From indignity to indignity; from failure to failure. By all accounts, the Silver Divers are a broken-down pack of whimpering, cringing has-beens. They shy away from Corvii, keep their heads down low, work diligently and without complaint, and if the Corvii made halfway decent supervisors instead of simply being sadistic bullies, they'd be aware that the Silver Divers are one command from Mosaic away from repurposing trench shovels and chains. It doesn't matter [i]why[/i] Mosaic told them to stand down (to avoid the entire town being caught in a lethal crossfire, or simply obliterated from above), only that they have their orders. Be good, be beaten, give the unkindness no excuse to single you out. Be ready. Be [i]ready.[/i]

The cruelty, Ember ponders as she hauls, is [i]inefficient[/i]. Before the arrival of the Corvii, they were already making good time. Morale was high; villagers were even beginning to have the courage to socialize, to joke, to sing howling Ceronian songs alongside the pack. And Ember was the liaison, the mediator, the messenger between Beri and the pack and the demigoddess; she was embarrassed and unsure how proud of herself to be for what she'd done, the betrayals she'd had to choose between, the moon-swirled collar she was proud to wear. There was [i]joy[/i] in the work, those first few days. The circle of her pack was expanding, and labor was a chain to bind them all together, too.

And now look at them. Slow, quiet, miserable. Useless. Fear smothers joy beneath the purpleblack acrid flighttense. Eventually the work will be done, and it will take longer and be worse. There are more accidents. And that is why Ember, still hauling, still carrying small messages where she can, has a scream building up inside of her that is harder and harder to clamp down on. Her teeth ache with violence. How dare they come and [i]defile[/i] the work? How dare they come and make the burn of her muscles and the unity of labor [i]unclean[/i]? How dare they stamp out the [i]songs[/i]?

It is more difficult for the villagers. They do not know how to pretend. They do not wrap the knives of their selves inside cloth; all they have are forks and spoons meant for not-battle, for tilling earth and spearing crabs and mixing creams, the sorts of things that the Silver Divers need other people to worry about. They do not have the pack to take comfort in, even in pretended distance. (It is pretended. Ember believes in that with her whole heart. Her pack has to understand her [i]why[/i]: they have seen her in battle and in victory. Nobody can look at Mosaic and not understand. Nobody.) The people of Beri are going to break, and Ember yearns for the command to rise up and be [i]Pack[/i] again, fighting for honor and justice and to defend the innocent.

And Mosaic waits.

And so Ember waits, and watches, and hopes, putting all of her faith in Mosaic, and trying not to wonder why, when their eyes meet, Mosaic always looks away first.

Mosaic has to have a plan. She has to know what she's doing. That's... that's what it means to be in charge, to be touched by the gods, to be [i]her[/i]. Because Ember's put her everything in Mosaic's hands, and she has to trust that it was worth it and Mosaic is going to know what to do. That's what it means when you give all of yourself over. That's what it [i]means.[/i] And if she is a knife in the ribs, she does not mean to be, but she cannot be anything else, either. She cannot stop herself; she would die looking to Mosaic. Unwilling to yank that trust away, even at the last second.

So she is ready, Mosaic. She and her pack have made of themselves knives wrapped in linen. Blunt and innocuous and easily overlooked and  yet still, underneath, the handle and the blade remain. At your call, Alpha. The Silver Divers are yours, and so you are theirs, too.