The coat was still warm when Mahala opened her eyes. She rubbed the sleep out of them and sat up straight.
“You could sleep a little longer,” said Tibalt Kinderum.
Mahala glanced out the window. The seat didn’t jostle like it was running through railway tracks anymore. The hum of the motorcar purred underneath as it rolled past the depressed suburb; grey streets bared teeth of bleak cramped together houses. They passed a rusted park swing missing one of its seats.
Staring long enough, she could make out her reflection; younger, perhaps 19-years-old, when her philanthropy began really picking up traction. Her hair stuck up a little on one side which she fretfully pushed down.
The coat, thick, heavy, and full of pockets, slid off her shoulders and onto her lap. “How does this thing weigh so much?” Mahala asked, struggling to even hold it up.
“Armour, padding, all the better to protect you,” Tibalt replied.
“I still think father is overreacting,” Mahala said. “Honestly, the Pale Magus himself escorting me to read to children?”
Tibalt shrugged easily and slid back to get more comfortable. “This town certainly isn’t up the Protectorate’s standards yet. They do not trust these people to host you appropriately.” The critical tone did not match how he lounged over his side of the seats like a cat.
“That’s a very polite way of putting it,” Mahala said. “I’m not stupid, sir. I know there’s danger everywhere. I just think sending the magus himself is excessive.”
Tibalt tipped his head. “You dislike my company that much?”
Mahala’s cheeks flooded crimson.
“N-No, that’s not what I meant at all!” she spluttered, waving her hands around wildly. “I... just felt bad taking up your time. I-It must’ve been quite dull having to follow me around compared to… well, matters that actually necessitate magic—”
“I’m only teasing, my lady,” Tibalt chuckled.
His coat started falling off Mahala’s lap with all her flailing. She scrambled to catch it, hiding her hot face behind the stiff material. It smelt like frozen air, as crisp as a winter morning. How peculiar.
“Y-You’ve some nerve,” Mahala said, far more meekly than she wanted to.
He chuckled, not sparing her a second. “I briefly caught your performance. I can see why the children like you so.” His voice tinged warm. Fatherly, Mahala could imagine, if the mask didn’t give Chares Pesh’s voice such a hollow echo.
Recognizing the losing battle, Mahala opted to look out the window instead. “Performance is a strong word for it. I’m just telling stories…” she demurred.
Sister Zvie did it better. She would read in a sweet, gentle tone that would tingle the back of Mahala’s ears. Whenever the Sister told stories, she could hear the painting of gods and heroes spanning in front of her as she drifted into a daydream. In that daydream, the other children were rapt, silent, not sparing Mahala a second glance for being Dusk. She got to be another child witnessing the feats of the pantheon. That magic was what she strove for endlessly with every story-book, even going as far to change the way she breathed to try to capture even a sliver of the Sister’s soft, soothing tone.
Tibalt hummed, drawing her from her memories. “You compose yourself in a certain way to captivate the children. It leaves you drained and tired. I don’t think you even enjoy doing it.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Was it magic that made her feel like he was looking straight through her, or just his endlessly pitch-black eyes? “You push yourself a lot, my lady. More than the Lord Protector would know or appreciate.”
Mahala stared at the magus. “You’re crossing the line, sir,” she tried to say firmly. “I’m not a child. Y-You don’t know me.”
“True.” He leaned his chitin faceplates against his hand. “The Lord Protector thought my appearance would scare you. He made sure to keep me out of sight for the longest time.”
“You never scared me,” Mahala said quickly.
“Perhaps you should be.”
She was about to retort but Tibalt’s face twitched. The next thing she knew, she was on her back. The windows shattered and the motorcar screeched to a stop.
Her head spun. Tibalt Kinderum crouched on top of her, flecks of glass snowing from his back.
“Wh-What…?” Mahala spluttered.
“Sniper fire. Stay down.” His voice was curt, but concerned. His hand by her head glowed as they connected to the nearest leyline. “I’m teleporting you home.”
She could hear the second car accompanying them stop to reinforce them. Gunfire drummed between breaths.
“Th-That’s so far away!” Mahala protested, clutching the front of his shirt.
Despite the rattling of bullets, he took a moment to smile at her. “You’ll be fine. It’s a safe spell, you’ll be with your father in one piece. I’ll deal with the rude host and follow after.”
Mahala’s grip tightened. Everything was happening too fast.
“I promise you will be safe, Lady Mahala. I will see within the hour,” he said with a wink. “The Magus of Time is never late.”
Light engulfed Mahala and all the air left her lungs. She blinked, once, twice, and she was lying on her back on a silk rug, Tibalt Kinderum’s coat still draped over her legs. The walls and fireplace all took the shape of her father’s home office. Cinnamon and roasted coffee wafted under her nose — her father had a weakness for sweet milk coffee. She scrambled to her feet and burst through the doors.
“Father!” she cried.
They should have opened up into the main corridor, giving one of the maids a heart attack as they cleaned the windows. But instead of an engraved wooden ribcage arched around stone walls, sterile white plasterboard surrounded her instead. The rich red rug gave way to vinyl flooring. The warm coffee scent of her father’s office evaporated into antiseptic.
Her eyes fell on a sign on the wall — Critical Care Dept.
“Father…?” she whispered.
The Lord Protector had his back to her, talking in sharp whispers with a team of doctors, backing them into the wall. Hacksaw was among them, the wolfsbane sprucing from his jaw glowing in a cool blue softly like a lantern, his arm idly conducting the conversation.
“You cannot remove it?” her father asked, his voice low and cold.
“My lord, this is magitech dated before the Laws of Magic, anything we do to tamper such a relic can risk harm to ourselves and could end the magus’ life,” explained one of the doctors, his forehead prickled with sweat.
“The Magus of Prayer has yet to provide a new apprentice as well…” another added meekly. “We cannot afford to lose Tibalt Kinderum yet.”
Hacksaw pointed to the end of the ward for Mahala.
Two guards were stationed there on either side of a wide door. She saw their mouths moving to say something to her, one of them had their hand up, trying to block her path. She ignored them and pushed past their arms, the door, and into Tibalt Kinderum’s hospital room.
He looked so small lying there; his body rigid, fingers twitching, and something crackling.
“What’s wrong with him?” Mahala whispered.
Hacksaw strode past her and leaned over the magus. His good hand rolled the giant man onto his side and gestured to his back.
A small seed was embedded along Tibalt’s spine, where green shoots had emerged.
Tibalt Kinderum’s body seized up and let out a terrifying howl. His face plates folded back, revealing writhing mouth parts that desperately reached for something to clutch onto.
“Old World magical technology created before the gods restricted magic to the six magi,” the Lord Protector said, joining her by the door. “They’re rare nowadays. Continental treaties now prevent the use of them in warfare but they still change hands with terror factions.” He placed a hand on her shoulder, close to the crook of her neck. “Desperate, godless men will use whatever in their arsenal to get me, including trying to hurt you.”
“This was meant for me?” Mahala asked weakly. “This… this is all my fault…”
She tried to shrink away but her father’s grip on her tightened.
“Don’t look away, Mahala,” he said firmly. “This is our reality. This is how our enemies are fighting. This is what they are willing to do.”
Mahala squirmed. “How could this happen? He has spacetime magic, n-nothing can catch him by surprise!”
“A man has limits. Multiple snipers all too far for his compass to detect. The gods were gracious that day, allowing you to leave unscathed,” her father explained. “One of the assailants threw a magitech grenade as a last resort. Two buildings sprayed with hundreds of magical shards. Kinderum was fast enough to only get hit with one.”
“Shards of what?”
The seed cracked and she could see the vines of the seed writhe under Tibalt’s skin, sending him into spasms. He shivered as if cold, but Mahala felt the heat rising.
“An old faerie tree. A long time ago, we ikka cut down these ancient forest beasts and remade them into weapons.” Her father’s grip tightened on her shoulder. “We carved charms out of the seeds, so when they’re mixed with blood it will sprout, taking blood as its new soil, taking over it, becoming a new faerie tree.” The mask made him sound unfeeling, but the tremor in his fingers told Mahala he was anything but.
Mahala’s legs weakened. She hugged her arms, missing the embrace of Tibalt’s coat. His coat was— wait.
Her gaze dropped, and Tibalt’s coat appeared in her hands, tight to her chest. A coat heavy with padding that could have repelled the shrapnel - all the better to protect her with. It slid out of her hands, cracking the floor like a dumbbell.
Her chest heaved, smoke thick in her lungs. “H-He’s becoming a tree? Is there nothing we can do to help?”
“Normally the way these grenades are used, a man is hit with hundreds of shards and the body is ripped apart as every inch of him is turned to fertiliser.” Her father removed his hand, returning it behind his back in an implacable stance. “They’d become an orchard in seconds. But with just one shard… it will slowly take root through his veins, feeding off the water in his body.” He exhaled sharply, then continued, “This is why the gods took magic from us and drew boundaries with leylines. We made this with magic.”
“Like someone made the wyrm plague?” a mermaid giggled.
Others joined her, all beautiful with long hair that ran rivers around them in cool shades of blue-greens, purples and silvers. Their skin glimmered with iridescent scales that grew larger and thicker like pearl flower petals arranged around their long tails. All ranged in age; some were just little girls, others middle-aged with prominent laugh lines and full bodies.
They swam around on the vinyl floor, circling Tibalt. Their webbed hands groped the sheets as they hauled themselves up his bed. As he convulsed, they started floating through the air, their tails undulating as they formed a triangle around him, stroking his hair and lightly petting him with every pained noise.
“Get away from him!” Mahala cried. She leaped forward.
Her eyes shot open as her arms wildly flailed through the air, swatting nothing. She let out a gasp and her head rolled around. She took in the cramped quarters of the train cabin, the coat laid over her, Tibalt— Luck asleep in the seat next to her.
She sat up properly, holding his coat to her chest.
Luck leaned against the window, hands resting on his knees. She noticed one of his hands was bare, the glove on the floor. Rough, blue-tinged, the skin of his knuckles had clearly healed over multiple times.
Everything then came flooding back to her — Piaf Samawyn attacking them, the mermaids, her in Luck’s arms, pressing the back of his hand to her wyrm atop her... her bare chest.
“Oh gods,” she said out loud, dropping his coat.
Luck jerked awake, immediately tense, his hand reaching for his switchsword. “My lady?”
Her hands went up to her face. “I am so sorry, I-I wasn’t thinking. It was so cold and the wyrm– i-it must’ve been the wyrm, why else would I be so debauched as to—” A fresh wave of heat flooded her face, Mahala yanking the coat back up to cover her chest. And her face.
Fortunately, Luck had been scanning outside. “It’s alright, my lady.” The words were warm with nostalgia. “I’m glad you’ve gotten your energy back.”
Between her fingers, she saw him pick up the glove and slipped it back on.
“I’m sorry that I didn’t have anything else adequate to warm you,” he said.
She dropped her head to her knees. “How much longer am I going to make a fool of myself?” she mumbled.
“My lady?” Luck didn’t seem to have heard her properly.
“Why was Piaf Samawyn after us?” she asked instead.
Luck coughed loudly, adjusting his collar as he composed himself. “She is after your wyrm, it’s unclear why. Her apprentice aided us again but left without any answers.” He sighed. “We must beware the Magus of Prayer.”
Nothing seems to be going right.
“So what now?” she asked, instead of addressing any of that.
“If your orders have not changed, then we are close to our destination.”
Mahala looked out the window. “Here?”
“Port Lavinia.”
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
The port city felt more like home compared to anything in the past week or so. It bustled with people, full of noise from rich and poor alike, sea-oil factories clouding the sky with their fumes. The train station sprawled into a hub of tracks and screaming locomotives. Parades of passengers passed in and out, all oblivious that the Lady of their country was among them.
“Attention, Port Lavinia citizens,” a loudspeaker droned. “Please be vigilant on the symptoms of the wyrm plague…” Mahala spotted several more in the distance. Like most large cities, the whole area was connected with public broadcasts, crying out regular warnings, weather alerts, and occasional notifications from the Theatre.
At the station exit, several hawkers were beckoning guests behind their stalls. Coffee, pastries, and skewers of meat and fried dumplings drew every empty stomach in the area. Those eyes that were hungry for customers had all landed on Mahala at some point, focused and attentive, but not enough to notice her face underneath a stolen hat.
She stepped out onto the street, lively and busy with pedestrians and motorcars. It was early morning and everyone was swept up into the work rush. She could taste the salt in the air; gulls were crying overhead, and the sea tide brought a sobering wind. A soft rumble of heavy cargo being pulled away from the docks broke through — from the size of the trucks, she guessed leviathan organs containing raw sea-oil.
“My lady,” Luck prompted.
He offered her a hand, but after how she had presented herself on the train, she decided it was better to maintain decorum. She straightened her spine, arms close to herself.
“I can walk on my own,” she insisted.
Luck’s hand folded away and he gave her a short bow. “This way, then.”
“Why Port Lavinia?” she asked. “I know you said you wanted to get far away from the Magus of Prayer, but surely there were closer ports?”
He directed her to a waiting tram. Next to the stop were two sets of posters. VOTE FOR YOUR NEW ALDERMAN: THOMAS ADALBERN displayed an older gentleman in a fine silk suit. VOTE FOR YOUR NEW ALDERMAN: DEV EFREM displayed a much younger man in comparison, with sharp eyes and slicked back hair. She could tell his suit was simply made of tweed.
City elections were in season — she recalled her months-long schedule of meeting the previous alderman in various functions. It all seemed so insignificant now, whether it’d be the lordly gentleman or the young man running a whole city. It would no longer be her business once she was in Kalkoku. Then again, it wasn’t meant to be the Lady of Pomolin’s business. Any lady’s business, really. Only men voted.
She climbed onto the tram after Luck but a rush of last minute passengers shoved her into his chest. He took her waist and pulled her to the wall, forming a barrier from the others with his broad back.
Too close. Too warm.
She squirmed against him, hands against his chest. His body was as comfortable as a wooden plank.
“You should stay still,” Luck said, his words strained.
“You still haven’t answered my question,” was her indignant response.
His half-mask twitched, and this close, she could see a vein on his neck stand out. “Without planning ahead, this was the best I could do. This is one of the main Kalkokuin trading ports. We should certainly be able to find you a ship last-minute to board. After… we supply you a new travel bag.”
“Oh, I guess we weren’t able to pick up when we left?” Mahala asked, eyeing the people crammed around them.
“My apologies, we were...” Ambushed by the Magus of Prayer, “In a hurry.”
“It’s fine… do you have any money left for that?” Everything was being paid out of Luck’s wallet so far.
“You have nothing to worry about.”
Mahala’s hands curled around the fabric of his coat. Her eyes closed as she took in the familiar but peculiar scent of frozen air. She guessed all the homunculi smelt like that, always flitting in between space.
“I-Is everything alright?” she heard him ask.
Her eyes opened and she found herself leaning against his chest. She reeled back, her head bouncing against the wall. Pain shot through her skull and she made a very unladylike noise.
Luck’s hand cradled the back of her head. “Careful.” She remembered the feeling of his bare hand, much rougher and larger than hers, warm and safe. He kept his hand there as a cushion from any further embarrassment.
“I really am leaving,” she whispered. She would never feel his hand again, the assurance of walking next to him with the knowledge that nothing could hurt her. Even her transformation into a forktongue didn’t chase away that feeling, her wyrm snugly curled against Luck’s chest.
“A new life,” Luck said tonelessly. “I believe you are fluent in Kalkokuin?”
“Seun, uerabre.”
She could feel how deeply he breathed, the tremors of every word reverberating through her bones. “You can be whoever you wish to be. A beautiful young lady such as yourself won’t find it difficult to start over.”
Mahala laughed weakly, and for one, indulgent, unladylike moment, leaned her head against him. “How wonderful…”
The child of Dusk she used to be wouldn’t have been able to wish for a better dream to come true. She should be grateful, but she could only think of all she was going to lose — her father, her dear Adelei, her home, her piano, her title…
No. It’s mine forever, as long as no one finds out I’m infected.
There would also be no Luck in Kalkoku. Even if she hired another bodyguard, it wouldn’t be the same.
She looked up at him. “You don’t have to go back to your brothers, you know. You can be whoever you want to be in Pomolin.” Knowing that his soul had been seared over with the Magus of Time’s, they were naught but pretty words. But he was different enough to be disobeying, so perhaps he could continue to do so once she was gone.
“There is no one else I want to be,” he stated.
Then I order you not to go back to them. Mahala held her tongue. It was a selfish command and would be forcing him to turn away from his very sense of self — there was no higher honour than serving as a homunculus of Tibalt Kinderum. The homunculus project was the closest to magic many adult men could ever hope to fathom.
“This is our stop,” Luck announced.
He shoved through the other passengers, Mahala tucked under his arm. They stepped out onto a harbour gated by a giant wrought iron terminal, wiry metal trees snaking along the walls with outstretched arms with embossed leaves in weather-worn bronze paint. There were even more posters of Dev Efrem taped to the walls. Posters of his competitor were covered up, some even defaced with vulgar words that made Mahala turn away.
Behind the terminal sat a dock of large white ships with flags of Pomolin and Kalkoku whipping in the wind. Raised platforms rigged with cranes and winches hefted crates to and from the vessels, even a few shiny motorcars.
“Pity, I thought I’d get to see a reaper ship. Father never lets me learn anything about leviathan hunting,” Mahala said.
“Leviathan corpses make a sore sight next to the pleasure cruisers,” Luck replied. “The Lord Protector is a cautious man. Reaper ships linger too close to the God-Agura’s domain for their work and come back with his mermaid daughters following behind.”
“Mermaids…” Mahala muttered under her breath. She couldn’t tell if the dark waters were reflecting sunlight or held black glitter.
Luck led her past the queues outside passport control, striding forward in his usual brisk confidence, even for what should have been a new city. He studied the large bulletin board for all the ferries and their departure times.
“How exactly am I getting on board without a passport?” Mahala asked. “I also need an authorization card to get through border control! Unless you’re posing me as a retailer or dignitary? And don’t they check for infection now coming on or off the ship?”
“I can teleport you on board. The boundary marked by leylines is a rough grey area rather than a precise barrier. I can perform at least a couple of spells on shallow water,” Luck said.
Mahala’s eyes nervously flitted about the terminal interior. Her heart nearly stopped when she saw a giant poster with her smiling profile in a frame of apple blossoms, hanging by the bay windows. The Lady of Pomolin welcomes you. Underneath the poster, stood a man in a pressed blue coat with gold buttons, chatting with a young couple.
She tugged at his arm. “L-Luck… there’s a constable…!”
“Don’t pay him any mind, my lady,” Luck said, still studying the board. “Try not to act so nervous.”
She clung closer than she should have, cramming the hat deeper over her eyes. His bicep tensed under her grip. His face darkened.
“Luck?” she whispered.
“Shit!” he hissed.
He held Mahala tightly and they teleported. They were outside the terminal, nearly getting hit by a motorcar.
The driver hollered, but then they were on a factory roof.
“What’s wrong?” Mahala cried.
He focused on their next jump. “They found us!”
“What?!”
Buildings were smears, the roads blurring into a long black snake. The air around them trembled as spacetime wrinkled over.
The wyrm kicked against Mahala’s heart. “H-Homunculi? How?!” Her last word was stolen from her as Luck teleported them onto an apartment balcony. The wind whipped her hat off, her hair spilling out.
“Tibalt Kinderum. He’s the only one who would’ve been able to scry you this far,” the words came out in a rush. His neck craned, searching for something.
Wood snapped in her ears. Tibalt’s screams echoed with it, every growing vine and tendril of the faerie tree.
Mahala winced. “Performing that kind of spell could’ve killed him!”
Luck still scanned the cityline, wasting precious seconds.
“What are you looking for?” Mahala demanded.
They teleported onto a clocktower. Luck immediately flipped out his switchsword, deflecting a shot at him from behind. He staggered back from the force of it. A second shot came which knocked him off his feet. Flatfooted, a homunculus teleported in front of him and kicked him off the ledge.
“Luck!” She chased after him.
A rough hand caught her arm and she was yanked in the opposite direction, right into the homunculus’ chest. Thick scarring underneath his hood let her know who it was instantly.
“My lady,” greeted Shuteye.
The wyrm squirmed and so did she. Its tendrils fed to her muscles and she shoved off him hard. Her strength did nothing for her balance though, her foot slipping on a tile as she also fell off.
Shuteye leaped after her.
Luck caught Mahala first and teleported. His boots landed hard on the mossy pot tiles of a rowhouse. He finally collapsed on one knee, wheezing hard, faceplates open, Shuteye just a breath away.
“What’s wrong?” she asked frantically.
Luck tried to focus his gaze onto the next location but he recoiled and squeezed his chest.
“Fuck!” Luck hissed. “Unlucky!”
Shuteye appeared several metres behind them, cocking his switchsword again as it trained on Luck.
Luck rolled off the roof, dragging Mahala with him. She shrieked, hanging onto him. He clung to a rusting balcony and broke through a window below them. They collided into a tiny square room with mouldy ceilings and thin plywood walls — and one old man reading a book from his bed.
Luck flew over the old man’s head and broke clean through a wall, knocking over a pole, Mahala still in his arms. She wiped plaster dust from her hair and scrambled to her feet. Luck didn’t join her. He clambered to his feet, desperately gulping up mould-infested air.
“Is this a Protectorate house?” she said.
Shuteye teleported after them. The old man remained huddled up in his bed, trying to hide himself behind his book and clutching desperately onto the pole — an IV stand — like it would protect him. Ignoring the occupant, Shuteye calmly walked into the narrow corridor, reloading his weapon.
Mahala frantically yanked at Luck’s arm. “Luck!” Behind them, the corridor narrowed, barely enough room for one person to walk down at a time.
Shuteye gave Luck no time to recover. He teleported forward, hand to Luck’s throat and pushing him all the way down the corridor. Luck gasped and wheezed for air, mandibles running amok as he tried to pry Shuteye off. They went through at least three doors full-force, into a six-storey staircase.
Mahala chased after, glimpsing a terrified woman huddled next to the door with a busted telephone pressed to her ear. The woman frantically whispered something but Mahala didn’t have time to listen, or the mind to comfort her.
She emerged into the staircase. Luck was being choked against the wall with one hand while Shuteye held the switchsword in his other hand, testing it.
“Shuteye, stop!” Mahala cried.
“This isn’t your business, my lady,” Shuteye called back. “You shouldn’t watch this.”
“He’s your brother!”
Shuteye tipped his head. “He deserted, disobeyed direct orders, abducted you.”
She balled up her fists. “He is following my orders. I wanted to be here!”
That finally caught Shuteye’s attention. He made sure to smash Luck’s head into the wall hard enough that it drove a hole into the plaster, leaving him to slide onto the stairs. Mahala winced.
Shuteye then stepped closer to Mahala, and she saw his face more clearly under the hood — not that it helped much. Behind the map of scars, his face betrayed nothing. His ink black eyes were swallowing up the sight of Mahala before him, sending the wyrm into a frenzy against her heart.
“Perhaps Unlucky hasn’t made you aware… the Lord Protector has requested you return home,” said Shuteye, his voice a touch lower than Luck’s. “He’s ordered the entire Theater to find and escort you back to him. Alive, if possible. No matter the condition you would be in.”
The wyrm coursed waves of fire through her blood. Her entire body jittered, refusing to calm down. Steam hissed through her teeth, maybe even from her nostrils. I could hurt him. She didn’t want that. Pelebris couldn’t happen again.
“I’m not going back,” said Mahala, her words quivering.
His eyes narrowed. That set Mahala further on edge, the wyrm bristling. She forced it still.
“You would disobey the Lord Protector?” he said quietly. His voice was no longer kind, dripping with spite like how he would talk to Luck.
Mahala swallowed hard and tasted cinders.
“Yes,” she answered.
Shuteye’s brow wrinkled, the scars bristling. He flicked the switchsword over his shoulder, poised to strike her down.
“Then you are no longer the Lady of Pomolin,” he spat.
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