Chapter 30: Hate the Sin

Two men came upon an artifex on the road, and seeing that he was carrying many fine wares they decided to rob him. The artifex did not resist, laying down his burden for the men to take - but their joy was short-lived, for a great bear emerged from the woods to menace them.

They quaked and feared for their lives before the bear, but seizing the metal from his pack the artifex formed a blade that whipped as fast as thought through the bear’s neck, striking it dead. The two robbers were overjoyed to be spared, but bowed before the artifex with contrition in their hearts.

“You could have killed us just as easily,” they said. “Yet you did not, and for that we are grateful.”

The artifex bade them rise. “The penalty for thievery in this country is not death,” he said. “Take what you must, and remember that none of us here are animals.”

- The Book of Eight Verses, the Verse of Growth. (New Kheman Edition, 542 PD)

Michael’s thoughts seemed frozen, crystallized in glinting lines as he looked between the three women. Isolde, who had healed him. Vera, who had protected him. Clair-

Clair, who sat in mockery of herself, the smile on her face shading into confusion as she saw the growing anger in Michael’s expression. Vera moved to stand in front of her, and Isolde slowly paced to the side.

“How are you here?” Isolde demanded. “Why do you know this woman?”

There was a shimmer in the corner of his eye; Sobriquet, at least, had caught up. It made no move to intervene, however - waiting to see what would transpire, or just reluctant to act hastily with Clair’s safety in the balance. Perhaps both. Michael turned to look at Isolde. “Not too long ago I would have just answered that question,” he said. “But I’ve recently come to appreciate the value of a kept secret.”

Something hardened in Isolde’s face, but Vera raised her hand before she could speak again. “We’re just surprised to see you,” she said. “This is a battlefield, Michael. We’re trying to understand why you’re here, and how that came to be. Help us understand what’s going on.”

“I’m not sure I know what’s going on,” Michael said, terse and clipped. “I know what it looks like. Maybe you should help me understand, because I don’t - I can’t. Not after what Sofia showed me that night, not after what I’ve seen.”

Vera put her hands up, palms out. “You’re angry,” she said. “Let’s talk. I can answer any questions you have, I just-” She shook her head, giving him a small, sad smile. “I thought you had died. We all did. Sofia felt it when Jeorg was killed, and when she couldn’t find you - we assumed the worst. I’m so glad to see you well.”

“I wish I could say the same,” Michael said. “I had assumed better.”

The smile faded from her face. “I’m sorry. You don’t want to hear how I feel, I’m not - it doesn’t matter.” She paused, then seemed to collect herself. “You want to talk about this woman, and why she’s here.”

“I want to talk about Clair,” Michael agreed, taking another step closer. “Sofia showed me that night on the pier. She showed me Peter, and what was left of him after Spark was finished. She showed me how he died.” He looked at Isolde; her lips were pressed into a bloodless line. “I saw your face when you looked at him. I saw you cry when you killed him. And here you are, watching this happen.”

Michael turned back to Vera. “Jeorg told me that there was a difference between you and Spark. That you took care not to harm others with your soul, respected the sanctity of their minds. Did he lie to me? Or was it you that lied to him?”

Vera bit her lip, looking down at the floor for a moment before raising her head up to meet Michael’s eyes. “Jeorg was telling the truth,” she said. “I lived with him for a time, we all did. He helped us learn how to use our souls without hurting ourselves or others, and I will always have the lessons he taught me held close to my heart.”

Michael kept his face impassive. “But?” he said.

“But Jeorg’s world was his farm,” Vera said. “There are no hard choices there, he made sure of that. He left them far behind when he ran. Right now, we’re in the War.” She looked back at Clair. “This woman has killed people, Michael. She’s an enemy soldier. If we weren’t here, they would have sent her to an Institute Shine instead - one that never walked the fields with Jeorg, never had to see the shell of their friend die on a lonely dock. She would die a husk, with everything stripped away but the parts she needed to scream her secrets over and over in the dark.”

She gestured to Clair, who was looking back and forth between the two of them, smiling uncertainly. “Is that what you’d rather see?” Vera asked.

Michael looked down at Clair. “There is no difference between what you described and what you’ve done,” he said quietly, returning his eyes to Vera’s. “You’ve just made it so you can’t hear her scream.”

A flicker of tension crossed Vera’s face, gone in an instant. “I can’t prevent all of the evil in the War,” she said. “This is a necessary task, it would have been done by another if not me. I can at least prevent some small quantity of suffering.”

Michael clenched a fist, feeling his pulse begin to pound in his ears. “Necessary.” he rasped. “Because you’ve named her an enemy? Is that all it takes?”

“Is that not a good reason?” Isolde asked, stepping forward to stand beside Vera. “She and her comrades are killers, Michael, and they kill Ardans. What we’re doing here is saving their would-be victims. I don’t know how you came to find yourself in their company, but they’re not your friends. They’re using you as a means to hurt more people.”

A sharp bark of laughter slipped past Michael’s lips. “Clair,” he said. “Have you told Vera why we were at Sever’s camp yet?”

Clair shook her head. “She never asked!” she said, looking at Vera with a self-satisfied smile. “We were tracking down documents proving that Michael’s father killed fifty thousand Daressans and blamed it on the Safid so that Mendian would attack them.”

“What?” Isolde snapped.

“Don’t you believe her?” Michael asked. “You’ve made sure she’ll tell you the truth, after all.”

“Not everything people believe to be true is true,” Vera said.

“This is,” Michael replied. “I walked through the ruins of Leik and saw the bodies there. We found those documents. I know my own father’s handwriting.” He took one more step, drawing within arm’s reach of the two women. “So would you break his mind too? I don’t see why not. He and his comrades are killers, Vera, and they kill Daressans. What we’re doing here is saving their would-be victims.”

Isolde and Vera exchanged a glance, and Vera cleared her throat. “Michael, I’m sorry - maybe we don’t know as much as we thought we did. Maybe we spoke out of turn. We’re willing to listen to you, just - let’s wait for Sofia and the others to get back, and we can talk about it together.”

“I don’t need your help to fix this,” Michael said. “Not Sofia’s, and certainly not Sever’s. I’m only here for Clair.”

“What will-” Vera paused, paling. “You intend to give your proof to the Safid? Or to Mendian?”

Isolde blanched, stepping back to look at Michael with alarm. “No, that can’t happen,” she said. “If what you’re saying is true - that will mean another Judgement of the Star, this time against Ardan troops. Thousands will die.”

“Thousands have already died,” Michael said. “Don’t they deserve their justice?”

“Then help us do this the right way!” Isolde shouted. “Bring your proof, come back to Ardalt. We can find a way to hold your father to account for what he’s done-”

Michael snorted. “What will you do, ask the Assembly? Whose plan do you think this is? Look me in the eye and tell me they’d do anything at all.”

“We don’t have all of the answers right now,” Vera said, laying a hand gently on Michael’s arm. “You’re right, it’s not going to be as simple as presenting the evidence - but we have allies. Sofia’s father is an influential man, and he can make sure we get a fair hearing. I know Carolus wouldn’t condone something like this, he’ll be on our side.”

She let her fingers trace downward, grabbing his hand in both of hers, a pleading expression on her face. “Please let us help you, Michael. There’s a path forward where nobody else has to die. We can find it together.”

Michael found himself nodding; Vera had a point. It would be messy, but with Sofia and her friends as allies they could bull through the obstacles his father’s faction would raise and get a fair hearing. He had been hasty in writing off all of Ardalt as corrupt; there were still some good people he could count on. People like Vera.

Vera smiled.

Michael smiled back and squeezed her hand - hard. She winced, looking up at him with sudden confusion. His jaw was set, teeth grinding as his hand gripped tighter, tighter, crushing down.

Her soul was insidious, less obvious than the deft manipulations that Spark had forced upon him - but he remembered well the greasy feeling of another soul slithering into his mind. Spark’s face swam in his vision, the memory of loss and confusion that followed surging through him in a wave that broke, fractured, splintered. A bare spot stood where once there had been a tree.

He felt fear. It was pulsing, acid, jittering through every nerve in his body - but it was not his fear. His eyes met Vera’s and found her petrified, her breath coming quick and her heart pounding in the veins of her hand as he squeezed, squeezed-

“Isolde,” Vera gasped. “Run. Run. Oh, no, no no-”

“Stay out of my head.”

Michael’s voice ripped through the air; Vera staggered and dropped to her knees. “Liar,” he rasped. “Hypocrite. I looked up to you. I-” The words sounded strange to his ears, resonant and clear as if hidden baffles had fallen away. His pulse was a bell tolling through the core of his being.

A hand grabbed his neck from the side; there was Isolde with her face set in grim determination, her glove lying discarded on the floor. A moment passed. Determination turned to confusion. Her soul scrabbled from the tips of her fingers, seeking purchase and finding only Stanza.

It pushed Isolde back along the paths she had made - then bled further into her hand, locking the joints and muscles stiff; confusion turned to panic as she realized she could not release her grip. Michael’s neck turned under her unyielding fingers, his eyes met hers.

Fear, fear. Isolde and Vera sang a siren chorus of terror. He felt Stanza stretching out into them, gripping the fabric of their being with inexorable force. Spark, exultant and free, spilling out from him with each breath. It was intoxicating. He breathed in and felt the room shudder, its every surface bending in anticipation of his will.

A third voice joined the song, thready and weak. Michael looked and saw Clair shivering, scrambling back from him across the floor. A fourth, Charles standing transfixed in the entryway. Vernon, trembling behind him. Sobriquet materializing between Michael and Clair, spreading its arms protectively.

Michael’s thoughts stumbled. The bell of his heart tolled a discordant note. Their fear was nearly tangible, a constant scream that drilled into his nerves with each passing heartbeat. He wanted to reach out, to make it stop - then recoiled from the thought.

He had very nearly killed everyone, just now.

A tremor ran through him, and he tried to regain his equilibrium. It had been so easy, so natural to stretch out his soul. Now the fear he felt mingled with his own, as he tried to extricate his questing soul from the blown-glass delicacy of his surroundings. Clair looked unharmed, but he felt Isolde flinch as her skin bloomed with fresh bruises, fractal patterns of burst capillaries and lacerated skin tracing up her arm. Michael grimaced and tried not to let it distract him.

Isolde’s hand released its grip at the same moment Michael’s did. Vera fell to the ground in a shuddering heap, her eyes rolling back in her head. Isolde pulled her away with her eyes fixed on Michael. He ignored them and turned to Sobriquet, spreading his own arms in a placating gesture.

“It’s me,” he said.

Sobriquet’s outline blurred, then snapped back to solidity. “Are you sure about that?” it asked. “Because I’m not.”

The tone of its voice struck Michael; there was no flourish, no emphasis. Serious, sharp and hard. He suspected that his fledgling alliance with Sobriquet was the only reason he was not unconscious on the floor right now. Another part of him wondered what would happen if Sobriquet tried. He quashed the thought and took a breath, closing his eyes.

Michael’s soul still roiled chaotically around him, ready to shift at his merest thought. Sobriquet had been right - he was not quite himself right now, still drunk on the heady thrill of dominion - but not control, he realized. It was sheer chance that he had not killed anyone today, and his luck would not hold if he did not do something about the rampant sprawl of his soul.

He did not think of the tree, nor of Jeorg. Instead, Michael focused on his body, drawing and reinforcing the line between himself and the world beyond. It was more taxing than he had anticipated; his mind rebelled against loosening his grip on his surroundings. It felt unsafe, unpredictable. Kicking down his instincts, he forced himself to concentrate on the demarcation. With glacial reticence his soul began to contract into himself until he stood feeling numb and blind within the room. He was whole, inviolate, separate.

Michael opened his eyes and nodded to Sobriquet. “It’s me,” he repeated, to himself as much as anyone. “Clair needs help. Can I go to her?”

Sobriquet hung motionless for a long moment, then drifted to the side. “I did say that I would trust you,” it murmured. “For today.”

Clair had huddled into the corner of the room, her eyes wide as Michael approached to crouch beside her. “I’m going to touch your hand,” he said, reaching out to do so. “Everything is going to be okay in a moment.”

He closed his eyes and breathed out once more, consciously relaxing a small segment of the barrier he had thrown up between him and the world. Slowly, carefully, he extended his soul into Clair, following the paths of her self back to where they naturally lay. Images floated through his mind of a small flat with brick walls and a cozy, crackling fireplace. A girl sat near it, holding a baby in her arms while their parents looked on with adoring smiles.

Michael felt a sudden, deep discomfort as he watched the loving family. It was more than just his intrusion into a moment of intimacy; he was suddenly reluctant to explore further and see the paths ahead of those children. He knew where they ended.

Slowly, he pushed forward. Jumbled impressions of explosions and gunfire shattered around him, a child’s memories of destruction and chaos. Bricks fell, fires died. The next clear image was of Clair, thin and dirty, gently leading a dark-haired toddler through a bread line.

Clair again, not much older. She walked with a rifle on her back among a small camp of rough-looking men, carrying two bowls of stew. A flash snapped her head up, an explosion shredded through the tents in front of her. She dropped the stew and screamed, charging toward the crater with panic in her eyes.

And again, haggard, fleeing from lights and the baying of hounds behind them with a thin, bloodied girl on her back. She stumbled and fell; her arm cracked and bent against the ground. “Have to go,” she mumbled deliriously, trying to lever herself up with her good arm. “Can’t stop. They’ll find us. They’ll find us.”

There was a gasp from the girl on her back, then a laugh - high and fever-bright, echoing through the forest. “No,” she said, her voice oddly distorted. “Not this time.”

The next images were a blur of smoke and violence. When they cleared, there stood Clair. Michael saw her creep through empty streets, sprint through battlefields. She flirted with an Ardan soldier and took him to the woods, returning alone. And again. Clair walked on a path strewn with bodies, her eyes focused ahead-

A choked sob ripped from her throat, and she scrambled back from Michael with panic in her eyes. He moved back, holding his hands up. “You’re all right,” he said. “Take a moment.”

Sobriquet floated close to her, its hands reaching out - then pausing, drawing back. “Clair,” it said. “Can you hear me?”

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“Sera?” she mumbled. “I - I dreamed about you.” Her eyes slid away from Sobriquet, staring dazedly around the tent until they settled on Isolde and Vera. Muscles clenched in her jaw.

Slowly, Clair rose to her feet.

Michael saw the look on her face and moved to stand between her and the other women; Sobriquet proved to be quicker. “We don’t have time,” it murmured, hovering in front of Clair. “We need to leave, now. Before the others return. We’ve stayed too long already.”

Clair stepped to the side, glaring down at Vera - then paused when she saw Vera’s half-lidded eyes and slack expression, the bloody saliva dripping from the corner of her mouth. Isolde looked up at Michael, tearstained and furious.

“What did you do?” she rasped. “I can’t fix her.”

Michael pressed his lips together, looking at the limp, shuddering woman in her arms. He felt a cold pit in his stomach. “She used her soul,” Michael said. “Mine pushed back. You felt it too.” He nodded to her arm, still webbed with blood and angry red flesh.

“Help her,” Isolde said. “Michael, she’s going to die. Whatever Vera may have done - please, don’t leave her like this. You owe her at least that much.”

Vera’s breath caught in her throat, a sick, wheezing gasp; Michael stepped close and crouched beside her.

“What are you doing?” Clair asked, disbelieving. “Leave her and let’s go.”

“I made that mistake once before,” Michael said. “This shouldn’t take long.” He reached out, his fingers hovering over Vera’s face - then touched her gently on the forehead. His soul stretched out through the mangled skein of her body, and Michael steeled himself to finish the work he had started. He would not leave Vera to suffer as he had Claude. That, at least, was within his power.

An odd resonance shivered through him, cold and tingling. Vera’s soul shifted within her; Michael’s focus was inexorably drawn to it.

“You’ve grown,” Vera said. “Far past the boy who once came to dinner.”

Michael found himself looking at her, standing whole and unharmed against an inky void. Behind her hung the soft lamp of her soul, and though its light was only middling it seemed to cast Vera’s face in a radiant glow.

He took a wary step backward. “What is this?” he asked.

“You’re asking me?” Vera laughed. “I can only speculate. I would imagine it is a matter of the soul, given the circumstances. Yours and - mine.” She turned to look, her eyes lingering for a long moment on the light burning behind her. When her eyes returned to Michael they were wet. “Is that really what they look like?”

“As far as I can tell,” Michael said.

Vera smiled, wiping at her eyes. “Beautiful,” she murmured. “Not a bad sight, if it is to be my last. Unless this is all part of you healing me?”

“I’m afraid not,” Michael said, finding the words unexpectedly difficult. “Whatever this is that’s causing us to talk, I wish it hadn’t happened. It’s pointless, there’s nothing for me to say. What you did was unforgivable. I won’t be responsible for you living on and inflicting that horror on others.”

He began to walk towards her, raising his hand. Her eyes widened. “Wait,” she said. “Please, wait. You’ve won, Michael - tell me what to do and I’ll do it. If you want me to stop using my soul on others I will.”

Michael shook his head. “I’m sorry, Vera,” he said. “But I don’t trust you. Even if I did, I couldn’t risk it; I wouldn’t be the one paying the price if I was wrong.” He closed the remaining distance and laid his hand on her shoulder. Her skin was warm, alive; his jaw clenched.

Her hand darted up towards his wrist, stopping just shy of grabbing it. Michael could feel her trembling, breathing hard under his grip. Vera let her arm fall to her side. “What if it wasn’t a risk?” she said. “I can feel it in you. This pull we have between us, between our souls - you’re like me. More. I recognized it in those last moments, even if I didn’t understand it.” Vera pushed forward, her eyes locked on Michael’s. “I still don’t understand it, but I can’t deny what I see. You have what was Spark’s. If you want me to keep my word, you don’t have to rely on trust.”

“Out of the question,” Michael spat, backing away from her. “Absolutely not. You want me to - what, mangle you further? Twist your mind into something it’s not?”

Vera advanced after him, pushing close. “I don’t share your horror for the concept,” she said. “Sofia’s father, Carolus - he drank to excess. He tried to stop, but found his will wanting. He came to me and asked me to help him change. Was that a mangling, a twisting, when I helped him?”

A touch of defiance colored Vera’s voice, her posture regaining some of its solidity. “One does not live as a Shine without gaining some perspective on what consciousness is. It is not something so easily marred. Change this small thing about me and I am still Vera in all of the ways that truly matter.”

“This isn’t a choice,” Michael whispered. “I’m not going to change you to suit my preference.”

Vera slapped him. It hurt - Michael was shocked that he could hurt in this half-real space. He rocked back on his heels as Vera leaned close, her face twisting with anger.

“This isn’t your preference,” she snarled, grabbing his arm. “This is my life we’re talking about. You have the power to spare me and you’re afraid of it.” She stepped back, glaring, then sank to her knees with her arms spread wide.

“Make me who you thought I was,” she said. “Before today. Cut out the parts that would force you to kill me. I don’t-” She swallowed, turning her head to look behind her, past her soul and into yawning oblivion.

“I’m not ready,” she said. A high note crept into her voice, and when she looked back at Michael her eyes held only fear. “I don’t want to die, Michael. Please. Change me, heal me - save me.”

Michael looked down at her, and Vera stared back. “If I do this to you,” he murmured, “then who is going to save me? Once I cross that line, what’s to stop me from becoming Spark?”

“You are already Spark,” Vera said. “The only question now is what sort of Spark you will be.” She rose and placed a hand on his cheek, gently, fingers trembling. “And whether or not there is a path forward for souls like ours, one you can bear to walk.”

Souls like ours. Michael’s mouth felt dry, his hands slowly curling into fists. He had failed at burying Spark away. Mendian might still help him, but after Leik he was not sure he wanted them to answer that question for him.

What sort of Spark would he be? If he could not see a way for Vera to live well, carrying the soul of a Shine - then what hope was there for him?

Michael reached up and laid his hand over Vera’s, pressing it to his cheek. “I can’t promise this will work,” he said. Red marks spread up Vera’s arm in fractal filigree, and light began a slow pulse in Michael’s eyes. “I’ve never done this before.”

Vera stiffened as Michael seized her body. “I have,” she gasped. “Look-”

Michael looked, and saw Vera. A quiet child in an empty home. Her life was mundane, if wealthy. Michael found it a familiar picture, in fact. Paid no mind by anyone but servants, she existed in companionable solitude. But where Michael had endured, Vera chafed. Her parents were unsouled, for all their riches, and did not hold the same terror for her that Michael’s father had exuded.

She drank and fought, spoke rudely to company, fled her home to dally with boys from the street. When these transgressions stopped provoking a response from her parents she escalated - theft, arson. She ran from home and did not return, a solitary existence among the multitudes.

And then one day, sitting alone on the street and letting the throngs pass by, she lifted her head to find everyone’s eyes on her. Compliments, propositions, idle conversation - everyone found her fascinating, intoxicating even in her ragged, dirty clothes.

Michael winced as the impressions became jumbled. Vera amid a tangle of bodies, drunkenly calling for more wine. Ordering men to steal for her, fight for her. It was an endless thrill of hedonism - and then everything went black, stifling.

Vera awoke in a sack, gagged and bound. When the darkness lifted the first faces she saw were Vincent and Jeorg. Michael felt a jolt at seeing Jeorg’s face with fewer lines than he remembered, some dark patches of hair still clinging to their color.

“Found out where those men had disappeared to,” Vincent said. “This one’s been keeping toys.”

Jeorg grunted and looked down at her. “Not one of José’s,” he said. “Interesting.”

Time blurred, and Jeorg and Vera walked down an orchard row. The sun was hot overhead, the trees showing the first green apples amid their leaves. “The mind draws the path that the soul follows,” Jeorg said. “Gives form to the soul. You have to know that form, to be able to control it.”

“I already know that,” Vera said. “My soul makes people like me.”

Jeorg smiled. “Does it?” he asked. “How?”

“It just does,” Vera said, scowling. “They talk to me, they want to get close.”

The two walked for a while, the sun filtering through the leaves overhead. “Knew a boy once,” Jeorg said. “Soul like yours. He couldn’t answer that question either.”

“But I did answer it,” Vera retorted.

Jeorg laughed and shook his head. “An answer,” he said. “Not the answer. I’ll tell you what I told him.” He stopped walking, turning to face Vera with an oddly-serious look on his face. “Your soul doesn’t make people enjoy your company. Doesn’t make them love you. It makes them stay by you, no more. Makes them pay attention.”

Vera rocked back on her heels, looking stung. “People have fallen in love with me,” she objected.

“People will fall in love with anything,” Jeorg grunted. “Especially young men. Doesn’t mean they care about it. They care about themselves. How it makes them feel.” He raised an eyebrow at Vera. “Your soul doesn’t care about how they feel. Cares about what you want, nothing more. You want attention. It delivers.”

The two walked along quietly, tears marking Vera’s cheeks. “Is that what you think of me?” she asked. “I’m not a bad person.”

“Of course you’re not,” Jeorg said, pausing and turning to her. One wrinkled hand gently lifted her face up to him. “But not a good person either. Just a person, and a young one. People are selfish. They want what they want. Difference is, you have a soul. You get what you want.”

“Even if it hurts others,” Vera whispered.

He smiled and stepped back. “There’s no secret to preventing your soul from harming others. You know how to do it. Just remember that they are people. Care about their future. Want what is good for them. Love them.”

Vera stopped and gave Jeorg an incredulous look. “That seems too simple,” she protested. “It can’t be that easy.”

“Is it?” Jeorg asked, flashing her a knowing smile. “We always put ourselves first. Hard to be mindful, to step back and think of others. Hard to truly understand them. Hard, but not impossible. Learn to do it, and you will never have to fear your soul.”

Michael’s head pounded amid the stream of impressions, mind racing with Jeorg’s words. Jeorg had asked him to describe an apple once, when attempting to explain souls. His answer had made Jeorg laugh, and chide him for only understanding the apple’s importance to him - not the apple’s importance to itself.

He felt the ineffable sensation of things clicking into place in his head, saw Vera looking up at him as she realized he intended to tell Mendian of their proof - only this time he felt her fear, her panicked realization that Michael was about to set things in motion that she could not predict. Her decision to influence him, to stoke his trust so that she could involve others and mitigate the damage.

Michael didn’t agree with Vera - but he understood.

Two things manifested with razor clarity in that moment of revelation. The first was that he could never force Vera to be what he wanted her to be. Trying to block her from using her soul or imposing Michael’s restrictions on its use was ham-handed, doomed to failure - and every bit as destructive as Michael had feared it to be.

But the second was that he did not have to do that. He was in the present once more, staring into Vera’s frightened eyes. Michael could feel her fear. He could feel her hope - and nestled within, the image of the woman she hoped she would be when Michael was through.

He stirred the part of his soul that was Spark. It was of Life, like Stanza, and more similar than he had first assumed. Like Spark, Stanza was a tool that could break and shatter, bend and tear unnaturally - and like Stanza, Spark could grow.

So Michael focused on the image of Vera as she knew she could be and made it stronger, brighter, unforgettable. He found her remorse over those she had forced her soul upon and bade it flourish to prominence. And last, he found her growing suspicion that Michael had changed her in some fundamental way and stoked it into a certainty.

Then he opened his eyes.

Vera sat upright with a shuddering gasp, grabbing on to Isolde with enough strength to make her wince. Michael stood and looked down at her, watching the tears start to flow from her eyes - then looked up at Sobriquet, hovering just beside him.

“I thought you were going to kill her,” Sobriquet said with nearly-worrying calm. “It’s the only reason I didn’t, after what she did to Clair.”

Michael rubbed at his eyes, feeling a sudden wave of fatigue wash over him. “I learned some things,” he said. “I’ll explain later. Where is Clair, anyway?”

“I had the other three leave,” Sobriquet said. “No point in them lingering - and you should go too. You’ve stayed far too-”

A loud bang sounded from the door, which burst apart to reveal a sweaty and disheveled Friedrich, fresh from a hard ride. His eyes darted immediately to Michael and Sobriquet, then narrowed. “You,” he said, idly rubbing his fingers across the bruise on his cheek. “I was hoping we would meet once more.”

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