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"Centuries - epochs, even - of endless, unvaried routine, and suddenly the Dark Prince of Revendreth found himself up to his ragged ears in mysteries." Read on Ao3 here.

"Elisewin, my dear."

Denathrius used a lazy, long-nailed finger to indicate the unusual servant should return to the disordered tray. She followed his gesture with blank eyes, staring at the upset of glass and porcelain as if recalling what they were and what she was to do with them, before stooping - she was taller than most Venthyr - and righting the overturned dishes. Unsteady lavender fingers fumbled the tea cup three times before succeeding in setting it properly back in its saucer.

Renathal stared.

"Is that... is she... a mortal? A living mortal?" he asked in wonder, though he knew already what the answer must be.

A heat emanated from the being as she bent across the table, a sensation the Dark Prince could not ever remember feeling… and yet… something about it was familiar. And inviting. Her long, loose hair swung about her face as she moved, brushing against his pinstriped knees. Renathal had to clench his fist against the arm of the chair to prevent his fingers running themselves through the blue-black strands.

"Yes, she is a living mortal," replied Denathrius, pronouncing the words with amusement. “An unprecedented occurrence, of course. Your shock is most understandable."

Denathrius, on the other hand, seemed entirely unperturbed by her presence. He caught Renathal’s eyes as they flicked between himself and the mortal mopping up the spilled wine, and smiled.

Had Denathrius seen living beings before? Renathal wondered. And when, if this one’s arrival truly was unprecedented? Why was she here? And how, with the anima drought in full sway and passage to Oribos frozen? Question after question raced through Renathal’s brain, and it chased after each without catching on any, distracted by the mortal’s awkward movements and tantalising heat.

She had finished tidying the tray and shot Denathrius an expressionless look, apparently waiting for his nod of approval, before returning to the task of preparing their drinks. Several moments of shaking purple fingers fumbling porcelain and rattling glass passed before Renathal managed to ask what he felt was the most pressing question.

"What is she doing in Revendreth?"

"Why, atoning for her sins, what else?”

Denathrius watched the mortal lift the decanter of wine in both hands and tip it carefully over his glass, before contininuing conversationally, “Elisewin is a special case. Her crimes are of a particularly heinous nature, enough to condemn her to Revendreth even before her mortal life has ended."

Renathal ripped his eyes away from the mortal to stare at his Master.

"Such a thing is possible?" he asked, not bothering to mask his astonishment. "How can the Arbiter judge a soul properly if its life has not yet ended?"

"It is a very exceptional circumstance,” agreed Denathrius obliquely. "Not to mention an interesting challenge, since our methods as they currently stand are not equipped to educate souls still bound by living, mortal bodies. Her atonement will be as singular and unprecedented as she.”

Wondering if his Master had purposefully avoided his question, Renathal tried again.

"But what sins could she possibly have committed to warrant such a sentence?"

The Dark Prince knew better than to judge by appearances - some of the foulest souls in Revendreth had possessed unassuming mortal forms. But in his eons among the worst of the damned, Renathal had developed an extensive mental compendium of the most grievous trespasses a being could commit. It was hard to imagine anything worse than the sins he had already seen.

He inspected the mortal again, this time with professional interest, and was surprised to find her staring back at him, lips tightly pursed.

"I am standing right here, you know,” she said, the cool reproach in her tone at odds with her radiating heat. She replaced the teapot with a rather excessive force. “Do you think I can’t hear you talking about me?”

"Of course you can,” cried Denathrius in apparent delight at her insolence. "A circumstance we can happily remedy. As you have finished,” he indicated the drinks with another lazy flick of his fingers, “you may make the appropriate obseisance and then… run along."

The mortal’s pale eyes met Denathrius’ glittering red ones. Renathal’s stomach lurched as he watched. While neither openly defiant or hostile, her face held none of the reverence to which Renathal knew the Sire was rightly accustomed. Her expression was wholly dispassionate, as if contemplating whether Denathrius and his command were worth her time. Renathal had never known any being to stare like that at the Master of Revendreth. At least, not for long.

But - almost as surprising as the mortal’s very presence - Denathrius endured this slight with a smile wide enough to reveal the tips of sharp, white teeth.

“As we practiced,” he encouraged, again motioning with his hand. “Unless you are already eager for further punishment?”

A slight wince, then the mortal dropped her eyes and executed a deep, if indifferent, bow.

“Very good!” he crowed, the words dripping with jovial condescension. Denathrius was clearly enjoying himself. “And to the Prince.”

Renathal’s heartbeat quickened superflously as the mortal turned her attention to him and repeated the sullen gesture. She lifted her head, meeting his eyes, and something in the brief connection made his stomach lurch again, this time more pleasantly. Before he could decide what this meant, however, the mortal had turned on her heel, long hair whipping behind her, and tripped rapidly for the hidden servants’ door.

"As you see,” said the Sire, leaning conspiratorially in towards Renathal, as if this little haughty display held the answer to his previous question, "this is a soul in desperate need of atonement.”

Renathal nodded dutifully, though he had never known disrespect alone to condemn a soul to Revendreth.

“But none of that will be your concern, Renathal,” continued Denathrius, reaching for his glass. “Our mortal guest’s education will be my purview, not yours. Your duty…”

He paused to swallow a mouthful of vaporous anima wine. Renathal mirrored the action with his own teacup, bringing it to his lips and trying not to appear too eager.

“…will be overseeing the investigation and subsequent quashing of this rebellion of which I continue to hear unpleasant rumours.”

Hot anima-infused tea stung Renathal’s throat and nose as he choked.

"Rebellion?" he repeated hoarsely, wondering if he could have somehow misheard. When Denathrius nodded gravely, he added, “Whose? Not a Harvester. I -” He paused, prodding his queasy memory before deciding, “I have heard nothing of the sort."

Denathrius tutted around a second, languid sip.

"Tsk, tsk, Renathal, now that is your purview.”

The rebuke was gentle, almost jocular, but Renathal set his teacup down anyway. He sat in determinedly thirsty absolution, berating himself for this major failing in his duty.

“My own sources have informed me of unrest brewing in the Halls of Atonement,” said Denathrius, apparently oblivious to Renathal’s self-flagellation. “No doubt caused by the drought, and not entirely unexpected, but…” he met Renathal’s eyes, “such things must be nipped in the bud, mustn’t they, lest my children be led astray?”

Renathal nodded again, this time in more vehement agreement.

Rumours of rebellion that he, the Harvester of Dominion, had not heard? That should be concerning. It was concerning. And Renathal did his utmost to pay close attention as his Master went on to detail what he knew, explain the tasks and powers he planned to bestow the Prince on his behalf.

But, even with his eyes fixed firmly on Denathrius, Renathal could not keep his mind from waging a rebellion of its own. It refused to focus on his Master’s instructions, wandering instead to the memory of the mortal; her clumsy movements, her insouciant demeanour, the palpable heat of her flesh. She was the thing that was different in the realm. The dissonant note in the symphony of Revendreth. And yet, somehow, the minutes spent in her warm, living presence had not made Renathal feel the least uneasy.

Silence rang expectantly through the high-ceilinged chamber. Seconds too late, Renathal realised his Master had fininished his instructions and dismissed him, presumably to begin his new assignment. He pushed hastily from the chair, folded his arms and hinged at the waist in the bow appropriate for their stations. Then he straightened and glanced nonchalantly around, as if hoping to catch a glimpse of lavender lurking in a shadowy corner.

But the mortal was gone. Denathrius’ private chamber was as still and shrouded as ever. Almost, too still, and… unusually silent. And with a start, Renathal understood what was missing from the room.

"Where is Remornia?"

The outspoken sword was never far from her Master’s side. Renathal was shocked it had taken him so long to notice her absence. Surely, Denathrius would take that as another mark against his merit, but for the first time since Renathal’s arrival, Denathrius’ smile seemed forced.

"She is … indisposed," he admitted, thumb stroking the rim of his ornate glass. "I am afraid her enchantment has been...” He uncrossed and recrossed his outstretched legs. “Damaged."

"How?" asked Renathal before he could think, curiousity getting the better of him; here was another remarkable occurrence the likes of which he had never heard in all his uncountable years. “Remornia’s enchantments are nothing short of extraordinary. To have damaged such a magic would require a power nearly equal to your own!”

Renathal waited eagerly for an explanation, but his Master’s well of volubility had apparently run dry.

"It is inconsequential," declared Denthrius flatly. "However, in the meantime, I have made arrangements to requisition your own Vorpalia. I will need to… borrow from her magic to restore Remornia's. It is temporary, I assure you," he said, watching Renathal’s claw-like nails gouge distraught holes in the back of the chair. "I expect to have Remornia herself again in a very brief space of time. And, surely, you will be so busy with your new responsiblities, you will hardly have time to practice your swordplay."

The Sire’s accompanying laughter was barbed; a challenge. It dared his Firstborn to argue. And Renathal, who had played these games his entire existence, joined in with a passable self-deprecating chuckle after only the merest pause. But the deepest and - he hoped - most hidden parts of himself roiled with continued curiousity and the stirring of a long-repressed sedition. His concern for Vorpalia had nothing to do with sword practice and everything to do with the loss of what he considered his most trustworthy friend. Renathal wondered if his Master knew this and, as he had on so many other occasions, purposefully taken it away.

But - “Of course,” Renathal conceded, regardless. “I do hope she will be of assistance.” After all, he had no other recourse. Denathrius had given him Vorpalia; created her for him. Which meant she, like everything else in Revendreth, belonged to the Sire, first and foremost.

“As always, you are most accommodating, Renathal,” offered Denathrius; but, for once, his Master’s praise did not inspire the usual surge of anima Renathal craved, and his return journey to Darkwall Tower was nearly as unsettled as his earlier frantic trek.

He arrived in his own front entryway in a most indecorous state; panting from the long, briskly-paced walk, hair frazzled from running his fingers distractedly through it. A clamour of dredger servants were at the door to meet him, inquiring after his absence, urging him to sit and rest. Cutting easily to the fore with the propriety only a butler could achieve was Breakfist, holding - Renathal almost moaned aloud - a steaming cup of tea. He accepted it at once with a heartfelt thanks, and sipped, letting the anima seep into his thirsty veins, while the other dredgers bustled about his knees, nudging him onward like gentle waves.

As he allowed them to buoy him into the nearby formal parlor, Renathal’s eyes fell on his grandfather clock, waiting patiently at the bottom of the stairs. It was just as he had left it hours previous; solid, well-crafted, decidedly off-center. And Renathal’s curiousity, infused with new life by the anima in his tea, wondered how the mortal’s arrival in the realm should cause his clock to shift several inches to the left.

Centuries - epochs, even - of endless, unvaried routine, and suddenly the Dark Prince of Revendreth was up to his ragged ears in mysteries. And with little time to spare for any over the next few days, busy as he was acclimating himself to his new and important duties.

Denathrius had lent him one of his own private secretaries who caught Renathal up on the anima conservation program, inspired by the drought, and where the Sire believed the rebellious discontent originated. It still disturbed Renathal to have heard not a whisper of this rebellion. Just as it disturbed and discomfited him to find the same aura of uneasy offness still permeating Darkwall Tower. He dealt with the former by conducting personal interviews with his vast network of informants and spies, and the latter by sending a small contingent of dredgers to the Night Market to survey Ta’Xera’s wares, on the grounds brand new furnishings should quell the nauseous disconnect he felt whenever he glanced around his home.

But the mystery that preyed most on Renathal’s mind was the one on which he had the least opportunity, or reason, to ruminate. The mortal, whose presence was somehow, apparently, the source of all his ills, and whose lavender heat he often fancied he could still feel when he closed his eyes. Renathal found himself indulging an excessive amount of time wondering about her: what her crimes might have been, what her subsequent atonements would be. He chalked this interest up to professional curiosity, and his decidedly less professional daydreams to her singular appearance. She was nothing Renathal had ever seen before, and interesting souls had always been his weakness.

Even preoccupied as he was with investigating the rumoured rebellion, Renathal felt an itch to glimpse the mortal again begin to nag. More than once, he considered inventing an excuse to visit the castle. But, as of yet, he had nothing to report to his Master, and no guarantee the mortal would be there if he did. She might be interred in one of any number of Revendreth’s crypts or cages, and Renathal was not currently at liberty to run around the realm on such a self-indulgent whim. Fortunately, however, there was one with whom he trusted such a delicate personal errand.

“She remains in Nathria, for the most part,” reported General Draven, safely ensconsed in the Prince’s private study a few days after his initial request. “Her current sentence appears to be an undefined position on the Master’s domestic staff. Her duties include those of a personal attendant and a chambermaid, from what I was able to witness. But she is also sent on the occasional errand.”

“What? Where?” asked Renathal, brows knitted together in perplexity.

“The Chalice and the Redelav Districts.”

“Alone?”

“Escorted by two Stoneborn.”

“To what purpose?”

“I could not ascertain,” admitted Draven, shifting his neatly folded wings. “She did not take anything with her or bring anything back when she returned.”

Renathal leaned back in his chair, contemplating this additional anomaly. It was typically centuries before even the most compliant soul was allowed to stray far from the Venthyr to whom they had been assigned. He stroked the hair on his chin absently, aware of the weight of the General’s flinty, yellow eyes. It was a mark of how comfortable Renathal felt around Draven he was willing to express such open bemusement, and a mark of how familiar the Stoneborn’s relationship was with his Prince that he could ask:

“Why do the mortal’s movements concern you?”

But there was a limit to their relationship, and what the Prince of Revendreth could safely confide.

His eyes flicked to Draven, then to the nearby wall of heavy, paned glass: the windows, which captured the Ember Ward’s horizon and whose presence had Renathal flummoxed. He could not remember having them installed. He could not remember ever desiring such a thing. Nor was there anyone he could ask. Admitting to this failing in his memory would be as dangerous as admitting the unwarranted interest he nursed in the realm’s newest inhabitant.

Even the minutest admission of failure could be used against him; and even the most trustworthy allies could be tricked or bought or swayed.

So Renathal cleared his throat and replied, “Information. My turn to host the Harvester’s Court is fast approaching. Questions will be asked. It would not do to appear less informed than others. And the Countess will certainly be making her own inquiries.”

The General’s nod was short and precise. Renathal knew his friend knew he was keeping something from him. Both were saved from the awkward silence that followed by a knock at the study door and, at Renathal’s hasty “Enter,” the appearance of Breakfist’s head poking around the side.

“Beggin’ your pardon, your Highness,” he said, the H carefully enunciated. “The ones as you sent to the Night Market ‘s returned. They say its dreadful urgent they see you h’at once.”

A glance at the General confirmed his report was complete.

“Show them in,” said Renathal.

Breakfist looked doubtful, but dutifully ducked his head and swung the door closed. Draven, too, bowed brusquely and stepped backwards, but Renathal’s raised finger stopped him before he could take his leave.

“One final thing,” he said, standing to address the Stoneborn. “I have not yet issued the formal invitations for my court, but… I hope I may extend one to yourself once I do? I know your regular duties are time consuming, not to speak of the little errands you are so good as to undertake for me, but… I would greatly value your presence, if you thought you might manage it.”

Apart from the Master’s own Nathrian fetes, the Harvester’s personal courts were the most exclusive affairs in Revendreth. The guest lists were short and selective, and included precious few Stoneborn or Dredgers. The General knew this, and Renathal watched his rough-hewn face register stony surprise. He hoped the gesture would go some way to repairing his earlier mistrustful slight.

“I would consider it an honor, my Prince,” he said formally, but his nod this time was deeper and, somehow, softer.

Renathal offered the Stoneborn a smile as Draven maneuvered his wings past the red-candled chandelier and out the study door. He stood patiently to the side as the furniture-finding expedition filed in past him, then closed the door behind him with a quiet snap.

“Darkest greetings,” Renathal addressed the troupe of Dredgers politely, allowing himself the smallest thrill of pleasant anticipation. “And what did Ta’Xera have to offer?”

Four pairs of dirty boots scuffed uncomfortably across the Tazavesh rug.

“She - she weren’t there, ya Tallness,” confessed one of the dredgers at last.

Disappointment twanged sharply in Renathal’s chest. He had been looking forward to stripping Darkwall down to the boards, cleansing it - and himself - of its persisent disquieting atmosphere. But it would not do to appear rankled in front of his clearly anxious servants.

“How unfortunate,” was all he said. “Did the other brokers inform you when she would return?”

Each set of muddy brown eyes avoided Renathal’s own.

“Begging ya pardon, ya Princeliness,” said another dredger, bravely, “but… there weren’t none there. Not a-one of ‘em.”

“Cleared shop, ev’ry last bandage,” chimed in the first dredger to speak. “The Night Market’s been abandoned.”

“Empty,” echoed another, assuming the Prince’s look of confusion stemmed from the three-syllable word.

It took a few seconds for Renathal to rearrange his face into something more appropriately inscrutable, before saying, “I see. Well, that is… highly unusual,”; then several minutes more to assure the dredgers he did not hold them personally responsible for their errand’s failure. Another full minute spent thanking them as graciously as his tumultuous mental state allowed, then, as soon as they had all trudged out again, visibly relieved, Renathal threw himself back into his chair.

He pressed two fingers to his temple. His head ached with the strain of trying to process so many incomprehensible things.

Was the drought become so bad even the brokers, whose ways between the realms were mysterious, had been forced to leave? Or had something more sinister happened? Ought he to go himself and investigate? The Night Market lay on the other side of the realm, a trip that would take some time without the use of anima magic as transport.

But - Renathal stood again, his mind made up in an instant - there was someone much closer who would surely have answers; and if not, should be immediately informed.

Pushing his chair in carelessly, Renathal crossed the study and threw open the door, striding for the stairs and calling servants to him on the way. Breakfist appeared almost instantly, accompanied by a newer dredger Renathal could not remember employing whose name was Eyegore. The latter, Renathal sent ahead to Castle Nathria to announce his arrival; Breakfist, he bid follow him to his rooms to help him don his armor.

Once finished, he spent a few extra minutes fixing his hair and arranging his medallion, steadfastly refusing to think about why he was taking such care with his appearance - or whether the mortal might be there when he arrived. Swinging his formal coat over his shoulders, Renathal took the stairs down again as fast as two feet could carry a being. It was inconvenient, this constant walking. But his days spent embroiled in the politics of anima allotments had confirmed for Renathal the necessity of conserving wherever possible. He had made a personal resolution to save his magic for only the most critical and unavoidable situations.

Which was why he stopped abruptly before stepping onto the Bridge of Paramountcy, and spent a full minute contemplating whether to wend himself through the shadows to the top of the castle when he spotted the figure standing at its edge.

Now accustomed to distrusting the impressions of his own senses, it took Renathal a moment to believe what his eyes insisted they saw. But there was no mistaking that colour. Her lavender skin seemed to glow against the realm’s more muted shades. It was the mortal, flitting across Denathrius’ private terrace in the opposite direction from Renathal, pausing at intervals to peer over railings, searching for something he could not see.

She was not his purview. And this hardly constituted a critical or unavoidable situation. But in seconds, she would round a sharp corner of the castle wall and be out of his sight. Before his better sense understood his intentions, Renathal had wrapped anima about himself and wended through the shadows to Nathria’s summit, and before the red mist had fully dissipated, he was whirling in every direction, searching for that lavender glow. It was gone. Veins still singing with the magic from which he had so long abstained, Renathal glided to the edge of the terrace where he had last glimpsed the mortal and, on a whim, peeked over the castle’s side.

At his feet stood the thin lip of iron and brick that served as a railing, and hundreds and hundreds of miles below waited the distant, shrouded ground. Between the two, hung a Revendreth standard, huge and heavy against the dark stone of the castle wall; and struggling down it, blue-black hair caught in the wind, was the mortal - a purple stain against the deep red banner. Renathal watched, open-mouthed, as she clawed her way to the end of the fabric, then... let go, dropping hard to the enormous stone buttress beneath.

Curiousity in full control and already committed to his indiscretion, Renathal summoned more anima and glided over the edge of the inadequate railing, landing smoothly on the buttress, boots clicking against the stone. Beside him, the mortal was still struggling to her feet, tripping on the mass of heavy, stiffly starched fabric of her outmoded Venthyr dress.

“There are many, much easier to navigate passages out of Nathria,” said Renathal by way of greeting. Her head shot up. “Unless the Sire has set you the task of scaling the castle walls?”

The mortal stared at him from her uncoordinated crouch. The surge of anima he had indulged in making him feel gracious, Renathal extended a hand, gripped hers where it clutched her skirts, and helped drag her to her feet.

“Of course,” he continued, “the usual exits would be guarded. And, assuming you were not supposed to be leaving the castle, you would be sent back and likely... admonished.”

The mortal said nothing, only continued to stare. There was nothing to be gleaned from her smooth, blank features. An odd warmth spreading up Renathal’s arm reminded him he was still gripping her ungloved hand. He dropped it. The hand fell limply against a flounce of her dress.

Around them, the wind howled its protest at their presence on such a precarious outcropping, but between the two figures an awkward silence stretched. Just before it reached the point of intolerable rudeness, the mortal wet her lips and announced:

“You look… familiar.”

Renathal raised an eyebrow.

“We were previously introduced.”

“I know,” she said, cocking her head. “You looked familiar then, too.”

It was hardly the proper way to greet a prince, even for one of an undecided station. Before Renathal could decide whether or not to address this, the mortal shuffled slowly around and fixed her impassive stare on the twilit horizon.

“What is this place?” she asked.

Renathal’s explanation was automatic.

“If you mean below us,” he said following her gaze, “we currently overlook the Menagerie of the Master. If you mean before us,” he indicated the perilously close expanse of swirling void, “that is the In-Between. The ether which exists between the realms."

But the mortal was shaking her head.

“No. I mean… this realm… Revendreth.” She waved her hands at the air around her, careful not to move her feet. “What… what is it? Where is it? And what am I doing here?”

Renathal had no ready response to this. He was not sure he understood.

“Surely, all of that was explained to you when you first arrived?”

The mortal tilted her head to stare at Renathal again. Her bland expression was beginning to irritate him.

“Did you not come through Pridefall Hamlet?” he asked, raising his voice over the fury of the wind.

She shook her head again.

“I woke up here.” She shuffled back around and took a cautious step in Renathal’s direction, laying her hand on the solid, stone wall. “In this castle. I… I don’t... know how I got there.”

Renathal frowned.

It was not unheard of for death to take a soul unawares. Often those who arrived in Revendreth could not remember their last moments in the mortal realm, or later recall clearly their first in the eternal. Only… this mortal had not died. Renathal could not account for her lapse in memory any more than he could for his own, and he found them equally unsettling.

“Did Denathrius - the Sire - did he offer no explanation for how you arrived here? Or why?”

“No,” she repeated. “He just says… I am here to atone. He won’t say for what or why or-or who decided such a thing.”

At last, the mortal’s voice betrayed a hint of unsteady emotion. She tugged irritably at her high starched collar. Improperly fastened, Renathal noticed, and compulsively touched his own.

“The Master will have his reasons for keeping these things from you," he said sagely. "Likely, it is part of your atonement. Unusual, perhaps, but, then again, you are an unusual case. I am sure everything you need to know will be revealed in the proper time.”

The mortal continued to fidget with her ill-fitting collar.

“How am I supposed to atone for crimes I cannot even remember?”

That was a very good question, and Renathal shifted in place uncomfortably. The first step in atonement was always to introduce a soul to their crimes, particularly those of which they were unaware or refused to acknowledge. To leave a penitent soul in the proverbial dark? He had never even heard of such a method. But he did his best to expunge his own doubt and arranged his face to appear stern and all-knowing.

“The Master knows your crimes,” he declared. “You may safely trust in him to explain them to you in time. His methods may be strict and unyielding, and yes, occasionally mysterious, but they are deeply just. Whatever his reasons for secrecy, rest assured they will be sound.”

The mortal seemed to find this explanation unsatisfactory. She dropped her hand from her throat, her shoulders sagged, her unaffected lavender mask appeared to crack around the edges. She no longer looked bland and disinterested. She looked lost. And Renathal disliked this even more than her former insouciance. Her obvious unhappiness conjured an unpleasant ache in his chest. He felt a sudden urge to comfort her; an instinct the Dark Prince was unaware he possessed. Perhaps, he reasoned, it was his own unbearable confusion that made him loath to leave the mortal trapped in hers.

Taking a tentative step closer, Renathal cast around for something encouraging to say.

“I imagine this is all… rather difficult to adjust to,” he tried, aware even as he spoke, he was well outside his wheelhouse. “But... whatever may be said in mortal worlds - or the other realms of the Shadowlands - Revendreth is not a place of endless, unprofitable suffering.”

He paused. The mortal was once more staring, white-blue eyes very clear and wide. It was not her lost, unhappy look, or her former impassivity. It was almost… rapt, and it did something strange and fiery to Renathal’s anima.

“Revendreth,” he continued, his confidence bolstered, “is a realm of new beginnings. You - "

And on a whim, Renathal reached for the mortal's collar and began unfastening the tiny buttons and clasps.

“You are here because of your sins. Not to suffer endlessly for them, but to overcome them." Now refastening the collar correctly, he continued in earnest, "Listen to the Sire and you will be redeemed in time. And Revendreth will open itself up to you. Become your new home. And not all terrible." Renathal's lips quirked. He thought he could feel the mortal's heartbeat fluttering under his hands. "There is much here that is pleasant. Much that can be... enjoyed.

"It will take time, of course, and considerable effort.” He slid his fingers from her collar to her chin and lifted it gently, meeting her wide, blue-white eyes. “But there is redemption, and a happy end for all who are willing to work for it.”

The mortal blinked. Then took a deep, shuddering breath that vibrated against Renathal's hand.

“Are you... the Harvester of Persuasion?” she asked hoarsely.

“Dominion,” he corrected, “but they are not dissimilar.”

The mortal blinked again. Then she smiled. Then she laughed. Heat blossomed in Renathal's chest, as visceral as the heat of the skin still held in his hand. He thought the mortal's voice was made for the sound, her face for the joyous expression. And to Renathal's great surprise he found himself chuckling along with her.

“Come,” he said, releasing her chin and offering her his hand. “Let me return you before you are found. Escape attempts are not the way to swift redemption.”

Still giggling quietly, the mortal placed her hand in his without hesitation, and, brimming with his own supreme good humour, Renathal pulled her to him. He could not fight a smirk as her laugh became a gasp when their bodies made sudden, if well-padded contact. Her heavy skirts brushed against his armored legs; the hand not trapped in his fell against his chest plate. And through it all, Renathal could still feel her radiating heat.

Tendrils of red mist wrapped themselves around both beings, obscuring Renathal's vision. He felt the mortal's hand tighten on his, and he gripped her waist in what he hoped she understood as reassurance. Then the magic was complete, the anima faded, and they were once again standing on Denathrius' high terrace. Renathal assumed. He had eyes only for the mortal now pressed as flush against him as their individual layers allowed. And she was staring at him just as intently, her mouth slightly slack. Her gaze dropped briefly to his lips, and the idea of kissing her appeared fully formed in Renathal's mind.

“There you are, my dear."

The voice came from just over the mortal's shoulder. She blinked and spun on her heel, tripping over her skirts, and Renathal dropped his arms abruptly and raised his face towards the all-too-familiar sound.

"And Renathal," added Denathrius with an unconvincing start of his own. "What a pleasant surprise! Was I expecting you?”

The words were ingenuous, but there was a hard quality to the Sire's red eyes. As casually as could be managed, Renathal stepped sideways, putting a safer distance between the mortal and himself.

“I did send a dredger ahead to notify you I was coming,” explained Renathal, racking his brain to remember why he was here in the first place. “I had… an inquiry.”

“Of our mortal friend?” asked Denathrius with a little laugh; the sound had a deadly undercurrent.

“No! No, certainly not,” he assured his Master, lips curling in more grimace than matching smile. “I was on my way to you when I met Elisewin.”

And, in spite of the danger, Renathal paused. It was the first time he had pronounced her name, yet it felt comfortable on his tongue. The texture and weight had a familiar, pleasant taste. There was a delight in saying the word out loud.

“Elisewin,” he repeated, then, at his Master’s raised eyebrow continued hastily, “was lost. In the castle. It can be quite the labyrinth, you must admit. I was helping her find a ... more familiar location.”

What was he doing? Renathal's better sense wondered frantically. The Sire could smell a lie from a thousand paces. But his instinct to protect the mortal - Elisewin - from Denathrius' anger was as inexplicable and irrepressible as his instinct to offer her comfort. The Master's smile was sharp and brittle, like an ill-made mirror, poised to shatter at the lightest touch, and Renathal, having endured many of Denathrius' more creative lessons, preferred to be the one who took the brunt of the glass.

So he stood resolutely, shutting his mouth around any further babbling, and waited for judgment to fall.

“Of course you were, Renathal,” was all Denathrius said, in the same sickly winsome tone. “Always so thoughtful, my Firstborn." He addressed this comment to the tensely waiting Elisewin. “And... as he has obviously succeeded in his intended task, you may return to yours. You are not here on holiday, after all.”

He laughed again. Renathal held his breath, but, new to the realm as she was, Elisewin seemed to appreciate the danger. She bowed without prompting, first to Denathrius, then to Renathal, meeting the latter’s eyes as she rose and adding, “Thank you. Your Highness.

Then she turned, gripping her heavy skirts and hurrying away. It was a study in Renathal's masterful self-control that he did not watch her go. He kept his eyes on Denathrius, whose head did turn to follow her hasty footsteps. His dark, sculpted eyebrows rose in unaffected and - Renathal had the distinct impression - not entirely welcome surprise.

“My, my,” he said, as soon as Elisewin had begun to descend the terrace stairs. “How very… compliant. You must have made a significant impression.”

The Master's voice was still saccharine, but there was no mistaking this comment for genuine praise. Renathal braced himself for the inevitable explosion. But Denathrius only touched a hand absently to his jewelled diadem, as if reminding himself it was there, before returning his gaze to Renathal and demanding, "Your... inquiry."

It took Renathal a moment to understand, and another to remember his question. Then the story of the Night Market was tumbling from his mouth unprepared, relief and confusion making his explanation as stuttering and circuitous as any dredger's. He was panting by the end of it, as if the words had cost him anima. He waited breathlessly for the Sire to show shock or interest, or even satisfaction at the opportunity to impart some important information.

Instead, Denathrius crossed his arms across his broad chest and regarded Renathal sternly.

“Yes. The Night Market is gone,” he said shortly. “As it has been for several cycles. Passage between the realms has been impossible for all beings, even brokers, since the early days of the drought. Really, Renathal, this is disappointing. As a Harvester, and my second in command in so many things, I expect you to be more observant.”

A dull pallor of shame crept across Renathal’s hooked nose and sunken cheekbones. His Master was right, of course. And, fearing further rebuke, Renathal could not bring himself to ask his second question. He could not even feel any self-righteous indignation as Denathrius continued to chastise him.

“Perhaps your time would be more prudently spent, Renathal, focusing on your own responsibilities rather than worrying about mine. You have my word -” Denathrius drew himself to his full, impressive height, head and shoulders over Renathal, “that I am still the Master of Revendreth. Nothing that occurs within my realm escapes my notice.”

The Sire cast a shadow over his Firstborn that was somehow darker than the rest of the twilit realm. Renathal swallowed. He understood the Master's implications. He murmured his assent and apologies, and let Denathrius' answer go unchallenged.

Even after the Sire had walked sedately away down the terrace, Renathal following - like Denathrius, eschewing any anima magic - he ignored the urge to call out the question worrying a hole in his mind. There would be some obvious answer, and his Master would be disappointed, possibly provoked into anger, Renathal had not spotted it. But as he made his slow way through the castle's many long hallways and winding staircases one step at a time, Renathal simply could not fathom how, if passage between the realms was truly impossible for all beings, Elisewin was supposed to have arrived.

Read Chapter 3: The Endmire | Visit the Masterpost

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