It does not occur to Bella to be disappointed with the reality of meeting her heroes. She has seen the tales of their exploits a hundred times across films and stage plays and in books surreptitiously read when she thought nobody was looking. Their accomplishments were above reproach. Nothing short of the proof of the true glory of Humanity and what they were supposed to be capable of; their flaws every bit as brilliant as their triumphs.

So what that actors had always made them seem taller? More like... well. More like her? So what that in her wildest, most sinful dreams she'd seen Ikari with fluffy ears and a tail? So what that... so what? So what? They were each of them of a height with Redana. Of course they were. This is the stature of true heroes. It is monsters like Bella who need to tower over everything so that these peerless warriors could glitter and shine in even the dimmest lights. Redana's golden hair could be a beacon even in the murkiest corners of the Anemoi. So it is with King Anjia, Sir Aeon, and Odysseus before all.

This is what heroes look like. Smell like. Sound like. Talk like. They must have seemed healthier, once. Less sickly, with no death stench upon them before their legends caught up with them and they tumbled into the realm of Lord Hades. They would have seemed even more like Redana, then, in their primes. Or Redana would have seemed more like them. And someday she will. Would. Because for her, the journey would surely end up here eventually.

But for Bella...

"Princess."

She comes when she is called. Her nose wrinkles only a little at the smell all around her. Their little chest of treasures rattles along the floor on its pristine wheels as she pulls it behind her. Her footsteps clack and echo with the force of thunderbolts. Her teeth are sharper teeth, and no less blinding than Redana's when they flash briefly behind the pursing of her lips.

Her fingers end in cruel daggers that even hanging at her sides seem to threaten the table in front of her. Her body has returned to its carefully engineered curves and softness, but it cannot hide the aura of raw power crackling underneath it. Not from these great warriors. She is a titan among them. A monster born on the altar of genetic miracles and the endless meddling of the biomancers. The final chapter of the story each of them had been telling. The very last form of the enemy they'd dedicated their lives to stopping.

Her arms wrap tenderly around Redana's shoulders. She squeezes softer than a summer breeze, and when she leans down to breathe the clean air that radiates off the princess her hair tumbles forward and wraps the pair of them in a silken blue-black halo that could have launched a thousand ships of its own, had she only been born into the days when such things were possible.

The glittering past. The uncertain future. The empty seat among legends. And the assassin, defeated, proof of the invitation to the feast.

She dips into a bow. Still clutching her treasure. And still standing behind her afterward.

"This counts as resembling working order? That empty, decaying scrapheap? I see." Bella's golden eye flits across the faces of every assembled knight, lingering on none of them in particular. All of them are heroes in her heart. None of them should be able to stand to look at her, "Mother was... right about me. I don't measure up to her older assassins at all. Not if that's the best I was able to do, stopping you."

Bitterness. Longing. Relief. This is the song she sings. Her claws gleam dangerously against the glistening skin she holds them up to so very tenderly.

Bella and Redana!

"I believe that you're wrong about not measuring up," said King Anjia. She made a wooden stool seem like a throne, such was her presence. She makes the golden crown she wears feel like it should apply to you. She stands in a fountain of blue. "Technical skill is not the only axis by which people make it here. If it was, Ortji would stand alone here, and nine of ten of your predecessors would not have made it. Instead consider the strength of your heart. Were it not great enough to overturn the wickedness of the Master of Assassin then you would not have made it here had you been ten times as swift."

Alexa!

"How about," snarled Zagreus, spitting blood, from the ground, a dark reverberating echo taking his voice "you don't go trying to change things you don't understand, girl. Hades! I call upon my birthright!"

And the world plunged into darkness.

The assault renewed but this time it was mobile; he circled and flanked in dashing motions, pushing you this way and that. Each shock rolled and crashed and built like a storm, and only the foggy rainbow lights that rose through the dark told of the danger of Poseidon's grasping hands.

"Do you think any of us are happy here?" he said. "Do you think anyone in this corpse galaxy even has the capacity to be so? Love is sundered from us. Peace has left us. All that remains is family and duty."

Did you know? That if the Starsong were granted a boon of Olympus, and at once came into possession of ships and loyal souls enough to grow their fleet tenfold? The underworld would hardly know the difference. Sure, fewer would live under the heels of local tyrants and the long shadow of the Empire, and that would surely be a blessing. But it wouldn’t be enough. The edges of the former Empire needed so much more.

And, it shouldn’t be that hard. It doesn’t feel like it ought to be that hard, when what is bountiful on one planet may save lives on another. But worlds need more than the occasional passing ship to see the stars as anything more than dream and decoration. A regular flow of goods demands the impossible logistics of dedicated ships, moving between planets with anything approaching a reliable schedule. It begs trust, that when you give your possessions to the creatures that came from the stars, they will return again, at some point, with something they say you need. All this, without even considering the risk of the Armada striking wherever the Starsong put roots down.

“I can hardly imagine it.” Dolce shakes his head in wonder. “I would very much like to see it, sir Mars.” And then, a light shines in his eyes. “You know, that reminds me; our ship is attempting a system that’s not unlike the one above. We don’t know what it will be, exactly, but that’s the whole point; we’re abandoning the idea of a single Captain controlling the ship, and coming together, all of us, to decide how we would like the ship to run instead. Anyone who’s passing through the Rift will have their say. I don’t represent anyone myself, but I will be on hand to help mediate...”

Just mediate. And after that? Once they’ve decided on what will replace him?

Traditionally, the role of Captain was one that led to higher advancement in the political sphere, as he understood it. He did not think any would be racing to try and woo him to a new post. His service had been…adequate, certainly. He had brought them to their destination, as best as he could, and no one had asked him for anything more than that. Rather, no one *would* ask him for anything more than that. A day where they did not see their Captain was a good day, a day without emergencies, a day they would not be asked to fight for their lives. A Captain who reminded them his door was always open, who asked for their names, who asked about what they were up to, was surely administering a test, and they were still alive, so they must’ve passed. In all their memories of Captain Dolce, their happiest would surely be the day he left their lives forever, and returned to being just Dolce. Not the sort of person you’d think to put in charge of, well, much of anything.

Much less entire star sectors.

If there was no one for him to represent, then there was no one to tell him where they wanted him next. As it had been his choice to seek the Captain’s chair, so it was his choice of where to go next. One thing ending, that another could begin. In all his memories of Captain Dolce, what did he hold closest to his heart? Where, in all this great, wide ship, might a sheep belong?

But the memories do not come easily. Trials and tests spring to mind at once, but though they give him courage, they are of little help. There is no job for leaping between a Princess and the bridge controls, and if there was, he wouldn’t be keen to do it again. Of the day to day responsibilities, of the average tasks, these slip through his fingers. No matter how he stares into his drink, one memory shines so brightly that all the rest seem faded and dusty. A kitchen, where he laid down his hat, and took up an apron. He could tell Mars how the spoon sounded as it scraped the bottom of the pot, and he’d have to consult his notes to remember what was discussed in his meetings yesterday. One hour, shining brighter than months of faithful service.

Maybe you are one of mine, after all...

“Forgive my ignorance, sir Mars,” and he bows, and his eyes are averted, downcast from the vision of confident perfection. “but it rather sounds like you have all you could want, and the surface world is precisely to your liking. As for me, I’m afraid I may just be a chef now. Your favor is yours, and you may grant it to whom you wish, of course. But down here, it is difficult to see what use I could be.”

Dolce!

"Sir Mars!" the God laughed in delight. "You keep calling me that! I thought it was cute at first, you know?" Without his grin leaving his face he pulled out a hatchet and slammed it down on the table, an inch from your hand. "I don't any more. It is much too familiar. Perhaps you should find something else?"

Somehow the violent threat didn't seem to change the tone of the conversation at all. This wasn't a flash of anger or cruelty. It was a snake showing an orange stripe; it was the turning wind of a stormfront. Something incomprehensibly but obviously dangerous.

"And you're right, the surface world is perfect. Of course, that's why I'd want you to help me keep it that way!" he laughed. "Because you will bear my mark, little sheep. Wherever you go war will follow. Peace and security will collapse and the perfect world will drown in blood. You enjoy ENDLESS BATTLE, don't you? You'll have plenty of it to celebrate your path."

"Or, of course, you could simply be a cook!" he slammed down the rest of the drink and stood up. "Or a bureaucrat, or a husband, or whatever it is delights you. You can enjoy all the fruits of the surface world and live forever in the deathless lands. My gift for you, so long as you don't seek what belongs to Demeter."

"With respect, Liege," Bella chirps, her voice instantly finding that old note of placid politeness expected of an Imperial Handmaiden rather than a Praetor, "I believe you are being over generous in your assessment."

A careful dip of her head. Her Auspex turned respectfully toward the ground, daring to look at the majesty of King Anjia only with her natural eye. That's the only way she looks at any of them around the table. Her tongue curls inside her mouth, begging for wine. She is parched. A desert of nerves and nervousness. Something is crawling inside her throat, begging her to wash it down.

But she does not move except to curtsey, her hands even in the middle of the gesture holding on to Redana. As if she still believed they were the only things in the universe that could keep her lover safe. Her lover... her shield. Her invitation. Her Princess.

"Technical skill is the pillar I deserve to be measured by. I am a maid. At the Empress' request I became an administrator. I did my best to run a ship, and run it well, but I did so in opposition to the journey you are praising. And I was thwarted by... forgive me, Princess, but by absolute morons. I think about it constantly. I do not understand how I could have failed to keep things from coming this far. But now that they have..."

Gods. Gods, if ever any of you did not hate her even a little bit, please give her a glass of wine. She has no right to intrude on Hades' hospitality after winning so many of his treasures from him. But she is dying. Wilting. Fading into a creature that cannot leave this place. Or she will, at least, without something to restore her. Her body is pinpricks and claw points where she ought to have skin. Her body is an itch like a name on her armor that she is forbidden from erasing. Her body is shame and an empty, ravenous void that screams desperately for any manner of real food, real drink, real relief.

Though of course, were it presented to her she would not dare do more than nibble on an hors d'oeuvres. Not in front of legends like these. How can being seen, being praised feel so much like torture? She swallows; the feeling is painful and dry.

"It was not my heart that overcame the Master of Assassins," she begins again, "It was Beautiful who put me back together, when I had come undone. It was Beljani who dared to write the name Sagakhan on my skin as a prayer to the Diodekoi. It was Mynx who woke me with her own blood. And Redana pulled me free. I did nothing. I raged and I killed, but I never took my target. I was merely a pawn, and a costly one at that. It took a lifetime's worth of other hearts to pull mine free."

“Do you want a drink?”

The princess pauses, suddenly still. The neck of a bottle rests against the mouth of a glass, in honor of the deeds their own have done. She does not tilt. Not until her love nods, mute, stricken. A small, pained nod. And then the wine sloshes gracelessly into the cup (it’s as if she never learned) and Redana gently but insistently pulls Bella down to sit next to her.

You are included, she does not need to say. I’m here. “I’ll fight them all for you,” she does say, louder than she thinks. Water, then, and stirred. Not straight. Not for Bella, not right now.

“You couldn’t beat us when you were alone,” she adds, feeling out the thought as it leaves her lips. “We were working together. You were angry and scary and all you had at your back were owls and mice. But as soon as you and your sisters stopped pulling each other apart, we brought… her… down. Together.”

A squeeze, and then she lifts the cup to her lady’s lips, in exactly the sort of way that every hero here recognizes. Such is the conduct befitting a knight.

"You would tell me of family and duty?"

She stands at the center of the storm, never knowing which way the next blow will come from. But that is not why the mask slips. That's not why the King wavers, why now Alexa shouts into the winds, grief written on her face.

"I remember what it was like before the rift! I predate it! My duty to my family is the reason we're cursed!

"For family, I fed oceans to his planet-devourers! For duty, I executed Molech's will and Molech's people! Had I done my duty to my family--had I not turned away in hope of something better--the whole galaxy might have burned, instead of just half!

"Would you have me make the same mistakes again?

"Without love, what is duty but blind obedience? Without love, what is a family but a chain of command? Sit still! Fit in your niche! Put your neck back into the collar of hopelessness!

"And I will not!"

When Dolce was little, barely big enough that his wobbly legs could support him, the Manor brought him and every other lamb of age to school. It was the best time to learn, you see, that precious time before there were so many lessons to un-learn. Flanked by guard dogs, the little lambs paraded around the Manor grounds in formation. Right hoof, left hoof, right, left, right, left. Backs straight. Heads forward. Eyes always watching. Ears always listening, as their teacher whispered lessons of history in a voice so soft they had to strain themselves not to miss a syllable. And then a guard would fire their rifle. The good lambs of the flock continued exactly what they were doing, without flinching. The bad sheep would stumble.

Dolce catches his own reflection in the gleaming metal of the hatchet blade. His chest hardly shifts with the rise and fall of each measured breath. In for three. Hold for one. Out for four. Repeat. His knuckles, inches from the blade, are no whiter than the rest of his wool as he grips his glass.

His cheek twitches.

The conversational silence, wrapped so tightly around his jaw, shudders and strains, and bit by bit he pushes his mouth open. At first, for a sip. He would have to close his mouth again, to swallow. He reconsiders, and puts the glass down. “I see.” The voice is barely his. His throat closes too tightly for proper diction. “So you heard of me, before the napkin.”

The perpetual din of the bar hasn’t stopped. Because it wasn’t a threat. This wasn’t a flash of anger, or any worrying emotion. He had been in danger from the moment Mars manifested. This was merely a reminder of the fact. The surrounding conversation swallows up the sound of his stool scooting clear and his hooves finding the floor again. He bows, low, from the waist, holding the pose in perfect stillness. It takes seven breaths for his throat to loosen. Three more to push his chest just so, to give his voice the proper intonation of respect. “It has been an honor to be in your presence, Lord of the Hard-Won Lesson, He Whose Shadow Inspires Abundance, Peace After Nightmares.”

This is the proper way for a mortal to address a god, especially one whom he has given disrespect. The names may be right. They may be wrong. They are chosen with care, spoken clearly, and with eyes downcast. It is all one of his station and stature can do to make things right, and he feels his stature keener than the blade of Mars’ hatchet. Small enough that his greatest capabilities could fit in a kitchen, with room to spare. Just tall enough to sit at a bar with a god, and hear him swear to burn his most prized possession, his greatest pride, his perfect world.

For love. Always and ever, it was called love, wasn’t it?

“I hope.” He blurts out. “I hope I do remember our meeting, today. And, that.” His eyes burn hot with unhelpful and unshed tears. “One day. I may leave upon an altar a fine meal that brings you joy.”

No matter what future awaits the both of them.

Bella and Redana!

The grapes of these ancient days are far from those grown for the pleasure of Empress Nero and yet it cannot be said that they are entirely lesser. Certainly, they do not carry the nutritional density or depth of flavour of a modern vine (and truth be told, it is unclear if one of these ancient heroes would even survive drinking Imperial wine), but neither do they lack value. The Biomancers worked their looms, but they were working with a material that humanity knew in its cradle. Before the domestication of the horse came wine, and twenty thousand years since then did not pass without progress. The ancients understood that the soil was of import just as much as the seed.

So you drink and make merry in the light of a heroes sun. They find ways to coax boasts and stories from you and regale you with their own. And while the story of their end is well known, they delight when they realize that you do not know the end of the civilization that came before, the transformation that allowed the Knights to conquer this world of screens and commerce and render the Tunguska a relic for Hades.

The Tunguska was a bank, they explain as they take you up to the great pyramid. A vault where every soul's value was tallied on a ledger. All of this space and all of these rows of ancient machines were required to administer the traverse of grain and silk, to smooth the passage of silk and silicon. Power in this era was not in the weave of gene code or the strength of titans but on the number by your name. This place was fortress and tomb, the scales that judge the dead rebuilt in mortal form.

On and on through the vaults, the machines still whirring and humming away in their grinding attempt to judge the souls of every mortal. On and on and on. The offices of Judgement's clerks. The strategiums where military campaigns would be waged against those who defied their ordained number. Planets catalogued and sliced into pieces and assigned names and numbers, further and further out into the void.

And then they take you to the heart of the vault, into the depth of this machine built to judge the galaxy. It is made entirely of gold and heavy with jewels, for sentimental reasons, though the computer panels spoke of the place's true power.

And in its heart is an arrow.

It is mounted on a pedestal, a shining blue crystal with a tasteful little plaque added by Hades. This arrow was, it explained, the first of a new generation of quatronic computers. Within this tiny fragment was all the same power as the entire pyramid and all of its subsidiaries across the galaxy. Or not even power, but the ability to think in lateral and unpredictable ways. It could change the number. It could cut through the chains of math that secured the number. It could fit in a pocket.

Even that did not need to be the death blow for the Tunguska. Perhaps in time they might have been able to integrate the crystal's new power into their machines, rebuild an even more perfect system. But there was no strength behind this place then. It was old, it was rotted, it was tired. When it stumbled nobody caught it. When it fell nobody rebuilt it. When it was buried in the tomb it had built for itself those who held the shovels were feted as the heroes of a new age. And this is the lesson of the turning of aeons: systems perish and pass from this world not when they are killed in battle, but when none tend their wounds.

*

Alexa!

You do not see Zagreus. He wears his father's helm of invisibility and no sight nor scent could ever defeat it. All the tools of science and religion could not undo it. It is the will of the gods. Against the will of the gods, you will fall.

Hades sits in the royal box. He was always here but previously it was he who was invisible. You see him now. The hollows beneath his sapphire eyes. The sag of his cheeks. The box of tissues by his left hand. The beat of his pulse, so slow and lethargic.

He raises a bloodless hand.

And points.

Your spear follows. Follows all the way to the heart of Zagreus.

Against the will of the gods you will fall, but mortals were never powerless. It is theirs to make their case. To make their offering. To declare their sacrifices, their virtues, their courage. A judge does not make the plaintiffs irrelevant. Quite the opposite.

Blood flows down your spear. The last it will ever draw. Zagreus sinks down amidst the crimson waters. Hades stands and every eye is upon him.

He throws something at your feet and turns to go.

You look down. It is a ball. Blue and yellow and thick with bite marks. To see it is to know that this was Cerberus's favourite, and they could never have truly left home without it.

*

Dolce!

It has been a month. Time enough for everyone to work through fears and doubts and the longings of heart and blade. Time enough for those who will stay to sort themselves from those who will go. Time enough to unpack the ship of possessions and cargo, to swear oaths and say goodbyes.

Staying on the Tunguska are the Coherent, the Alcedi, the humans, the Biomancers and the Lanterns. These societies, born in the shadows of darkness and war, love or have been taught to love their new lives and their bonds. For love, they will not dare Aphrodite. These are the vast majority of the ship's crew and compliment, the ratings and the deckhands, and they empty from the Plousios in their tens of thousands.

The core of those who remain on the ship are the Order of Hermes, lead by Iskarot. There is a quiet conviction there, a dedication to the journey for its own sake as the ultimate act of service to their goddess. It seems like this should not be an easy decision for them, these creatures to whom knowledge is the greatest virtue and their stores of arcane secrets the keys to prestige and power within their great organization. And yet, they do not hesitate. Knowledge is power and power must be used for something. And so they bid goodbye to their ranks and titles and lore, for all their secrets were merely coin to pay their way on this, the greatest journey.

The assassins too follow. Beljani and Epistia, linked through Ceronian pack-bond, are the most wildly optimistic about the future, sharing a warrior's conviction that nothing could ever come between their new unity of purpose. Beautiful, having solved every mystery aboard the ship and watched every mystery movie in the stacks, is excited for the possibility of getting to solve them all anew. Mynx has not spoken overmuch but the idea of the future seems to bring her relief as much as anything.

Jil and a handful of Lanterns are coming, champions from every clan who competed for the right to go. The clans collectively have decided to stay behind but such is their debt of honour to Bella for bringing them from the darkness that they send their greatest as an honour guard into the next life. Those elected are fearful but excited, and aglow with the idea that they will carry the example of the Lanterns on to the next world.

The Tides of Poseidon, too, are all coming. It is unclear if they even have memories to lose in a way that others understand them. The crab need not know the past to clack its claws at the sun, and the Assistant Secretary of Fear and Doubt has, perhaps foolishly, become inspired by the idea of a universe without death.

Not counting the Tides, the total number aboard the Plousios after all is said stand at around a hundred, mostly the Order of Hermes and Lanterns, along with small clusters of others whose reasons do not align with their factions. A small crew, but still many more than the journey began with.

There seems to be one other guest. Smoking and looking out of the window towards the Rift, present on every floor and every gallery, is Aphrodite. The scent of his cigarettes sinks into the furniture. Ash and ruin in the form of a million small coughs.

No one comes for love alone.

There has been... time. Time enough for many things. Time enough for everything. There are the conversations with Redana: the kind from when they were children on Tellus, the kind she pined for since forever, and the kind that don't need any words from start to finish. There are the arguments among those staying: the awkward accusations of the mistrustful, the bold sacrifices of the desperate, and the long apologies to those champions of the Lanterns that honored her by giving her their everything. All of this, and more.

And when it all had passed, still they had not reached the point of crossing. The Rift choked the entire ship in clouds of choking, foul cigarette smoke, it dominated every dream of every soul on every night, and if one were to flit outside the ship (in a Plover or otherwise) it would dominate the horizon with its ghastly pink light until it became clear at last that the awful wound had in fact swallowed the entire galaxy and all the stars inside it. There was nothing else. Only this. The Tunguska behind them, but only just. It's treasures all exhausted or kept covetously behind. Bella had not said goodbye to any of it. Nor to anyone who had decided to part from the journey at this last possible resting point. All of it gone. All of them gone.

And still, they had not crossed. Boarded. Departed. Committed. But not crossed. Could anything possibly be worse than this interminable space between the decision to act and the consequences? There is nothing left except the waiting. Aboard this mostly empty, once glorious ship. It is an... uncomfortably familiar feeling. This time there is no Prion Paula to keep her company and soothe away the itch when meditation floods her mind with memories instead of calm. Her entire life seems determined to pound its way through her skull before it's stolen away from her forever. It feels just the same as a hangover.

At least the Tunguska had given her time to assemble a new wardrobe. And with the wardrobe and the sudden emptying of the ship had come the justification for having her own quarters, not that she made particular use of it. But it was, at last, a space to retreat to when she needed it. And she would need it soon and often, she had zero doubt. The idea felt carved into her bones. The impulse grew stronger every day.

But today she manages to ignore it. Thank the gods. She prowls the mazelike hallways of the Plousios, bending her ears every which way and stopping at every junction to sniff the air before committing to a direction. Smoke. Smoke. Smoke. Smoke. But something else, very faint, at the end of a very long trail.

"...Mynx."

She finds her in an old workshop, staring at the shadows covering a thousand saws and plasma cutters and hammers and other assorted tools that once upon a time in a kinder world had kept this ship in perfect shape as a glittering work of art. Like the Argo a thousand thousand lifetimes before it, the Plosious had all the seeming of a ship that must have been the sort of vessel that shone with the pride of the heroic voyages it was used for. Not the pinnacle of civilization, Bella had seen what happened to those, but a place where legends gathered to do great things.

And look at it now. Look at them now. These broken, useless sisters.

"Mynx." she says it again, without the growl in her voice this time.

"Mm?"

"I've been, uh, looking for you."

"Well, good job."

"I wanted to... talk."

That got no answer. Bella's leg takes an automatic step in retreat, but she grinds her heel into the floor. The snarl builds, but does not crest. She's able to turn it into a clearing of her throat before it's too late.

"Well, I mean. You haven't exactly been making it easy to find you, lately."

"Well Bella I really can't imagine why that would be."

"But you kept it."

"Huh? Kept what?"

"Your smell. The one you told me was a trick. You're still... using it."

Mynx's scales ripple across her entire body. She turns, and opens her mouth with the kind of expression that suggests she had a very nasty thought on her tongue, but she says nothing. And she does turn.

"I know ok?" says Bella, "I know. It sucks being out here."

"Bella do you seriously still want to go back to Tellus? I thought after all the princess fucking you've been doing that you might finally loosen up! I wanted you to want this, Bella! Just like she did! We're out, we're supposed to be free, doing whatever we wanted to! And we've run out of universe and I've still got my whole damn list left!"

"No! I mean, yes! I mean--" it's Bella's turn to blush now. Her eyes find Mynx's feet with a hunter's acuity worth of Artemis, "I didn't mean I want to turn around. I just meant... fucking, you know! Here! This gods-damned waiting. I want to be washed clean too, you know!"

Mynx's eyes flicker. A startled blink. Bella grabs at her own arm and pulls it across her chest with no small amount of shame.

"Oh." says Mynx.

"Yeah."

"I guess we don't really get a say now that we're here, but there's really nothing you want to keep?"

"Not... really Mynx. I have fucked this entire journey up from top to bottom, at every opportunity. I'd really rather just... start over."

"Huh. Well, there's lots that I want to keep. I've got a list all written down so it's--"

"Easier to understand what you were thinking."
"Easier to understand what I was thinking."

They laugh together, briefly. Somewhere in the span of that small noise the space between them has closed to just a step or two. But they don't cross it. They don't touch.

"I want to remember that time we were both you." says Mynx with a smile.

"And you yelled at me for being me wrong? Ha!"

"And what about you?"

"...That time we stole Odoacer's yacht."

"We were so young then~"

"And I want..."

"What do you want, Bella?"

"To remember when I tried to kill you."

The smell of smoke, that some would say is the smell of love, grows so thick in the room that for a moment neither of them can do anything but choke. The air turns cold and the light turns harsh, and in the shadows it's difficult to see anything but the eyes of two monsters prowling in a circle around one another, trying to decide how best to strike before the other one eats them.

"I strangled you. I tried to rip you in half. I put my fist through your fucking stomach, Mynx. And every time it-- it wasn't the last one. You kept showing up. You smiled at me. You, you fucking smiled! And even now you smell like you, when you know damn well it's all I can use to find you!"

At last, the teeth show. Claws flash in this blaring spotlight. Suddenly Mynx turns away and makes to slip into the shadows, but she gets caught by the wrist. Bella's fingers are curled carefully inward, to keep her claws from so much as scratching those now-constantly rippling scales.

"Bella please, I don't want this to turn into another fight. I'll still see you on the other side, ok? It'll be better, you were right. We can just be friends this time. And we really will go on adventures together."

"No! Fuck you Mynx, no! I don't want that! That's why I needed to talk to you now, while we're still us! I have to say--"

She chokes on the words, and Mynx doesn't step over them. All she does is turn again, wrist still caught, and watch her oldest charge with the same wide, expressive eyes that always seem determined to soak in every detail down into the absolute depths of her dna. Just in case she needed them for a performance. Just in case it mattered.

"I'm sorry," Bella manages, through tears, "And... and thank you. I was nothing but horrible to you, but you still saved me. I will never stop owing you. Even if we both forget why. And I needed-- needed you to hear it. While it still means everything."

It takes a long time for Mynx to react. Even then she's strange about it. Always has been. Perhaps the truest power of the Toxicrene is their inability to break properly. She is soft as she pulls her wrist free. And she is softer still when she pulls Bella into an embrace.

"Honestly, Bella? That makes two of us."

Dolce sits upright on his kitchen stool, and sets his pen perfectly perpendicular to the page. "Aphrodite, please, do not take my silence as an attempt to ignore your presence. Not now, after we have journeyed so far." He pushes an ashtray to the edge of the counter, as far as he can reach. Offering, to whoever may be standing near by. "Rather, our small crew is busy preparing quite the offering to you. I hope that you enjoy it, when the time comes."

He takes up his pen again. Speaking not to the limited quantity of ashtrays aboard their vessel. Speaking not to how much operational friction a limitless supply of carelessly-strewn ashes could produce. Offering, humbly, a proper receptacle for a god's cigarette.

His pen flies through the last letters. His penmanship is no less flawless for the speed of his hand. They have little time. This deserves the best.

He tucks his papers into the red folio labeled Recipes, and soon his hoofsteps are receding down the smoke-strewn hallways.

She bows, of course. Bows as deep as she dares, as deep as she can while still being polite. Bows to the precise degree that shows she is thankful for his mercy, and as far away as she can from anything that might come away as mocking.

She takes the ball, because she has to. It's the prize, the reason for the fight.
Of course she's magnanimous to the audience. You've been wonderful, Tunguska. Thank you for coming out. Be safe in your journeys, and wish me luck in mine, this one's for you, and so on.

But it's rote, she reflects later. Mechanical, leaning on skills and patterns learned elsewhere to keep her going. A fallback loop playing while her mind is otherwise occupied.

Haggard. That's the word that came to mind. Tormented, maybe. Hades had been torn in two in this, knowing the reasons and knowing even more the price.

And she can't help but feel the same way, even now. Even here, watching Cerberus gambol and chase and wrestle with herself amidst the glowing pillars, she feels as if she must be the worst person in the galaxy.

Now and then, a flash of blue is visible among the mess of steel chassis. Now and then, it's brought in to her for an extra-long throw, the whole pack baying after it as if the noise and the chase is the only thing that exists.

She had to do it. She had to, even if it hurts him. He knew it too, at the end.

But every time, when the ball comes back for a throw, she offers it up to him, first.

Taking a dog from someone--even for very good reasons--is one thing. But forbidding them to play--to get as much joy as they can in the short time life--is too far.

The princess keeps returning to the idea of writing things down, only to shove the thought away and pull the goggles back down instead. There is so much to do. There is so much to do. Enough so that she can glut herself in it. Roll out of bed in the morning, try not to wake Bella up, wake her up anyway, apologize profusely, and then work until Bella finds her and picks her up and carries her back for dinner and words and hungers. She needs to be hundred-handed. Every person on the Plousios is working two jobs, and Redana keeps volunteering for more. Let her do four jobs. Let her do six. Let her drag the ship to the Rift herself.

Because if she's working, there's no room for the doubt.

What if you wrote everything down, Redana? But then you'd be admitting that you'll need it. And then you start wondering whether you'll even remember how to read. What if you filmed yourself? But no good. We don't have the materials. You can't divert Isakarot from the vigil on the engines. And what if you forget what words mean? What if you're scrubbed clean? Scrub. Scrub the cables. Dislodge the crabs from behind the Third Hub. Carry a message to Jil, who is herself a hub, who speaks for the Lanterns scurrying crossways and up and down and doing the same work she is. Spin out a plover-cable, make sure the reinforced plating is holding, try not to stare at the mind-annihilating river-scar tearing open the universe.

If she thinks too much about it she might think she's making a mistake. If she thinks too much about it her hands might start shaking. It was easy to be brave on the Tunguska. It was easy to feel like she was doing something big, and brave, and meaningful, and Bella was by her side. But then the thought starts creeping in again.

What if she forgets how to read? What if she saves everything she is and it doesn't matter, it's lost anyway? What if the Lethe scrubs words away, too, and the ship will breach the other side with all words and sigils and numbers washed clean? Wash. The fountains need to remain clear of crabs, otherwise the flow of water through the ship will be disrupted, and then the water will grow stagnant. She murmurs prayers to her Uncle as she unclogs pipes, and she finds herself resting her forehead on the cool stone, unable to move, letting the water wash over her.

The smoke is everywhere. She lights incense before the altars anyway. Father Zeus, please protect us. Uncle Poseidon, we honor your strength. Cousin Artemis, make our way straight and clear. Uncle Hades... Cousin Apollo, show me the right thing. Aunt Demeter, please keep rot from our food supplies. This is the role of the ship's champion, here where there is nothing left to fight.

(What if there is something to fight? What if nobody comes back because there are great big eyeless Lethe-snakes writhing through that pinkfire sea and everyone's forgotten how to use plovers by that point in the trip? How can you organize a defense when you might be forgetting the fact of being attacked as soon as you look away? When you forget how to use a sword?)

---

He's staring at the rift, too. Or, no. He's bathing his face in its light. There is concern in his expression, though not fear. Redana stops to look at him, and she could keep running, but she doesn't. Her face is smudged with grease. Her eye flickers and switches off the faint line it's tracing to her next destination. The further away from Tellus she's gotten, the weaker it's been. Or is that just her imagination? Maybe it was something else. The fight with Sagakhan. The proximity to the river. Maybe it's forgetting, too.

Standing next to him is comforting. The warmth suffuses her skin, makes prickles run up and down her arms, cups her cheeks. "Thank you," she says, and clasps her hands together in that way that he likes. He returns the gesture, but doesn't look to her. He is silent, as always. (As apparently always. She hasn't seen him very often at all.)

So it's up to her to fill the silence. Which she does. Eventually. It's hard to tell how long. They took a seat; they both fold their legs, but only Redana hunches forward to rest her elbows on her thighs. She can feel her heart beating through her body. She's warm. Like a fruit on a summer day. Pluck her right off the vine.

"Am I stupid?" His expression softens, and he lowers his eyes from the scar in the sea. "Because... everyone else thought it through, didn't they? Back on the Tunguska? I thought, if I really, really believed in Bella, and we wrote everything down, and... what if we forget that, too? What if we're, what if we're babies? Babies can't steer ships! We're just going to get eaten by forgetting-eels! And it's my fault!"

He reaches out and takes her hand. It's almost painfully hot. Almost. But she curls her fingers around his hand anyway. The throb of blood fills her head. Her eyes are wet.

"...but if I don't do this," she says to him, to the wound, to her mother, "then Uncle Hades is just going to be that sad forever. Like he was when he thought I was going to die, on that very first battle at the Eater of Worlds. If I don't do this, then Epistia and Beljani will have become Belistiajani for nothing. I will have dragged Dolce and Vasilly through all this for nothing, and Bella, and Mynx, and stranded Alexa so far from home, and..."

She does not cry prettily. Her fingers squeeze tighter around his hand. The Lethe throbs; rivulets of white sear through it like lightning bolts, almost invisible. Behind them, so very far behind them, the pilots of the monsters have tea forever in the sunlight, and they'd told her, hadn't they, be bold, be bold. There's something special about this crew, this voyage.

(You have two shadows, Sir Aeon had whispered in her ear, one taller than the other. Take heart in this.)

"...but they'd still go," she admits. "It's not my fault."

It's not your fault. Is there any enlightenment more difficult? Or so often attained and lost, over and over?

"Just because I started this, doesn't mean..." She wipes her face on the back of her free hand, and then discovers that he has offered her a tissue. "Because Bella, she's going for a wish, now. Her sisters. And Dolce and Vasilly, they think it's possible, too. If I ran away, I'd just be leaving them to face this alone."

The Lethe roils. But Redana looks up at it. Stares, until she remembers to worry that maybe her eye can forget itself.

He leans in and gives her a kiss. One, singular. The faintest brushing of his lips against her skin.

That night, Bella will comment on the sunburn, on the almost red-gold tinge. And that night, they'll sit together and write.

---

MY name is Redana. It's your name, too, if you're the girl with the gold hair and the one blue eye and the one green eye. If that's not you, please give this to Redana instead. Okay, Redana, since you're reading this now. You're from Tellus, which is on the other side of the universe. Don't go back!!

You are going from one side of the River Lethe, which is the very big pink-white awful thing you are going through, or on the other side of. If it's behind you, don't go back!!

You have to keep going. You're looking for a place called Gaia. Once you get there, you'll deliver a message from Lord Hades. If you've forgotten the message, I think really YOU are the message. So just get there and everything's going to be okay, I promise. Once you're there, or maybe once you go back, Lord Hades will offer all of you a wish. You want your mother to change her mind You want Bella to be free You want everything to be You want everyone to be able to choose their life for themselves. Don't forget, please. No asking for a discus that always comes back or more Batrachomyomachia sequels or for Bella to love you (because she does)!!

This is Bella. She's beautiful. You know that. She loves you, and you love her, and you couldn't do anything about it until right before we got to Lethe. So please ask her if you can kiss her again, and if she forgets you, do your best to fall in love with her again. She's mean on the outside but that's because her mother was AWFUL to her growing up, and on the inside she wants to take care of everyone and help the people who can't help themselves.

This is Dolce. He's one of the smartest people you know (but see also Iskarot when I write about him, too). But he's really kind, too. Give him big hugs! He's so soft and fluffy and he makes silly noises when you wiggle around with him. He used to be in charge after you tried to turn the ship had an argument with him. But then he decided not to be? Jil's in charge now. Please take care of him. Protect him.

This is Jil. She is very good at telling people what to do. Whatever she says, you can probably trust her, unless she's drunk, in which case you really shouldn't. I wish I could tell you more but she hasn't been captain for very long and you've been busy. I've been busy. Mostly you've been working together on ship maintenance.

Oh! Ship maintenance!

[...]

Which is why you should never ever ever let the crabs back INTO the pipes.

...oh. Right.

This is Vasilia. She's proud and dangerous and prickly, but she loves Dolce more than anybody else, and she's really fun to fight with. Not a real fight, but a practice fight. If you forget how to fight, ask her to teach you. She's the best at swordfighting. Bella's stronger than her, but you CANNOT fight like Bella can, so don't even try it.

This is Alexa. You won't find her on the ship anymore, but you owe her SO MUCH. She protected you even though you dragged her on this quest and... maybe we should forget that. But we shouldn't forget Alexa. She's the best at lifting and the BEST at hugs. She's on the other side of the Lethe (DON'T GO BACK!!) and she's looking after Hades' dog. When you come back and everybody is free to be themselves, you go find her, you go give her more hugs, and you ask her where she wants to go and you take her there. Okay? You owe her a lot. She's the reason you made it this far.

[...]

That's everyone. Everyone you're friends with. I didn't mention the Master of Assassins or the Azura on Salib or any of the Kaeri because we were NOT friends and if you forget them, good riddance. Good luck. I believe in you. You're going to do an amazing job, Redana.

PS. if you get in trouble ask the Shepherdess for help. She's you, but from later. I don't think she forgot any of this, so maybe I'm just worrying about nothing? Maybe my eye really can remember all of this? But just in case, just in CASE, please do your best to remember everything here, okay? Study it like it's the Hesperidean Dialogues. (Maybe try to forget those too, actually?) Bella says she's going to "dunk you in the Lethe if you forget those after all the hard work I did" so try not to, and if you do forget but she forgets she said that, don't tell her. This one time. I promise it's okay.

That's all I can think of. Don't forget the gods, either. They're actually your family. Don't trust Aphrodite. Say a special thank you to Apollo. Remember we're doing this for Hades. Her the god that Iskarot worships is your mother. And Iskarot isn't going to forget her, so you can ask him for an explanation, but if I write her name down maybe she'll be able to come find us immediately? I don't know. I worry about it. It's complicated. You can't go home and see her until you've had your wish. Okay? Please?

Don't give up on Gaia. Don't give up on Bella. Don't give up on swords and adventure. I think if you do all that you'll be doing an okay job of being me. So let's do our best, okay?

- Prin Redana Clau Dany

Consider the Plousios.

Five kilometers long and one kilometer tall. A full fifth of its structure is the enormous Engine and vast thruster channels, burning forever with a radiant gold solar energy. Another fifth is its mighty armoured beak, marked with a million discoloured scars from relativistic-speed impacts in the deep void. Inside its endless corridors is the space to host a city and yet the genius of its design allows it to fly with a crew of twenty.

It was built during the height of the Imperial era, after the collapse of the Atlas Cultural Sphere. When it was launched it was the first of its kind; a flagship, a king, a chariot for the woman who negotiated with the gods on behalf of humanity. So tied was it to that age that it was used as the burial pyre for the Empress Iado, flown into the heart of a star along with all her grave goods to meet Hades as no one ever had before.

Since then, the design became standardized, and then surpassed. Imperial ships of the line in the modern day match the Plousios in size, and Odoacer's flagship is nearly twice as large. For all their size and grandeur, the Plousios was the end of an age. But although over four thousand years stands between her and the Tunguska, these two ships are peers in this. Where their docking cables meet, twenty-sixth century space engineering and seventieth century voidcraft embrace. Despite the will of Cronus, here in the hall of Hades do the epochs kiss one final time.

In the void, the Plovers launch. Some are hard, grey and Imperial, but some ride forth in the rainbow colours of the time of Knights. The Plovers go about their industrial work of severing the cables with axes the size of trees, but the Knights dance and play and joust amidst the industry of a world that obsoleted them but never surpassed them. Severed, the cables retract automatically, spinning back on tension cables to their docking ports where they fuse into a semisolid liquid, ready for travel.

In the heart of the Engine, Iskarot strikes the runes once more. From his belt hangs a fragile little radio with a black cat sticker; it plays a song about a girl leaving home for the first time and in its sincerity it is holy. The Priest of Hermes uses the music to mark the time, each time the song reaches its cresendo it feels like the ship should launch, but still there is more to do.

Until there isn't.

The jolt under the elderly badger-servitor's tripod feet shakes him. The sound begins to build, the force of a star igniting. It runs through the ship like a shiver. Iskarot begins to run. So does everyone else. Of those who have stayed aboard the Plousios, there is in this moment nothing more to be done. They run. They run with joy, with excitement, to burn off nerves. They run for the grand observation deck and gather in a crowd.

Just a mere hundred and fifty people after everything. No two are alike. Here, even the Order of Hermes pulls down their hoods to reveal their faces - the robes have symbolic meaning, but what symbolism could be greater? They help secure them from assassination, but who could they trust more than those present? One of them starts clapping, and then everyone is. Not slow, not polite, a sincere and joyful sound. It echoes the end of another era, when their ancient predecessors first landed upon another world.

There is hugging. Shaking of hands. Jokes about each others appearances now that they are finally revealed. Final praises and compliments - did you know, Bella, that this Hermetic always thought you looked so stylish? Did you know, Redana, that you had saved this Coherent's life without thinking or noticing? Did you know, Dolce, that you were the only one who remembered the birthday of this Alcedi chieftain and commemorated it with a little cake?

These people who are coming with you like you. In small ways you have won their respect, their admiration, their fellowship. They're people who know exactly who they are to you: they're your friends, and they want you to be happy. And maybe it's the purity of that, or maybe it's the mysterious divine sword that Epistia is holding menacingly, but Aphrodite does not show his face. Somehow, though, it feels that the two are the same. You are no strangers to love in all the ways it can hurt. The ways it can terrify. The ways it can grip your stomach and your heart and twist and twist and twist as it tears down the walls of your mind...

But something in this secret sword cuts away all of that.

It's more than love. It's like. It's friendship and community, built on foundations as solid as the underworld. It's mutual respect and admiration. It's a violent history bought forth into a point of tranquility. It's enjoying each others jokes. You have been through everything already. You have killed and died for each other. What is there left for Aphrodite to do?

And so, at last, you pass together into the River Lethe, and when you emerge you will no longer be amongst the Breathless Dead.

Whose hands do you hold as you go?

*

Alexa!

You stand upon the Anemoi with your many, many dogs.

Ramses has their arms around your shoulders affectionately, holding you from behind and trying to tousle your stone-carved hair in vain. They're warm, and soft, and they feel finished - for now. Knowing Ramses they'll change their mind and go back to the Hermetics for more changes once their mood starts to change, but for now they're happy with who they are.

The ship isn't ready to fly yet - the Lanterns have held a vote and decided to dispense with the bone architecture. Enormous respect to Jil, but she really was the lynchpin holding the gothic aesthetic together. Instead the Lanterns have by and large bought in deep into retro kitsh from the Tunguska - they're bolting in these ugly red leather and chrome chairs, tearing up the silent plasticy floors to replace with clicky stone tiles in black and white patterns, dangling golden lightbulbs in strings from every surface. The Temple of Artemis has been packed up and offloaded onto the Tunguska and a huge warm firepit filled with a thousand yellow lightbulbs is put in its place. By rededicating this place to home and hearth the Lantern priests, through consultation with Lord Hades, believe they can convince Hestia to shield this place from the worst of the Flux, allowing Cerberus to travel safely amidst these ancient lights.

You make the prayer and throw the ball one more time, but this time when Cerberus mob-tackles it and breaks away sprinting from Rusty and her other selves, she does not run it back to you. Instead she carries it across to a new person standing in the doorway, tails wagging eagerly. He leans low to pick up the ball, smiles in a shy little way, and tosses it back to you.

"Do you have room for one more aboard?" asks Zagreus.

Alexa had thought she was all out of tears.

Nobody had told her that could happen, by the by. She'd had to quietly pull aside--alright, chase through the vents and corner--a Hermetic the second time it happened for some urgent questions. Had she broken them? Was there a mismatch somewhere? Did they need filling?

But no, they assured her, that was normal. After hours and days of feasting, toasts, songs, celebrations, and mourning, it was possible to reach a state where the tears have all been cried. You've done everything you could think of, and yet still haven't done enough. You've tried to cram a century of love into a fortnight, silly girl. Did you think you had enough tears for that?

Still, as she looks around at the newly reborn Anemoi, she's glad to find she can still feel a tiny prickle around the corners of her eyes.

It's bright and it's kitschy and it's loud, and every corner feels like a home. Everywhere, people laugh and talk--a hundred noisy conversations, echoing and rebounding, a sea of life defying the quiet-and-death-that-was. There will be no silent stalking here, no family bound into decorations, no fearful still.

And her cold stone is warm in Ramses' arms.

Without a word, she taps a wrist, and the tight--so pleasantly tight--grip relaxes just enough for her to slip free and reach out for Zagreus.

"Always, Zagreus. The ship is small, but never so small that we can't fit more people wanting happiness."

Bella waits alone. The stillness of the air has a physical presence; she can hear it whenever she moves. Only the rustle of her dress, only the breath in her lungs, only the clack of her shoes, only the steady clunk of glasses being set on tables keep her company. Each one is swallowed up by the vastness of the observation deck, now bathed only in pink light so bright and gaudy it turns even her raven-black hair to a strange shade of purple.

She shrugs it all off. Her senses feel muddled in this place. The rush of feet and the crying of a hundred voices are all around her and a kilometer away at the same time. She can't let it bother her. Unlike everyone else on the Plousios, she still has a job to do. One hundred forty one, one hundred forty two, one hundred forty three... she drowns out the distractions. She dares to cleave the air with her presence. She ignores the way the Rift is upsetting her sense of colors, only blinking as she moves until her Auspex adjusts the room for her.

Practice makes perfect. One hundred forty eight, one hundred forty nine. The last glass is still in her hand when the awkward tripod-clunking sprint she's been hearing for the last fifteen minutes finally enters the room instead of merely echoing through the hallways into her skull. She glances up from her work to see the scarred and wizened badger face of Iskarot, the Hermetic magus that (she was told) was in charge of keeping this ship operational. Her first new companion.

"...Fuck." she observes, without a shred of shame or tact.

Suddenly she is vaulting over her carefully arranged tables. She is a meteor, tearing through the air with palpable heat and the promise of absolute death when she lands. She crashes to the ground and the impact rattles the entire ship down to its bones. Elsewhere, the Tides are briefly shaken from their meditation. Bella towers over the magus, and shadows darken her face. In the pink light her claws shine like diamonds with every slightest twitch of her fingers. A single animistic snarl passes for a warning.

She sighs, and reaches for the bottle. She pours too hastily to quite capture the bouquet the way that she knew brought out the best in this vintage. But there's nothing for it: she's out of time.

"You took a shortcut, you asshole. I was supposed to have three more minutes to get this set up."

Well, she's good and on the clock now. She hands the glass over and promptly dives back into her work, pouring swiftly and carefully now. She rotates between each hand, one pouring from a height of one meter while the other grabs the previous glass and swirls it three times, counterclockwise, for the exact correct presentation. This is a momentous occasion. She thought about it for hours, and hours after that. And in the end, this was all she could think of to share it with everyone.

The Lanterns had held onto all of her treasures, even through the brief reign of Sagakhan. And when they had decided to depart with their ship, they left behind more than just their champions. Bella had accrued an extremely impressive and fantastically heavy collection of wine, and with goodbye finally on their lips at last they saw no value in preserving it. Three times, Bella turned them down. 'Leave it for Hades if you hate it that much,' she'd told them. On the fourth negotiation they'd simply skipped over her and brought it aboard while she was busy with Redana.

But thank the gods for the stubbornness of mice. Now she had more than enough stock to do... anything she wanted, really, for the entire crossing and possibly years beyond that if she made it that far. In its haste to appease her the Yakanov had buried her in gifts, but it was the last of her plunder from Baradissar she was using here. Too many hermetics on board, it felt weird gifting them their own creations. And besides, Molech had no business crossing this scar he'd made except in everyone's stomachs. His legacy would die at last, one final murder before she gives up the trade forever.

More people pour in. In clumps, in pairs, all alone they come. Many catch Bella in the act of serving, and each of these gets an increasingly frustrated and nastier swear directed across the room. But none of them had gotten the jump on her the way that Iskarot had. All of them have a glass, at least, waiting for them. If not for everyone.

Now the hall is filled with laughter. Now it is filled with warmth and drink and even food that mixes into a delicate cocktail of smells that lights the room ablaze like the merriest of fires. Epistia holds the mysterious sword and everywhere she passes there is calm in her wake. Beljani's tail is wagging with absolute delight, and Scribe stretches its glyph-filled wings on her shoulder. Mynx enters, and immediately takes her place by Bella's side and refuses to leave. Beautiful flits about the room with a dreamy expression on her face and a fedora tilted halfway off her head, grilling and interrogating everyone she corners for the sheer thrill of forgetting it all again as soon as she can.

Jil is sipping juice, the only one on the deck gifted something different though she is none the wiser for it. All around her the champions of the Lanterns rattle about with a sense of puffed up importance. There are dozens of people here she cannot name, and she hands them each a glass just the same. Dolce has done no cooking, and will do no serving. Not this time, you little punk. Here at the end, we feast. We party. Leave the work to the one who planned it. Go ahead and take notes: despite her furious efforts she has not surpassed you, but in a dish or two she's gotten unnervingly close. Bella guffaws at the sour look that Vasilia wears on her face, and passes her by without a care or concern for what might happen.

But everywhere she goes, the scent she notices first is Redana. Redana, Redana, Redana. Here at the end. Here at the beginning. Here. With her. Bella raises the one hundred and fiftieth glass to the sky, and a room full of Imperial vintage and majesty does the same. In this moment all eyes are on her. In this moment faces that have seen the worst of her look upon her with smiles, and some even with admiration. In this moment, the regalia resting in her hair shines with the glory of the stars.

And this? This is a place of honor.

Vasilia swam through an ocean of polite fondness. To each who had faced her in the sparring ring, she offers not the same quip twice. A chance to start our record fresh, eh? But of course, I will be happy to beat the forms into you a second time. Darling, of course you need no such excuse to spend an afternoon together. And the ocean ends where the ocean must, on shores stained pink.

The hum of the party fills the room, even if the party doesn’t. The ocean of fellowship ends where it must, on shores stained pink. No one is in a rush to get closer. There is no rush, to get closer. It will reach them, in time. All they have to do is wait. It is here, alone on the shores, where Vasilia leans against he railing, glass in hand, and stares long into the hole in the sky. She’d thought it might be like a yawning pit, solid color ready to swallow them up in a featureless abyss. The Rift is bright, searingly bright, but the Rift is a hole, and the Rift is a river, and she watches the flow of nothingness swirl and play in the wrongness.

“Drifting through; impossible.”

Iskarot slumps into the space beside her. He holds his glass in a paw uncloaked. And Vasilia does not stare. Staring is uncouth, ill-mannered, and horrifically droll. She lays eyes on him. Runs her gaze softly through the fur kept fastidiously trimmed, when no one but Hermes should have ever seen it. The Coherent design their bodies for aesthetics. The Hermetics for brutal convenience. She does not shy away from the joints and tubes. She blinks, once. Slowly. “Lucky that none of us are drifting, then?”

He snorts. “Obviously. Your track record of willing mediocrity and dedication to self-preservation would not abide such an abrupt change of course.” With his free hand, he pulls a blunt from some secret pocket. Perfectly clean, and well-kept. The sort of thing one saves for a final journey. “Why are you even here?”

From the depths of a faded coat, she produces a battered lighter. The sort of thing one carries in hope of a friend’s need. She holds it steady, as Iskarot lights up. Keeps herself still, and patient. “I’ve rather had enough of being dead.” The light flickers in her eyes. A tiny, faithful spark of red against the drowning pink. “It’s high time I lived, for a change.”

Either the answer was satisfactory, the blunt a marvelous one, or this hour’s allotment of words depleted. It is enough. They stand, watching, long enough for the space between them to shrink, and their shoulders to brush together. Not quite long enough to risk a sip of the wine she served her. But long enough for her other side to feel rather empty.

She casts a glance back, and at once she finds the splash of soft, creamy white amidst the crowd. Dolce has stopped beside Jil, who is animatedly trying to show him a word or two in the Lantern’s tongue of touch. A difficult task, when your student is ninety percent airy wool by volume, and petting his arm more insistently only gets you a soft, silly smile. It’s hard for him not to wander, poor thing. Doesn’t know how to handle a party he’s not working at. Four times he has made valiant forays into the thick of it. Four times, he has found more friends to speak to. Three times, his orbit has returned to her side. All she has to do is wait.

Her hand clutches at empty space.

She downs a glass of courage. Pauses. Scowls, sharply. ”Dammit.” she mutters. “The absolute gall of her…” She does not recognize the vintage, the type, and the pink makes it difficult to discern color, so she cannot say for certain that it’s her favorite, so this is a perfectly fair amount of credit to give. And she walks through the crowd, wading into a sea of fondness. Here and there, a face from the sparring ring halts her, and again fresh charm springs to her tongue. A chance to start our record fresh, eh? But of course, I will be happy to beat the forms into you a second time. Darling, of course you need no such excuse to spend an afternoon together. And somewhere, her orbit reaches its conclusion, and she clasps Dolce’s little hand in hers.

Somewhere, the line exists between love and like. And she will never find it, if all she does is wait.

The dress is the deep red of rubies, or of living blood. It fountains down from her left shoulder. Beneath it, the undershirt clings to her like a second skin, black and gold. It pours itself into the grooves of her shoulders and her back.

At the shoulder, a brooch gleams: the thunderbolt of Zeus, swan-winged. It blazes where the lights strike it, limned in gold, shining adamant. It is the shadow of the tiara on her brow. If you could catch starlight, hammer it into place, make it cool until it hardened, and then string it on lace— that would be the tiara of Redana Claudius.

Here, then, is the prize of Odoacer. Here is the daughter of Hermes, with suns strewn in her golden hair. Here is the daughter of Zeus the Thunderer, who set the wheel into motion, who speaks with authority. Here is Bella’s yearning and Dolce’s hope and Alexa’s catalyst. Here she stands, small in stature, but beautiful, radiant, treasured.

For Bella’s sake, she holds her head up and does not look away. And that makes it easier to notice that this is not one of her mother’s court dinners, at which she is meant to show off her poise and fine manners. And it strikes her that here, at last, is the reason. It’s not to get a passing grade, it’s not to earn a reward from her mother, and it’s not because of her title. It’s because everyone is looking to her, and they see the Imperial Princess, and they long for her to be more than she is. So maybe, just for tonight, she can be.

“Friends,” she begins. She’s calmer now than she was earlier, when Bella was helping her with the dress, with the rouge, with the lipstick, when she felt small and clumsy and steeped in peril. Now the dress (flowering down her body, ending in skirts like petals) feels like a new kind of armor. “Sailors. Comrades. If I may speak.”

The cheering is honest. She parts her lips and then closes them around the half-formed words. Her eyes are hot and she has to blink them clear. “We have done the impossible already. Now all that remains is doing it again. No one has survived crossing the Rift— but no one has defeated the Master of Assassins, survived the perils we have faced, or gathered such an auspicious and determined crew!”

Her hands aren’t shaking. Not after she got all the words out of them. “I cannot promise that I can match the blessing that Lord Hades has offered us upon our arrival at Gaia, the seed at the root of the universe.” She says it right. The words have been careening around her head for hours. The root of the seed of the seed of the root of the universe entire. Flowers, trees, things which grow, the grave of the Master, the trees of Mynxkiss. But what is this room but a garden? “But I will promise you glory wherever I rule, hospitality wherever I live, and satisfaction with whatever I can provide. And…”

Her cheeks are wet again. The lights blur. But she is still smiling, and there is no murmur of discontent or scandal. It is safe here. She is safe here. Here, out of all the universe she has seen, because of who is here with her. She raises a glass instead, and the reply echoes and multiplies until it is her father’s jovial roar.

“And I know that we are going to succeed,” she says, as if she can carve it into the universe through saying it. As if maybe, this was in and of itself a ritual, like the ones she performs before the altars of her family— no, one of her families. Because this is her family, too.

She holds the glass higher, and with all of her strength, declares: “Damn the Rift! Glory to the Mariners! To Gaia!” And all around her, her family joins in, joyous and defiant.

And then she lowers her eyes, and catches a glimpse of Bella across the room, her own lips half-open, a naked hunger in her eyes, and a giggle bubbles out of her. Come and catch me, she tells Bella with a wink, sipping the bubbling champagne in her glass. Pull me aside with urgent news. Where are we going to hide? How are you going to praise me? And how are you going to stop me from being too noisy and interrupting the party~?

Every moment until she finds Bella at her arm will be all the more electric for it. Come, Assassin. Show her the power of your Hunt.

THE END OF PART ONE

Thank you for reading <3

The Plousios has run aground.

There's no mistaking it. The vast starship, this star-spanning city, has ploughed its way across nearly fifty kilometers of dirt, hill and mountain before grinding to a stop. Dirt is heaped up in a huge bulldozed mountain at its front prow, and there is a kilometer wide swathe of destruction through the landscape behind it. The torn earth stinks. The centre of the wreckage is molten, fused carbon and glass from the wash of the Engine. When the rains come, the rain washing into this new valley will create a river.

The Plousios is broken. The engine channels are broken and leaking plasma in coruscating waterfalls of rainbow fire. A catastrophic event. Probably. It was probably catastrophic... whatever happened here. Mostly, though, it's just beautiful.

The sun is warm, though, and the road is long. The road calls. It winds its way away, across brown hills, through odd forests of eucalypts and their bone-white debris. There are fences that imply farms and signs that count the miles. There's no time to try and fix the ship, reconstruct the past, no time to look back. Your feet are itchy, you're ready to start your journey!

It stands to reason to use the Plovers first, the mechanized vehicles will eat up the miles and there's enough to go around. Which machine do you pick, what is its name, what are its colours? It's designed to do heavy-duty space engineering, but what kind? Does it carry a rivet gun the size of a truck, a thermal lance designed to clean impact sites, a D-Scythe to scorch the barnacles of the Tides from the exterior? Does it run or jump or fly? How does it feel to run and jump and fly?

*

Dyssia!

"Dyssia, this is very important," says Brightberry the crystal dragonette in the voice of the Great Sage Ohlemi. "You need to stop what you're doing and listen to me. Dyssia. Your spiritual development depends upon this. Dyssia. Our planet is dying."

Through the window twinkles the glitter of a flickering rainbow laser beam. It strikes one of Brightberry's resplendent crystal scales and refracts through the hatchling's transparent body like glass through a thousand prisms. It spreads out into the hardlight wing membranes, projected by the glittering gemstones at each wing joint, where it transmutes into a complex flow of advanced information that the dragonette reads out for you aloud. Doing the voice is not, strictly speaking, necessary; Brightberry just enjoys doing impressions.

Above and out the window, the clouds in the sky are broken. A Distortion Slice runs straight through the middle of the sky over Irassia, twisting and tangling the clouds where they touch it on one end and spitting them out in new combinations on the other. Communications are done through direct optical laser links between crystal dragons, after all, and that's too important to leave at the risk of the weather. And so the Azura destroyed the reality of the sky above the city so they could more easily angle communication lasers through it without risk of cloud cover. It's a beautiful sight, the sky full of pulsing rainbow lasers and enormous gravity-free mirrors floating aloft.

Brightberry stops narrating and looks over at you, speaking in her normal voice. It was the transformation from an ancient mountaintop sage who gargled a liter of gravel every day to a particularly bossy squeaky toy. "I don't understand why he always says the planet is dying," she complained. "The Ceronians aren't that bad, surely? Or is the planet sick?"