It had been snowing that day in the gardens. She’d been 20, and the Homunculus Project had only recently seen success. They were starting to label them in clutches. The question of how they had been able to mass-produce the Pale Magus was one that Mahala wasn’t allowed to ask.
It was rare that Mahala was afforded a moment alone. With the attack last year that left Tibalt Kinderum bedridden, security had gone up. She was hardly without minders and bodyguards, but the garden walls were heavily guarded; other security measures included the head of housekeeping for Throne Obsidia personally vetting the staff.
Even these private walks in the gardens were something that had to be scheduled. Seven in the evening on Thursdays, when closed to the public to be groomed. Once or twice, she’d come here for interviews and photoshoots. There was a particularly stunning display of violets and amaryllis that she was fond of. As she leaned to get a closer look at the blooms, Mahala had to thank Nothos for not afflicting her with a pollen allergy, lest the very flowers would have been vetted as well.
Today, the gardens were even more subdued than usual, the groundskeepers having been excused early due to the snow. While they did usually stay out of her way, utter solitude was... nice.
And so the crunch of snow behind her was wrong.
A glint of metal, then a whisper of wind.
A grunt of pain dropped behind her, something heavy sunk into snow, and she stumbled back.
She hit the ground on her behind, blinking rapidly. A homunculus had pinned down a groundskeeper, a knife just outside of reach.
Mahala breathed hard. “Wh-Wha…?”
“You should get back inside, my lady,” the homunculus grunted. He had thick gauze wrapped around half his face, fresh blood already seeping through.
Mahala couldn’t move. She stared at the groundskeeper — or whoever was dressed up as one of them. This one was tiny, hardly a woman, her face too soft and round, but her eyes were filled with years of malice.
“Who are you?” Mahala whispered.
The girl said nothing, eyes squeezed shut with tears threatening to fall. She continued to say nothing even after being taken away by more guards. They chained her and shoved her forward. She fell a few times, face first into the snow.
“Please… she’s just a girl,” Mahala said stiffly, watching from a distance. “We are Pomolish, not brutes.”
The homunculus stayed behind with Mahala.
“She deserves none of your sympathy, my lady,” the way the homunculus said her title had the bare minimum of respect. It was different. “She’s a Shiran spy. I’ve been uncovering a network that’s been festering in our Capital.”
“How did you know she was going to attack me?” Mahala asked.
Without hesitation, he replied, “I didn’t. So I created an opportunity.”
“What?”
“I arranged for a message to be sent to your groundskeepers that they could go home early. Made sure security was conveniently not by the door.”
It took Mahala a moment to absorb the information. “You used me as bait?”
He bowed his head. “My apologies, my lady. I simply wished to root out the last spy as quickly as possible. I admit that her working the gardens was simply a gut feeling based on a few things I garnered from her associates.”
Mahala didn’t know whether to laugh or to hit him. He didn’t even try to sound remorseful.
“If you were rooting out a spy network around the city, do you even have any jurisdiction within Throne Obsidia security? Who authorised this?” she demanded.
“No one. I admit to lying to your staff in order to set this scene in a place I have no jurisdiction. I waited for the assassin to take the only window of opportunity they would ever have,” he said. “Please feel free to punish me in any way.”
The homunculus bowed again, more out of regulation than contrition. powdered snow on his shoulders falling forward. He still hadn’t done anything about his bloody dressing. Then again, that would be the least of his problems once Father heard what he pulled.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“TK9-3.”
She pressed her lips together. “Your name.”
He paused, unsure for the first time. “Shuteye, my lady.”
The frosted glass doors to the gardens flung open. “Mahala,” a familiar voice called out.
Her security detail bowed gravely as the Lord Protector strode into the garden with Knockdown following closely behind. She could see the bullets of sweat pouring from her poor guards even in the icy cold. In the end, they were still just mere men among the copies of the Pale Magus. Or nowhere near as resigned as Shuteye.
“What happened?” the Lord Protector asked. Even in the most dire circumstances, he would sound calm.
Shuteye took a step back and offered a bow but nothing else. He seemed almost bored.
The floor was Mahala’s. She didn’t bow, staying upright so her father could see that she was uninjured. “I was informed by a city homunculus that an assassin was after me. I may have created an opportunity to smoke them out,” Mahala said sheepishly.
The Lord Protector seized her arm. “You did what?”
Shuteye didn’t even twitch at the lie. Or maybe the bandages hid it.
“I’m fine, father. I… couldn’t stand the idea of a Shiran skulking inside our home. I thought I could help.” She didn’t wring her hands the way she would have eleven years ago. “TK9-3 was able to catch her in time.”
The porcelain mask turned to the homunculus. “You went along with this?”
“It was my idea, father. I insisted.” She stepped forward. “I wanted to protect us…”
Silence followed. Behind the mask, Mahala couldn't tell who was being scrutinised.
Eventually, “We shouldn’t be having this conversation in the cold, my dear. Come to my office,” he said. “TK9-3, I expect a full report on my desk by the end of the night.”
“Yes, my lord,” Shuteye replied.
The Lord Protector retreated, Mahala about to promptly follow. She took a moment to flash Shuteye a weak smile.
“Get your head looked at, it’s bleeding,” she said.
Shuteye touched the gauze. “My apologies. But— why?” he trailed off, confidence struck off-balance.
“The Magus of Time is never late.” The words left a bittersweet aftertaste. “Father wouldn’t have approved, but I’m sure I was never in any danger with you tailing me. In the end, no one was hurt. The Lady of Pomolin has a duty to serve her people, and if being bait is how I can help you root out a spy, then so be it. Your punishment for being so brazen and not asking me is that you won’t get any credit today.”
“Of course, my lady.” He stiffened. She saw behind him, in the reflection of the glass, his hand clench, then unclench. “I do not need any recognition to continue my service.” He stiffened, his tone wavering. “And... I’m…”
“You’re welcome, Shuteye.”
She couldn’t tell if he smiled back. She liked to think he did.
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
The switchsword poised over her, ready to cut open Mahala’s throat. She stood her ground, locked in a staring contest with Shuteye.
He still hadn’t brought the switchsword down. It waited in the air, Shuteye yet to blink, black eyes trained on hers. She could hear the leather of his glove straining with how hard he clutched the weapon’s grip.
His expression darkened.
“Are you scared?” she whispered.
His arm shook ever so slightly. “What?”
“I’m scared too. I’m scared of what I am now, what I can do. It’s why I want to leave… Is that so bad to want that?” she asked. She folded her hands over her breast with the still-beating wyrm.
“A soldier does not abandon his duty,” Shuteye hissed. The tremor in his arm stayed.
She laughed. Not for a camera, not for a party, not for any reason other than misery. “Shuteye, if Father sent you after me, you must know I’m...” Her breath hitched on the word, “Infected. How is a forktongue meant to be the Lady of Pomolin? I don’t want anyone else to know I’ve lost that title. I… I wanted to be everyone’s Lady to the end.” She didn’t look at Luck. Couldn’t look. “Even yours…”
Shuteye’s faceplates twitched. “So you will just leave your people behind?” he asked.
Scalding anger grazed her throat. She pulled down the collar of her shirt just enough to expose the tips of the wyrm’s tendrils. “Exactly what can I do for them like this?!”
Silence fell. Shuteye’s faceplates cracked open, the mandibles flickering, an answer on his tongue. But nothing came out. The plates shuttered closed, and he lowered the switchsword. He hadn’t even once looked at the tendrils, never breaking eye contact.
“What can I do?” Mahala repeated. Slowly and calmly, just like her father, hand covering her chest.
Behind them, Luck jolted awake, switchsword in hand. He swung wildly at Shuteye.
Shuteye teleported, reappearing behind Luck and throwing him back on the ground. Before Shuteye could press his blade to Luck’s throat, Luck hooked a leg over Shuteye’s neck and pushed him straight into the bannister.
His skull hit the metal railing hard enough to ring like a bell. His switchsword fell out of his hands.
The radio attached to his belt crackled to life.
“Shuteye, this is Broadside. Location,” a homunculus demanded.
Luck made a grab for the radio. Shuteye must have activated a spell — he moved too fast, sweeping Luck’s arms aside, pummelling him until his fists were a blur. He then unceremoniously tossed Luck down yet another flight of stairs behind them.
Mahala shoved past Shuteye and descended the steps. “Luck!”
Her bodyguard was on a heap against the wall. She touched his shoulder and he jerked up, trying to pull out his next switchsword in a panic. It was dented and likely broken.
“Luck…” she repeated.
He finally recognised her and slumped back with a groan. His head trickled blood. Every heave of his chest accompanied a wince. His hair fell in a mess and his maxillae were practically clawing their way out of his faceplates for air.
She nursed his sweaty face in her hands. He caught her wrists, shaking his head, trying to avoid anything touching his faceplates.
“Luck, please!” she hissed.
“Why should I even worry about you leaving? Unlucky will never be able to pull this off,” Shuteye muttered, making his leisurely descent after them.
She spun around to glare at him.
“What is your problem with him? You two weren’t even created in the same clutch, and hardly worked together!” she snapped.
“Why do you even care? He was the one that failed you, stabbed you!” Shuteye sneered. “I would’ve never let that happen.”
The wyrm’s tendrils pulsed between her veins, uncomfortably warm.
“To the very end, you’re going to keep a defect at your side over actual Kinderum soldiers. You’re going to leave us all behind without a second thought. Was your love for your people a lie? Is this all a joke?” Shuteye demanded, ripping another switchsword from his coat.
He stopped right in front of her, but didn’t raise the weapon.
Mahala slowly rose to her feet, trying to look tall. Something bothered her about their conversation. Something seemed off.
She squared her shoulders. “Is this really about Pomolin, or is this about you?”
Shuteye’s eyes betrayed surprise for just a second.
“Don’t… get close to him…” Luck pleaded. He tried to crawl forward but could hardly move.
Shuteye didn’t give any response, as stoic as when they had first met, but she could see his other hand, the one not holding the switchsword, clench and unclench. A part of Mahala wanted to scream at him.
What right do you have to be angry about this? I’m the victim here!
The taste of smoke was a sobering reminder of what would happen if she screamed.
No.
She and Luck could not outrun Shuteye. There was no escaping. They were in a crumbling apartment building with a speaker attached to the corner of the ceiling for some reason. Another poster of a grinning Dev Efrem, the words ‘WE CAN DO BETTER’ hanging over him. Another one proclaimed him as the people’s advocate. He certainly couldn’t advocate for her right now.
She could go back kicking and screaming, probably killing a few more people in the process. If she timed it right, maybe she could even get away. Trampling on other’s lives for her own, like the Duskborne she was meant to be.
Or… I can be the Lady Mahala Pesh one more time.
She forced down the heat and exhaled, hard.
One last performance for one more homunculi.
“I’m sorry I hurt you.” Slowly, calmly. Her mask was not physical like Father’s, but it was the next best thing, “I’m sorry. I hurt a lot of people, you know. I don’t want to hurt anyone else anymore.” Pelebris. The Yarths. Maybe she had even hurt people during her first transformation — she didn’t remember.. “Ah, I’m never good at impromptu speeches. What… What would the real Lady of Pomolin do…? I… I suppose she wouldn’t leave. She belongs to her country to the end.”
“Lady Mahala…!” Luck heaved.
The words came easier now, as if it made sense. She clasped her hands together in a praying motion. “If I can’t leave… then don’t bring me back as a forktongue. Please let me die as an ikka. Please let my soul go to Nothos.”
She met Shuteye’s gaze, expecting it to be unreadable, only to be met by open shock.
“I…” The word came out trembling. She swallowed it down. “If you can permit me a final request…” Her voice barely squeaked out. Make it quick? “Please let my father know I forced Luck to help me. You know how he is…”
She thought she could feel snow tickling her cheek, frost in her breath. Her memories were scrambling again.
“Mahala, stop!” Luck hissed. He lurched forward, now on all fours.
Shuteye still hadn’t responded.
The radio crackled again. “Shuteye, this is Broadside. Radio check.” The tone was urgent.
Shuteye yanked the radio off his belt, and flicked a switch. “Broadside, this is Shuteye…” he announced. A brief pause followed. “Lost sight of target at Fishers Bridge. Returning to the harbour.”
He shoved the radio back into its slot in almost disgust.
‘Why?’ Mahala mouthed the word.
He took a sudden step towards her. In surprise, Mahala retreated until he had backed her into the wall. His hand slammed next to her, looming over her with a deep scowl. None of the homunculi had ever looked at Mahala like that.
He leaned even closer, chitin plate brushing against her ear. “I’ll be back. Don’t go far,” he whispered.
With that he disappeared, leaving the two of them alone.
Everything went blessedly still. Tears stung Mahala. Her legs nearly gave way and she landed a hand on the breaking banner, getting her bearings. Her other hand placed over her heart, where the wyrm had returned to sleeping.
“Thank Nothos…” she whispered.
Behind her, Luck had struggled to sit up. His head bowed.
“Luck…” she began.
Sharp static cut into the building. It echoed down the staircase.
Mahala’s hands clapped on her ears, eyes wide and panicked, catching the speakers for a second time.
“Good merciful morning, dear residents!” came the cheery voice of a young man. “You may have noticed we have some rowdy guests today. In the interest of public safety, please stay indoors so we can settle this quietly! We will advise you once it is tidy enough for you to go about your day! Thank you for your cooperation!”
Despite the cheer, Mahala sweated hard, the wyrm rustling, disturbed.
“What was that?!” she sputtered.
“That was why I teleported us here,” he grunted.
“What?! Where are we? Isn’t this a Protectorate house?” Mahala demanded.
“No.” He- his eyes were... smiling? “The ones by the harbour are called company homes. Should be run by the Sugarmen.”
“Who?!”
“The Lady of Pomolin, as I live and breathe!” the cheery voice said, this time echoing down the stairs instead of the speakers.
Mahala looked up and saw several faces staring down from the top of the staircase; all were large men with hard expressions and docker overalls. All except for one — a toothpick of a man in a tweed suit and a politician’s smile. The poster photos didn’t do him justice.
Dev Efrem beamed. “Welcome to Port Lavinia. What brings you to our fair city?”
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