilla had never done us wrong, she was more than just our legal guardian, she was our savior. It didn’t matter what she asked, we knew we would do it in the end. Nadia shrugged. “Fine. Does where we’re going have dinner, though?”

Ludmilla claps Nadia on the shoulder. “Of course. Come along, little sparrow.”

She led Nadia through the back alleys and streets—the places we used to beg, and sometimes do worse than beg—but she remained blissfully unaware, having fully embraced her identity as a palace servant years ago, deciding to toss the rest of us aside. Does she, perhaps, remind you of anyone? Someone else you know who wants nothing to do with us? Content to let us stew in our pain while you prance about?

Already, I could feel Ogneshka tensing. But I’ve never been able to comfort her. Nothing seems to calm her down once she becomes activated. But you don’t care. You go somewhere else when she starts screaming. You forget the times you do hear her screaming.

“In here.” The building was dilapidated, falling apart, and it vaguely reminded me of another abandoned building that we once tried to hide in. A terrible night Nadia would never remember, and so she would never understand. “Now, you said something to me the other night. I hope you meant what you said.”

Nadia couldn’t remember what conversation she and Ludmilla’d had that would cause the woman to lead her off the palace grounds and into some run-down shack, but I did. I had told her of some… troubles I had been having. I had said that the powerful had no business dictating the lives of others—there were no ‘good rulers,’ just less shitty ones. And we’d had a string of shitty ones. But Nadia doesn’t remember that. She doesn’t care about anything serious. “Of… of course. I mean everything I say.”

“Alright, little sparrow, just listen. Don’t say nothing until after. Just listen.”

I did not want to miss this. I fought through the haze and the fog—I swam through the thick substance between me and the world until I finally surfaced and pushed Nadia back into the miasma. “Of course,” I said.

We entered the building, and I was terrified it would collapse with each creaky step, and we would find ourselves buried in the basement. But eventually, she opened a hatch hidden under a rug and we descended. “What is this place?” I asked as she opened another door and we were suddenly in a cave system illuminated with what could only be aclaere, not the new thermolamps they had at the palace.

“I don’t know, truthfully. Maybe an ancient shelter from a bad blizzard, maybe some treasure storage from a forgotten king. Abandoned now, though. So, it’s ours.”

“Ours?”

“The Semejh Cervenrasa.”

“The what?”

“Just watch; listen. If you like what you hear, I will tell you more after.”

The caves opened up, and it didn’t feel like a cave system anymore. It felt almost like a city. The rock formations looked like buildings, and the tunnels were wide enough to accommodate multiple carriages. An entire city; all underground. I couldn’t believe no one else would know of it.

Ludmilla pulled me along, forcing me to stop my gawking. A smaller rock formation had an opening, and as we went into the crevice, it became a room larger than even the grand ball room. It was filled with people—more people than I had ever seen at once.

“This is my family. It could be yours, too. If you want it, little sparrow.”

I opened my mouth to reply, but she elbowed me in ribs.

“Talk after. Stay quiet, little sparrow. But pay attention to her. That taller woman with the shawl.” Ludmilla points to the center of the room where a tall lohyue is shaking the hands of any who come up to her, her smile large and welcoming.

That woman clapped her hands twice and everyone clapped twice back in response. People shuffled to sit on the floor, or lean against the wall, or perch on the ledges of boulders. I sat next to Ludmilla, and look up to see tiny balls of light floating above us. The ceiling of this cave looks to smooth—nearly flat, too even to be natural. Maybe this was once just a mere cave, but someone at some point took the time to make it more. A lot more.

“Tonight’s agenda has just one item—I received no other suggestions.” The tall woman leans on her cane, peering at the crowd over a pair of glasses. “Just as a reminder, if you have a topic that you would like discussed, please find a way to submit it at least a few days before our regular meeting.”

Some people shifted uncomfortably, but no one protested.

“Today we must discuss the healer’s guild.” She continues. “If we must do what needs done, there will be people injured. And many of our colleagues with medical conditions cannot survive if there is an interruption in their access to treatment or medications. We need to get them on our side before we make any further moves. Does anyone have objections or questions?”

A kattu on the far side of the room raised a hand. The woman nodded and the kattu cleared their throat. “For the last decade, the healer’s guild has closed their membership to only those of noble birth. They claim they only want aclaerical practitioners now, so how will we get them on our side? Only nobles can be aclaerics, therefore all of the healers are nobles.”

“That is the question,” the woman replied. “It is illegal for us commoners to be aclaerics; it is just one more monopoly the nobles seek to have. Yet, they still are allowed to treat us with aclaere. If you are not already, start accompanying any friends or family members to their appointments to the healers guild if they will allow you to. Learn the names of the healers at your local clinics. Do not tip your hand, but make note of any who you think might be sympathetic to our cause and report them.”

The woman paused, looking around again for others wishing to speak. When no one did, she continued. “The harvests are getting worse, the strange illness in Garcelon has crossed the border. We cannot fight a war if we cannot keep people alive—and I refuse to leave anyone behind. Our revolution will include everyone, or it will fail.”

A single person clapped at first, but soon the whole room was filled with cheers and shouts. Good thing we are far enough underground to not be heard…

“I will open the floor to other topics depending on what they are and if we have time enough to fully discuss them. Would anyone like to bring forth a topic?”

Someone else is called upon and asked, “If we win, what shall we do about aclaere? You speak of it as an instrument of the state wielded against the people in one breath, yet extol the value of it in keeping people alive with it.”

The woman deflated, shoulders drooping. “We do not have time to fully debate that and come to a consensus now. We are planning on having several meetings fully dedicated to that discussion. It is not a discussion I want to have without everyone able to contribute.”

A few more questions were asked, ones that I did not fully understand at the time; education—something I had never received—basic living income, housing accessibility, access to expensive procedures for those wishing to transform or modify their body to be in alignment—things far above my ken to solve. I just wanted to live and make people pay for what they did to Ogneshka, what they did to me. What they did to us. Anyone who hurts a child deserves to die.

“So, what do you think, little sparrow?” Ludmilla asked as she took my hand and lead me back to the surface.

“I don’t get it. Not really.”

“Come now. You’re smart. Think it through.”

Do what needs to be done. Get them on our side. If we win… Our revolution will include everyone… “What is a revolution? I have never heard that word before.”

“Do you know your history?”

“Not really. No one ever taught me anything.”

“I see. A revolution is when you change the types of government. And that is what we want to do.”

“You want to put another king in place? But the new king just took the throne a few years ago…”

“No. Not another king. No one should have that much power.”

“Then who?”

“We want the people to rule. All of us. No one is above anyone else.”

“And what will happen to all the powerful people now? The dukes and nizski and bezem lords?”

“Well, that will be up to them. They can surrender, or not.”

“And if they don’t?”

“Little sparrow, let’s not go there tonight.”

But I understood what she was saying. They would die. They would be killed. And they would deserve it. Every person who ever wields power abuses it, and they deserve what’s coming to them. I imagined our father in the gallows. I imagine the young Danalov boy, Anatoly, hanging by the neck. I imagined the Boy-King himself with a noose tightening against his throat. “I’m in. What do I need to do?”

You call me the old-new voice. But I fear you do not know precisely how old I am.

---

This is a draft chapter. It has not been properly proofread and typos may still exist. Contents may change between now and final publication. This is currently being made available for free as a thank you for helping the PRIDE: Brighter than the Stars Bundle on Itchio meet its goals. A new chapter unlocks with every $500 milestone.