Mahala was nine years old when Sister Zvie passed away. Four days later, the priest frantically dragged her away from her chores and to the chapel. It was empty save for a single man in a long cloak, observing the statue of Nothos - also donned in a similar long cloak. The man turned, and the moment she saw the porcelain mask, she knew who he was.
She dropped to her knees and her forehead hit the ground.
“Leave us, Father,” said the Lord Protector Chares Pesh.
She heard the priest scurry off. In the face of the Father of the Protectorate, a father of the shrine was little. Mahala was even smaller. She trembled, her mind unable to conjure what such a man would want from her.
Cellophane crinkled above her.
“It’s nice to meet you, child,” he said. His voice sounded hollow through his mask. “This is for you.”
She glanced up slightly. He held out a wrapped sweet with a gloved hand. Her hands shook as she tried to figure out what to do.
“Ah, sorry. Perhaps children don’t like these nowadays. I’m afraid I’m a little behind on the trends,” he said. With how the mask stripped his voice of any feeling, she couldn’t tell if he tried to be fatherly or sarcastic.
Mahala’s forehead hit the ground again and she held up her cupped hands. “N-No, milord. I’m grateful. Thank you.”
She jolted when the Lord Protector gently took her wrist.
“There is no need to bow,” he said.
Is he annoyed at me now?
She let the Lord Protector bring her up to her feet, the sweet pressed into her clammy palms. His clothes always looked so plain in the pictures but up close, she noticed his shirt was a pearly silk, ordained with embroidered silver leaves.
“May I see your face, child?”
He couldn’t be annoyed if he’s talking nicely, right? No one other than the Sister spoke like that to her.
Mahala hesitantly glanced up, hands wringing the front of her dress. She stared at the porcelain mask with the frozen half-smile.
“Well, aren’t you a pretty one.”
“Thank you, milord,” she mumbled. Her sister was prettier.
“I am sorry about what happened to Sister Zvie. She was an exceptional woman.”
“Y-You knew the Sister, milord?”
“Yes, she tended the shrine in my hometown when I was a lad. She was good to me, and I never forgot that.”
In a move she didn’t expect, the Lord Protector bent at the knee, coming at eye-level with Mahala. She stumbled back in alarm but he caught her wrist, preventing her from fleeing.
“Once I became the Lord Protector, I told the Sister that I intended to return the favour. Yet she never called for me, not until she became sick,” he said. “She wrote to me about a child of Dusk under her care.”
Mahala’s blood went cold. Of course he knew.
“I... I- I do all I can to not become Dusk, I don’t wish to become evil…” she spluttered.
The Lord Protector raised his hand and Mahala instantly fell silent. “I am here because she asked if I would take care of that child of Dusk after she was gone,” he said.
Mahala was almost certain she misheard him. “I-I-I…”
“All Pomolish orphans are my children, but my only family was the Sister. She wished I would make you my daughter, if you are willing,” said the Lord Protector.
A jolt raced through her body, sending her heart aflutter. Her eyes stung with tears but she swallowed down her hope.
“...but I’m Dusk’s daughter.” Mahala bowed her head. “I-I can’t be anything else…”
He took Mahala’s chin and raised it back up. “I care little what the old gods desire. At death, every soul is deserving of Nothos’ mercy. Reject the fate set out by the fourth god, and become something our fifth god can be proud of, Mahala.”
He said my name.
It was the name that Sister Zvie gave her, yet no one but her used. Did it always sound so beautiful?
“If you wish to do so in service to God-Nothos, I will make that happen. You will be warm and fed in a shrine where no one will know your past,” he said. His hand reached to his mask. At first, Mahala thought it was for a simple adjustment, but her heart stopped as he started pulling it down. “Or, you can become Mahala Pesh, and be of service to our country. What will you decide, child?”
Mahala was nine years old when she became the Lord Protector’s daughter.
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
Mahala awoke to darkness, clutching her chest. The fire still burned.
Oh gods, I’m back in the—
The door opened, and a beam of light bathed her. Luck emerged at the entrance, a bundle of clothes in his arms. “My lady?”
Her head snapped to the side, the wyrm squirming up her throat. She couldn’t speak. All the foul things she’d cursed him with in the cave came rushing back at once.
The light flicked on. He dropped the clothes onto a nearby chair and rushed to her side. “My lady, you’ve finally awoken.” He reached out for her, but she yanked herself back, eyes still fixed on him.
He stepped back as if he’d been burned. “My lady, you’re safe now. No one will hurt you here,” Luck pleaded.
At that, Mahala shook violently. Her wyrm thrashed against her heart, reminding her of what he did, fury dancing on the tip of her tongue. Yet still, she couldn’t speak, forcing her arm out to point a single finger towards him.
That seemed to jog his memory. Luck faltered, then fell to his knees — like when he’d stabbed her. But without the switchsword. His face scrunched up the same way though as last time, as if it pained him rather than her.
“I won’t hurt you. Never. I would have never—” Her imaginary Luck never apologised. Not when he’d stabbed her, not in the caves. So this Luck must be—
Mahala rocked in her bed, grasping her hair. “What’s happening? Where am I? Is this still real?”
Four walls with faded wallpaper surrounded her. The ceiling hung low, the furniture cheap and chipped and the lighting all bleak yellow. Under her covers, she was haphazardly robed in several clean sheets with nothing else underneath.
“We’ve left the Highlands. You’ve slept away a whole day.” His eyes stayed glued to the ground. “This is real.”
“Where’s my father?”
“Most likely still in the Capital.”
Mahala frowned. “Most likely? You don’t know?”
“I haven’t had contact with the others. Not since we left the Highlands.”
Her mind whirred as she tried to understand the series of events. We are not in the Capital. He’s not in communication with the homunculi. He’s…
“Did you desert?” she asked.
Luck fell silent.
She desperately searched his face for an answer. Was a homunculus even capable of desertion? Their very purpose was burned into their copied souls. They owned nothing but a soldier’s title.
“Why would you do that?” she pressed.
“Because you didn’t wish for anyone to see you,” he replied, head bowed.
A shrill laugh escaped Mahala. “So you did it for me?”
Her heart raced, and her hands shook. She couldn’t tell what she felt.
“I am your bodyguard, my lady.”
“My bodyguard?!”
The wyrm flooded her veins with fire, her tongue finally coming loose. Without thinking, she picked up her pillow and threw it at Luck.
“You stabbed me!” she shrieked.
The pillow bounced off his shoulder. “I did.”
She was even more furious that she had run out of things to throw at him. “You tricked me!”
“I did.”
“You froze!”
That finally made Luck flinch. “I- I…”
She yanked the sheets down to reveal the blood-red ripples of the wyrm. “Do you have any idea what I’ve been through? I felt a fucking parasite dig between my veins! Have you ever had your own body tear itself inside out?! Do you know what it’s like to be skinned alive?! I’ve been caged, beaten, stabbed, and had nails hammered into my body! A good man died because you weren’t there for me! I killed people!”
She glared at Luck and saw little Dusk’s body lying next to him. Bloody Hacksaw danced over him, his arms waving madly, narrowly missing Luck multiple times.
“The wyrm’s… ruining everything. My feelings, my body, my memories…” Her words were choked up into sobs. “Hacksaw said it’s not me, it’s the wyrm… I didn’t do anything, right?” She turned to the face of wolfsbane. “W-W-We need to get out of here… b-before the Yarths… before I do anything bad… I hate them! I hate them so much— all of them! They would deserve it. They would deserve to burn.”
Luck grasped Mahala by the shoulders. Hacksaw and Dusk disappeared.
“Lady Mahala, it’s all over now,” he said.
Mahala froze, the heat in her veins plunging into lukewarm exhaustion. She weakly hit his chest with trembling fists. “Why didn’t you come sooner?” she sobbed between hiccups. “Why did you leave me there in the dark? Why… why did you stab me…?”
He was silent, doing nothing to push her away. Her fury surged again, thinking that he was simply going to stay silent, and she gripped the front of his shirt and glared at him through tears and snot.
His face crumpled in pain. “I failed you. I’m sorry. Please, my Lady—”
Good.
“So you know then…” she hissed in an accusatory tone. “It’s all your fault!” He did not flinch. That pissed her off even more. This isn’t enough. “It’s because you’re a failed copy of Tibalt Kinderum! Unlucky, unlucky, fucking unlucky–!”
Luck let go of Mahala and all the satisfying warmth left with him. The wyrm returned to its slumber, leaving her cold in regret. He stood an arms length from the bed, his fists balled and shoulders tense. His expression had twisted and the chitin face plates trembled.
“...I’m sorry,” she whispered. She hid her face in her hands.
“No,” Luck replied in a strangled tone. “You’re right. I am a failed copy of the Magus of Time. I… I would’ve been scrapped if you didn’t choose me as your bodyguard. But you already knew this, didn’t you?”
It was Mahala’s turn to fall silent.
“Do you know why I am considered a failure?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“Would you like to know?”
Mahala didn’t respond. She heard Luck pick up the discarded pillow and placed it back on the bed.
“You may have been told that the hosts for homunculi are brave Pomolish soldiers. The first few clutches were just that,” he said. “However, as conflicts brewed, demand increased and the Protectorate started running out of money. We had to pay these soldiers’ family stipends for their sacrifice, you see. So to reduce costs, they took less… experienced men. Lone wolves with no families or loved ones that relied on them.”
Mahala’s stomach turned. “Ordinary men were chosen to don the image of Tibalt Kinderum?”
“Once they are turned, they will forget their mundane pasts, just like the earlier clutches. They are reborn as soldiers who will only remember their training and responsibility. However, I… something went wrong with my turning.
“I retained my memories of my old self. And that me… was no soldier, I’m afraid. I may have all of the magus’ magic, but none of his valour. My soul is… dull.”
The way he said it inflicted a new wave of guilt in her.
“Th-There’s nothing wrong with ‘ordinary,’” she said quickly. “Pomolin is all about creating equality in all men. We are all ordinary in some aspects, and special in others.”
“There is nothing ordinary about you, my lady.”
She mustered the courage to look at him. His eyes were tired.
“You froze, because you weren’t meant to be a soldier,” she said, the revelation settling in. “Who were you, before you became Luck Kinderum?”
Homunculi were notoriously hard to read; half their face was masked in a dark bronze shell, and their eyes were pitch black. Mahala had interacted with them for years, but she struggled to read other people, let alone such composed soldiers.
Luck however easily showed irritation whenever referred to as Unlucky, and more recently, she had discovered his face would crumple up when hurt, his eyes smiled easily. This new expression had the chitin plates twitching as his mandibles fidgeted underneath them.
“Nobody,” he settled on.
Mahala wasn’t sure if he was telling the truth.
“I am sorry, my lady. I hid my shortcomings from you and failed as your bodyguard. You are right. I allowed you to be infected, and afterwards… I tried to kill you,” he said thickly. “So please… give me one more chance to serve you, to make it up to you.”
His voice might have cracked. He swallowed hard, pushing it down.
“...even if it’s only a little,” he said quieter. “Even if I can’t even do that on my own.”
“What do you mean?” Mahala asked.
Luck grimaced, still unable to meet her gaze. “The Sleeping Magus of Prayer’s apprentice… She helped us escape the homunculi. By my skills alone, there was only a slim chance I could have outrun my brothers.”
Mahala recalled seeing Piaf Samawyn among her many hallucinations.
“Why would she help us?” she asked.
“I don’t know.” His voice weakened.
Sweat beaded Mahala’s temple. She couldn’t think straight with her thoughts boiling into a fever again. Too many things were happening all together.
“Why were the soldiers after me? Did Father tell you to kill me again?” she finally asked.
“The first time you turned, the Lord Protector was afraid of you landing in the middle of the Capital in your new state. He commanded the homunculi to stop you.” Luck’s tone was too matter-of-fact for her to gauge anything.
She swallowed back her dry mouth. “Then what about now? You say he wants me home. As in dead, or alive?”
“The Lord Protector wishes you to be returned alive if possible. We had prepared containment measures to hold you; some chains and a private, secure space.” It sounded like he was reciting the operational brief.
“And then what?” She feared moving, as if the effort would break out a flood of sweat.
“He did not say, my lady.”
The climax collapsed in itself. Her vision went dizzy from momentary heat-stroke.
Of course he didn’t.
Mahala furiously wiped her face with the back of her arms. They came back dryer than she expected.
She wanted to be happy that her father wanted her back at all, let alone alive. Tears stung her eyes and her heart grew so heavy she worried it’d drop to her stomach. Yet the ghostly touch of the chains, the muzzle, the nails prickled at her skin.
She stole a glance at Luck. It must have ached to stay in the deep bowed position, but Luck remained stock still. His anxiety was still betrayed by the sweat on his brow, and how tightly he clenched his fists
He can still be lying.
She didn’t have to stay with him. She could leave.
And do what?
A part of her still wished she could kill lying Nanny Pond and Nevermind Yarth with her own hands. The heat-wave of hate passed and left her cold. Or maybe that was her exposed chest, she realised, hugging the sheets to her collar. She really had lost her sense of propriety while in Pelebris.
“I want clothes,” she announced.
Luck stood up, deliberately slow. He retrieved the clothes from the chair and placed them on the foot of the bed. “I’ll be outside.”
Once Mahala was alone in the room, she inched closer to the pile; plain frocks, an even plainer coat, shoes, and even stockings and a set of undergarments. They felt cheap in her hands, like out of a department store.
“Chemise, corset, brassiere…” She held up the undergarments to her chest to gauge their fit.
Her eyes flitted to the closed door. She assumed Luck picked up the items himself. It never occurred to her he would know details of women’s lingerie. Her cheeks grew hot and she quickly threw everything on.
She threw a glance at the mirror, feeling a little more like herself, more-so than she did at Hacksaw’s clinic. It was the armour she needed to be the Lady, for the finale to what she was going to do with Luck.
She marched out of the room with her heart rapping at the wyrm.
“Luck?” she called out.
Her once trusted bodyguard waited in the open lounge, facing the window. He returned to one knee in a low bow. “Yes?”
She stopped short in front of him, her back straight, her hands tight at her sides.
“You really will do anything I ask?” she asked with forced confidence.
“Yes, my lady.”
“Even if it means disobeying my father?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Even if it’ll get you court-martialed?”
“Yes, my lady.”
Now to test his words. “What if I want to leave Pomolin? To a place where no one will know me?”
Luck paused only for a second. “Then I suggest Kalkoku. Neither Pomolin nor Shir can touch you there. I can take you to a port city and arrange for you to be on a ship.”
“And what will you do after?”
Even homunculi of Tibalt Kinderum were slaves to the boundaries set by leylines, preventing them from leaving their currently assigned domain of Pomolin.
“If you have no further orders when you leave, I shall return to the homunculi,” he replied.
It could all be for self-serving pity. Or just complete bullshit. It could be— Mahala stopped herself before she got carried away. She hated how spiteful she’d become.
What was true was that Luck hadn’t delivered her to her father. She could do little to escape a homunculus, and she feared taking control of her wyrm again. The infected Lady of Pomolin had little to lose.
What’s one last chance to the bodyguard that stabbed me?
Mahala cleared her throat. “Then, Luck… this is an order: escort me to a ship heading for Kalkoku.”
His head bowed even lower, nearly touching the ground. His strong shoulders shook ever so slightly.
“Yes, my lady.”
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