Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ten.

The stars never got any closer.

The sky seemed so full, with countless pinpricks of light in every direction as far as could be seen, measured, or imagined, but it was a lie. The truth was that space was cold, empty, and infinite. Though the number of worlds he had walked upon and the number of eyes he opened to the light of Horde Prime were greater than any of his brothers, he had still only scratched the surface of what remained. There was always more, and so it would always be.

Nine.

The planet they were bound for now was no different - or would be, in the end. Some would resist, but they would be made to see. Horde Prime was the only refuge from the cold, empty, infinite universe that surrounded them: the order in the chaos, the song in the silence, the light in the darkness. They all saw, in the end.

Eight.

The clone looked away from the endless void, down to the screen that tracked the movements of his brothers’ ships. The squadron was flying in perfect formation, as could only be expected from Prime’s brothers and commands. Prime would accept no less. As he should not , the clone thought. Prime was perfection. The idea that any of his creations or decrees might not be was unacceptable.

Seven.

That was why he had to go.

The clone was being sent to the front lines, to a planet that had proven particularly troublesome to Prime. The loss of life was sure to prove great, on both sides. In another time, he would have believed his selection for this mission to be one of military strategy; after all, had he not won innumerable battles as Prime’s general? That, of course, was before his defect became too much to hide. Defects had no place in the perfect light of Prime, and so must be eliminated. Perhaps, in death, he could bring the glory to Prime that his imperfect existence could not.

Six.

It would not be long now. He could probably measure the time he had left in heartbeats. They would jump directly into the planet’s upper atmosphere, an apparently superfluous action as the Horde already had a blockade around it, but that was exactly why it would work: their enemies were focused on the ships surrounding them, and would not suspect an attack from behind. Such a jump was dangerous: if their calculations were off by even a fraction, their ships would be torn apart by atmospheric drag, or they might teleport directly into the planet’s core. Such outcomes were of little concern to Prime. The clones were expendable, and their mission was to die - preferably while weakening the enemy’s forces, but if not, Prime would simply send more.

Five.

It was time. The voice delivering the countdown inside the clone’s mind was his, but not his alone: it was the Hive, the shared consciousness that connected all his brothers to their maker. The clone’s long, clawed finger reached out to activate his ship’s portal generator. In seconds, he would pass through, and spend what remained of his flawed, imperfect existence in service to his lord.

Four.

The clone’s gaze left the instrument panel and returned ahead, where new shapes and colors were beginning to swirl amongst the backdrop of stars. He fought to keep fear out of his mind. His death would honor Prime. That was all that mattered. That was all there was .

Three.

Accelerate, brothers. The clone eased the throttle forward. These portals must be entered at a certain speed, otherwise they would collapse before the ships were all the way through.

Two.

It happened as it always did: without warning, without regard, and without any way to fight it.

The clone’s body seized, his face contorted with pain. Every nerve in his imperfect body burned with the fire of those hateful, accursed stars. The hand on the throttle jerked wildly, causing his ship to spin. A cable snapped in the sudden movement, landing on the instrument panel and sending sparks flying. No… no…

One.

“NOOOOOO!”

The cry came not from within, but from his own lips. The clone howled his fury and despair as he passed through the portal. His defect had cost him his rightful place at Horde Prime’s side, and now, it would deny him even the chance to bring glory to Prime in a warrior’s death. He clenched his teeth, hissing, and forced his eyes to open. His ship rattled around him as the portal’s forces tore at its rivets, and the flashing light made it impossible to see what was happening, but he would not close them. He would not cower. He would face his end like the warrior he was.

It did not come.

The light faded. There was a planet, but it was not the one for which he had been bound. It was smaller, greener, with twelve moons in orbit around it and no center star. There was also something mysterious, indistinct, and decidedly wrong about it. He had barely time enough to register the planet’s presence and wrongness, as well as his continued existence, before he realized he was approaching it fast.

Too fast.

The clone seized the throttle and pulled back, but the ship did not slow. His instrument panel was dark and cracked. Cables swung and sparked, brushing against him and sending shocks throughout his body that were nearly as painful as his seizure, but short-lived by comparison. It forced him to be aware of his surroundings, and pulled his mind back to his purpose. He seized a handful of cables, looked ahead to the fast-encroaching planet, and in a split second, made a decision.

If I cannot die in service to Prime, then I will not die today.

It was growing hot. The ship was entering the atmosphere. If he did not get his heat shield back online, he would disintegrate. There was no time or means to bring the main power back online, but the heat shields had a backup, a second auxiliary source in the event of primary system failure - if it could be activated. He looked at the cables clenched in his hand, and with the other, tore off a panel just above the throttle. The wiring was largely intact, but had no power. The clone knew what he must do, and there was no time to hesitate. 

He tightened his grip on the sparking cables and jammed his fingers into the circuit board, using his own body as a conduit. It was pain beyond imagination, worse even than the defect, and yet, he endured, for he knew this was the only way he could fulfill his purpose. A light came to life on the instrument panel, and the heat lessened. He had done it! The realization gave him the strength to let go of the cables, or perhaps he had merely lost the ability to hold on any longer; he could not be sure. Darkness clouded the edges of his vision. He could see mountains rising up below him, jagged and rocky. Even further in the distance was a column of smoke. A natural phenomenon? Or, perhaps, the sign of some primitive civilization?

There was no time to further consider the implications. The clone’s body jerked back as the ship’s emergency parachute slowed his descent. The light that had come to life when the heat shield re-engaged flickered, and then went out. He was at the mercy of gravity now, and the fast-approaching ground below. An outcrop of rock seemingly appeared from nowhere and scraped the underside of his ship, jostling the clone and causing more pieces of the interior to fall and spark, but the impact was not enough to tear the ship apart. Not yet, anyway. The next two bumps were longer, harder, relentless in their beating against whatever structural integrity still remained. The clone fought to keep his eyes open. I will prevail, brother, he promised. I will fight. I will bring you glory.

Another thought, unwelcome and unbidden, whispered its truth in his mind: How can you bring the light of Prime to the universe when you cannot even save yourself?

The world went dark. Quiet. Motionless.

And yet, he endured.

The clone opened his eyes, gasped, and nearly choked. The glass that protected his cockpit was completely shattered, allowing him to become saturated in the planet’s air. He needed very little atmospheric elements to support his life functions, but it was still necessary, and the taste of it was so vile that he could hardly bear to take another breath. He must, though, just as he must find a way out of here - wherever here was. Stone crags rose high on all sides, and there was no obvious frame of reference he could use to define north, south, east, and west. He would have to climb to the top to get his bearings. It should be a simple enough task, if he could find the strength to get out of his ship.

The clone’s hands were shaking, and his fingers were unresponsive to his wish for them to bend. He scraped his claws against the mechanism to release his restraints, which, mercifully, was enough. He stumbled from the wreckage, managing only a few steps before he collapsed. He clutched at his chest, panting, and rolled onto his back. The sky above him was dark but for the dim glow of two moons, which would have - should have - been too weak to outshine the stars, and yet, he could see none. The question of where they were was far less important than that of where he was, for he could not remember seeing any planet that matched this one in the Horde’s archives. Perhaps his brothers back on the Velvet Glove could discover this for him, once they knew where he was. The clone reached out with his mind to find them, to let them know, but he was met only with silence.

He blinked, confused. He had certainly gone far beyond his intended destination, but that should have made no difference. Distance did not matter to the Hive; he had always been able to tap into their shared consciousness from anywhere. But not now. Not in this strange place, with its moons and its foul air and its lingering wrongness. There was no place in the universe Horde Prime could not reach. Which could only mean…

Now, he howled.

He was alone. The imperfections for which his maker cast him aside had exacted their cruelest punishment yet. He was alone. Prime would never find him here, for this place, whatever it was, stood outside his universe. It should have been impossible, and yet, here he was.

The stars were gone, and he was alone.

Chapter Text

By the time the clone made his way out of the valley, one moon had set and two others drifted across the sky in its place, lighting his path as well as any sun. These moons were larger, or closer, or both; later, he would need to study their movements and determine the cycles. The clone did not delude himself with notions that he would only be on this planet for a short time. In order to make his way back to Prime, he would need resources, and all he had right now was a broken ship. He wasn’t exactly sure where to begin, but the column of smoke he’d seen during his descent gave him a place to start.

The smoke was still some ways off - over the next rise, if he was reading the lay of the land correctly - and for the last few hours, had grown markedly thicker. The clone pressed on, experiencing the occasional twinge of pain from his defect, but thus far, nothing like the attack right before he entered the portal. He had examined his body after his moment of despair, finding several new scars from the crash and the events leading up to it, but on the whole, he was in far better shape than his ship. He managed to salvage one of the energy guns to serve as protection if he were to encounter hostiles. It was one of the few pieces of the ship that was good for anything more than scrap, but just barely. Power reserves were dangerously low; he estimated enough for three, maybe four blasts. If he was forced to use it, he needed to make every shot count.

He pressed on, and the twinges grew fewer and farther between. It was bad enough that he was defective, worse still that it was so unpredictable . He could go weeks without an attack, or experience several in a single day. Had there been some pattern, he might have been able to hide it from Prime; not indefinitely, of course, but longer. Long enough to win several key battles for which he’d been preparing before his body betrayed him. Prime could have seen that he was still useful despite the defect. The clone’s body was flawed, but his mind was intact, and it was the mind that won wars.

You’ll need that now , he reminded himself. He was nearly to the top of the rise, beyond which the smoke cloud rose black and billowing, raining ash down upon him. He could even hear voices now, the words indistinct, but the meaning clear in the tone: screams, taunts, crying, laughter. The attacker, and the attacked. Crossing the rise and taking in the scene below revealed a village engulfed in flame, figures darting haphazardly through the rubble and striking at each other with sword, shield, and on some of them, tail. Had he overshot one war zone only to land in another? This was not the worst possible outcome; in fact, it was almost favorable. The clone might not know this planet, but he knew war.

War never changes. 

A critical part of war was choosing one’s battles. The clone knew right away that this was not a battle in which he should get involved. He could let these creatures fight each other and deal with whatever was left standing, or he could bypass them entirely. The second option was more attractive - he needed to know what the creatures were capable of before he could effectively engage them - but it would be difficult. He could go back the way he came and try to bypass it, but the rugged terrain in both directions would be difficult and possibly dangerous to cross. He needed supplies: weapons, a transport, technology. The structures on the outskirts of the village  were less damaged, and seemed to be of little concern to the invading faction. He would make his way there, salvage what he could, and slip away in the confusion. They would not even notice.

Having committed to a plan, the clone spent a moment watching the clash below, and felt a frown tugging at his lips. The creatures fought without order. Based on the thickness of the smoke and the extent of the worst damage, this battle had been waging for several hours - probably ever since the rise of the bright moons. The attackers could have won by now, or the defenders could have driven them off, had either been able to rally their forces and approach the situation with logic. He would have burned the outer buildings first, trapping his enemies inside a perimeter of flame, and picked them off at leisure. Did all those on this planet go into battle with such little regard for strategy? It would make them easy to fight… and what a prize this would be to present to Horde Prime, to conquer an entire planet alone and in spite of his defect. He would find a way. It was his purpose.

But first, he still needed resources.

The clone slid down the embankment, hiding behind the occasional boulder or outcrop to conceal his position, but conflict below seemed to occupy the full interest of the village’s combatants. His path was unobstructed by any structure such as walls or trenches. Four sentry towers at each corner of the village indicated that the inhabitants did not rely solely on natural formations to protect them, though what good it had served them was unclear. Not enough to prevent an attack, obviously, but perhaps its purpose was to raise an alarm and warn the villagers to evacuate. All were abandoned now. Two were on fire. He made his way toward the closest one and encountered the first casualty at its base: a creature similar to his own in basic form, with two arms, two legs, and roughly the same proportions. He did not pause to study it; he was far more interested in the two-pronged spear it carried. 

The weapon was wrought in silver, inlaid with blue-green enamel which seemed to serve no purpose beyond decoration, but sound enough despite the unnecessary embellishment and suitable for his purposes. The clone took the spear in his dominant right hand and shifted the gun to his left. He tested its weight and balance with a few practice thrusts, and, finding it acceptable, pressed onward. The path through the settlement was more difficult to navigate than he anticipated, as the structures appeared to have been constructed at random, and he found himself forced to take a path that was closer to the center of the village than he would have preferred. The sounds of battle grew louder. He knew he should stay away, but curiosity tugged at his mind. How did they fight? Would he be able to hold his own against them?

A sudden pounding and a cry of " Help me! Help !" caught his attention, and he turned toward its source. A smoldering beam had fallen across the doorway of one of the structures, trapping whoever was still inside. The clone ignored it and pressed on. What he could not ignore was the dead end he encountered at the next turn in his chosen path. He hissed his frustration and backtracked toward the noise, only to encounter not one, but three of the creatures resembling the one from which he'd taken the spear, each carrying a similar implement. Surprise registered on their faces for an instant, but quickly passed when the one in the center issued a command: "Get it!"

The two creatures on either side rushed at him, forked spears extended. The clone dropped his gun and used both his hands to hold his spear horizontal in front of him, meeting both of his attackers' weapons between the prongs. A simple twisting motion caused one to stumble, while the other lost his grip entirely. The clone stepped back and swept the legs out from underneath the one who was off-balance. A half-spin channeled the momentum from strike into an upward arc, which he brought down into a strike on the head of the one he'd disarmed, knocking it unconscious. The one in the center made a noise of disbelief and stepped back, as if unsure if it wanted to further engage. Good , the clone thought, and smiled for the first time in days. First contact was successful: he had established his martial superiority. The creature feared him. The rest would be easy.

The one on the ground made an attempt to stand, a movement quickly halted when the clone jabbed the back of its neck with the butt of his spear. The order-giver looked at its unconscious companions and took another step back. It seemed as if it was about to run away, but before it could, six more that resembled it appeared. The clone felt his smile shift into a frown. Skill in combat was important, but numbers still mattered. If they surrounded him…

The creatures seemed to be thinking along the same lines. They spread out to form a circle around him, but the clone acted before it was complete. He lunged at one, knocking its spear aside, and seized it around the neck as he batted away the spear of another, then threw the one he'd grabbed at it. The creature's foot struck the cast-off gun, and the clone dropped to the ground as the blast went off. The energy bolt struck the wall of the structure with the beam that blocked the door, and in the resulting hole, a lone figure appeared, an expression of mixed surprise and confusion on its face. This one looked different than the others; it also had two legs, but instead of hands, its arms ended in large red pincers that began at its elbows, and a segmented tail that extended behind it and curved upward. Once it realized it was free, it darted out of the structure, but further escape was blocked by the attackers. The clone took advantage of the distraction to incapacitate two more of his assailants. Two others aimed their spears at the clawed one, forcing it closer to the clone. He scowled. If this thing prevented his escape…

The two the clone had thrown recovered their balance, quickly rejoining their fellows and attempting to circle both him and the clawed one. The clone chanced a look at this new creature, the apparent enemy of his enemy. Now that he could see it closer, he saw that it was feminine in form, black-haired, and not quite an adult, despite being as tall as one. She quickly sized him up as well, but had the sense to recognize the danger they were in and kept her eyes on the attackers after the first cursory glance. That did not prevent her from speech, though. “You’re not from Salineas,” she said. “What - who are you?”

He neither knew nor cared what a Salineas was, and this was no time for foolish questions. “Stay out of my way,” he hissed.

The remaining five attackers lunged at once. Had their movements been coordinated, or if they'd gotten closer before making their rush, the clone knew he would be dead. The creatures lacked order, as if they were fighting a common brawl. Spear clanged against spear as the clone took on three at once, successfully parrying strikes from two of them, but not the third. A shaft struck him the back of the knee, causing him to drop to a kneeling position with a grunt. He flung himself to the side just in time to dodge the fork of his attacker's spear, and managed pick up his gun mid-roll. Coming out of the roll, the clone fired. The energy bolt hit one of creatures in the shoulder - not a fatal blow, but the resulting shock to its system would render it unconscious for at least the duration of the battle. Four to go . The clone picked up a spear and took aim.

Meanwhile,the other two had gone after the clawed girl. She struck one in the back of the neck with her tail, and it immediately crumpled to the ground. Another rushed at her with his spear, which she caught in her pincers. In their struggle, the creature pushed the girl into the clone just as he let his spear fly. It sailed harmlessly past his target. Another attacker thrust his spear at the clone's chest, exposed after his futile throw, and the clone had no choice but to raise his gun to shield himself. The sharp prongs pierced his weapon, rendering it as useless and broken as the rest of his ship. The clone's shout of rage and frustration, however, was lost beneath another sound: the blast of a horn. The clawed girl's eyes widened with hope. "They came…"

The clone seized the spear embedded in his gun and spun it in an arc, bringing it down on the head of the attacker. It crumpled, and the clone whirled around to face the remaining three. They were starting to back away, apparently having lost their nerve at the sound of the horn. "Reinforcements!" one said, confirming the clone's suspicion. "We have to get out of here!"

The clone took advantage of the distraction to continue his assault, and the clawed girl had the wit to do the same. She struck at one with her tail, and though it blocked the attack with its spear, it served as the perfect distraction for the clone to seize an opening and slam the shaft of his spear into its chest. The creature doubled over, and the clawed girl's next tail strike made contact. She and the clone looked at each other, then at the remaining two invaders. He raised his spear, and she clacked her pincers. It was enough. The attackers dropped their spears, turned, and ran. The girl raised a claw and let out a whoop of triumph. "We did it!" she exclaimed. "Thank you, mister, uh… Hi. I'm Selkis. What's your name?"

The clone blinked. He had never been asked such a stupid question.

"You saved my life," she went on. "Who are you? Where did you come from? How did - hey, where are you going?"

The clone turned and began walking in the opposite direction. He had wasted enough time here. He went down an alley, around a corner… and found himself face-to-face with a dozen more of the clawed creatures. He had barely enough time to register their presence, and none to react as the barbed end of a tail struck him in the chest.

The world went dark.

When the clone stirred back to consciousness, he found himself lying on the ground, hands bound behind him and a collar attached to a long pole around his neck. His vision was clouded, allowing him to only make out shapes and colors at first, but was improving by the second. "... flooded the tunnels, so we couldn't escape," the clawed girl was saying to someone. "By the time we realized it, we were too late."

"Who are they, Captain Memmon?"

His vision sharpened enough to see one of clawed ones - a full adult, by the look of it, with brown pincers and a thick red beard - kneeling beside one of the unconscious attackers and examining it. He stood, clutching a paper in one claw and a small pouch in the other. “Mercenaries, bearing the crest and coin of King Marinus.” He spat, and his compatriots hissed. “Salineas will pay dearly for the scars they’ve left on the Fright Zone.” He looked at the girl, and both his tone and expression softened. “Come with us to Horror Hall, child. There is nothing left for you here. King Weha will see that you are provided for.”

She nodded, eyes downcast, but shoulders set straight in acceptance of her fate. The leader turned his attention now to the clone, and his eyes were without a trace of the sympathy he had shown the girl. “What monstrous depths did the sea king fish you up from?” he muttered.

“What should we do with it?” another soldier asked.

The captain studied the clone’s face for a moment, then made his decision. “Kill it.”

“No!” cried the girl. The captain turned around to look at her, and she took several steps toward him. “He’s not with Salineas. He fought them off!” She clasped her pincers together at chest level. “He saved me. Please, take him to the king, too. He deserves to be honored.”

The leader remained still for a moment, then indicated his decision with a nod of his head. “Very well. Bring him, and we shall let the king decide his fate.”

Chapter Text

"Are you even listening to me, Ishara?"

The princess whirled around, eyes wide with surprise. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "I'm sorry, Father." She turned away from the rail of her balcony and the column of smoke in the distance, brow furrowed in concern. "I was thinking about Arachnis. There's so much smoke rising from the village. Do you think…"

King Weha placed a claw on her shoulder in a gesture of encouragement. Ishara always thought of her people first. It was one of her many qualities that made him so proud to call her his daughter. "Captain Memmon and his Sting Squad are the finest warriors in the Fright Zone," he reminded her. "Whatever trouble has befallen Arachnis, they will resolve it."

"If they got there in time," she muttered.

She was not wrong, but she needed to learn not to dwell on what they could not control. They had sent their forces out as soon as they received the distress call from Arachnis, and he knew its people were skilled fighters in their own right. The captain of the town watch had been a friend of his, in their youth. They could do nothing now but wait. But that was not the reason he had sought his daughter out. It was a special day for her, and he did not want the occasion to be marked with sorrow. "I have something for you," the king said. "It belonged to your grandmother."

The concern on Ishara's face became mixed with curiosity. King Weha retrieved a long, flat box from within his cloak and held it out to her. "It's tradition for the crown princess to receive something from the royal jewels on her sixteenth birthday,” he explained. "Before she died, my mother left this with me to hold in trust if I ever had a daughter. It's yours now."

Ishara accepted the box and carefully opened it to reveal a large garnet pendant on a gold chain. “Oh…” She nudged it with her claw, its faceted surface glittering in the afternoon light. “Father, I… does this mean the Runestone… no, it couldn’t…”

“No, I’m afraid not,” the king admitted. His mother was widely acknowledged as the last elemental princess of the scorpion kingdom. Weha, the only child, had been younger than Ishara was now when his mother died, and with no princess to which the connection could pass, the power of the Black Garnet went dark. “The garnet is still the symbol of our kingdom, and this necklace still represents our legacy. You are as brave, loyal, wise, and just as any of the princesses that came before you. I am very proud of you, Ishara. You will make a wonderful queen when your time comes.”

She closed her eyes and hugged the jewel to her chest, embracing not just the garnet, but her destiny. “Thank you, Father.”

“Here, let me put it on you.” The king took the necklace back from his daughter and slid the long chain over her silver-white hair; he then stepped behind her and adjusted the slide clasp until the pendant rested at her throat. Ishara turned around to face him, and he nodded approvingly. “Yes, it suits you.”

“Your Majesty! Princess!”

Father and daughter both looked up to see Sargon, captain of the royal guard, hurrying toward them. “Captain Memmon and his company have returned from Arachnis,” he announced. “They’ve brought a survivor… and a prisoner.”

“Thank you, Sargon,” said the king. “Inform Memmon that the princess and I will address them in the throne room.”

The guard nodded and left to carry out his order. King Weha, seeing his daughter’s brow knotted with concern again, said gently, “‘A’ survivor does not mean there were no others, Ishara.”

“I know, I know,” she said. “I just…” She took a deep breath. “We should make ready to receive our guests. The captain and his soldiers have had a long day.”

“I would like you to take the lead in welcoming them.”

Ishara straightened and looked at him, surprised. “Me? But I…”

“You are ready,” the king assured her. “You’re going to be queen one day. Whatever outcome the captain has to report, you’ll face greater challenges and more difficult decisions in the days ahead.” He put a clawed arm around her shoulders and gave her a quick embrace of encouragement. “And I will do my very best to assure you don’t have to face them alone. Come, Ishara. They are waiting.”

Chapter Text

Horror Hall. Princess Ishara had never liked the name of her family’s ancestral home, and that of their kingdom, the Fright Zone, was not much better. According to legend, Horror Hall had been called that by the rulers of another Etherian kingdom - no one was sure which, though most agreed it originated with either Bright Moon or Plumeria - as a way to mock the Scorpioni, whose sharp pincers and stinging tails had always made the other races uncomfortable. Ishara’s ancestor, Queen Scorpia II, Scorpia the Great, had found the names terribly amusing. Let us be the Fright Zone, she had declared. Let us rule from Horror Hall. These names were a gift from our "friends" and "allies," and it would be rude not to use them. Ishara didn’t follow the logic, but Queen Scorpia had lived hundreds of years ago and would not be changing her mind. Despite its fearsome name, Horror Hall was a beautiful place, with high stone columns, fine tapestries, and a majestic portrait of the royal family on the wall behind which she and her father sat enthroned. The rest of Etheria would see that someday. She would see to it.

But first, she needed to see to her guests.

Red-bearded Captain Memmon, face devoid of all amusement as usual, led the procession. At his right was a tall girl who, once Ishara got a good look at her, seemed to be near her own age. Behind them, a dozen or so soldiers surrounded a figure that Ishara could not clearly see. She assumed this must be the prisoner Sargon mentioned, and if so, they must be very dangerous to warrant so many guards. Memmon, the girl, and the others bowed low when they reached the steps at the base of the throne platform - someone must have forced the prisoner to bow as well, since she still could not see them - and rose again when she spoke her words of greeting. “Welcome, Captain Memmon. You and your fellows are honored guests of Horror Hall. What news do you bring of your mission?”

If Memmon was surprised to be addressed by the princess rather than her father, he had the sense not to show it beyond a brief glance at the king before he answered the question. “I’m sorry, Your Highness,” he said. “Arachnis is gone.”

Ishara clenched her claws and took several breaths to quell the scream of despair that threatened to issue forth. “Tell me how this came to be.”

“That tale would be told best by the one who was there,” Memmon replied, indicating the tall girl. “She was the only survivor we were able to find.”

“What is your name?” the princess asked.

“Selkis, Your Highness,” she answered.

Ishara smiled in what she hoped was a kindly way. “Can you tell us what happened, Selkis?”

The girl made a half-nod, half-shake motion with her head, then shrugged. “I’m afraid I don’t know that much, Princess. Our house was on the far end of the village and we didn’t hear the alarms at first. When we realized what was going on, my parents told us to stay put and if they didn’t come back in fifteen minutes, to evacuate into the tunnels.”

Ishara had never visited the tunnels of Arachnis, but she’d studied them. The village had an extensive system of pathways running beneath it that came out on the far side of the mountain against which Arachnis had been built. With only one road in or out of the village, it was the fastest and easiest way to escape. “Did they come back?” she asked, though she feared she already knew the answer.

“No,” Selkis confirmed. “I took my little brother and ran to the closest entrance to the tunnels, the one at the end of our street. Everyone else had the same idea, and it was so crowded and confusing, and there was so much smoke… I told him not to let go of my claw, but he did, and we got separated. Luckily - at the time, I thought - our neighbor found him. I couldn’t get to her, and she couldn’t get to me, but she was ahead of me in the crowd and promised to get him to the tunnels. Then a group of the mercenaries from Salineas appeared, and the last time I saw my brother, he was going into the tunnels. I thought he was safe, so I ran. The mercenaries weren’t really interested in anyone going into the tunnels, which I thought was weird until… until I found another entrance on the other side of town.” She stopped for a moment, and looked at the floor. “They flooded the tunnels. No one who went in made it out.”

Ishara felt like she was going to throw up.

In what was clearly a testament to her enormous courage, Selkis managed to look at the princess again and keep telling her story. “I knew I wouldn’t last if I tried to fight in the streets, so I thought maybe I could hide somewhere. There weren’t as many fires on the outskirts, so I found a house and went inside. I’m not sure how long I was there, but they eventually set it on fire, too. I tried to escape, but something was blocking the door, and I got trapped. Just before the captain got there, a stranger set me free and fought the mercenaries, and… and now we’re here.”

Ishara got up from her throne, walked straight over to the tall girl, and threw her arms around her. Selkis fell to her knees, sobbing, and clung to the princess around her waist. “It’s okay,” Ishara whispered, and stroked her black hair soothingly. “You’re here with us now. We’re going to keep you safe. It’s okay…”

The princess continued to hold tight to Selkis, but her next words were for Memmon. “Captain,” she hissed through clenched teeth, “I sincerely hope it is one of the mercenaries you have there, so we can send their head to King Marinus on a spike!”

“Not exactly, Your Highness.”

Memmon raised his claw, and his soldiers parted to reveal their prisoner. Ishara flinched at the sight of it. The creature was certainly hideous, with mottled blue and white skin, black-rimmed red eyes that glowed slightly, a tuft of blue hair at the top of its head, and large, bat-like ears sticking out from its angular face. Its red teeth were barred in a snarl, revealing small fangs. A long pole attached to a collar around its neck allowed Memmon's soldiers to control its movements. Its arms were bound behind it, and it was kneeling, but if it were to stand Ishara thought it would be taller than any of them, even her father. “What is it?” the princess asked. “It’s not from Salineas, is it?”

“No, it’s not,” Memmon answered. “I don’t know what it is. It refuses to speak. I wanted to kill it back in Arachnis, but the girl…”

“He saved me,” Selkis muttered into Ishara’s skirts. She released her hold on the princess and stood up, wiping her eyes with the back of a claw. “When I was trapped in the house, he blew a hole in the wall and freed me. He was taking on seven of them at once when I got out. He probably could have beaten them on his own, too. Together, we drove them off right before Captain Memmon got there.” She paused, then added, “I wish I could fight like he can. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Is that so?” Ishara studied the creature with new appreciation. “In that case, I believe a reward is owed. Captain, why are its hands still bound?”

“Because it’s tried to bite anyone that gets close, Your Highness,” explained Memmon.

It suddenly occurred to Ishara that she was being very rude, talking above the one who’d saved Selkis and calling him “it.” She approached the prisoner, stopping well outside biting range, and addressed him directly for the first time. “What is your name, stranger?”

The creature just stared at her, but his expression grew less hostile. He almost look confused.

“The princess asked you a question, outlander!” Captain Memmon snapped, and jerked the pole attached to his neck. He hissed and glared at the captain. “I know you understand us. Answer her!”

"Peace, Captain," said the princess. She attempted a smile, though the despair on her heart for Arachnis and the grotesque appearance of the stranger made that difficult. "Please, tell me your name."

He stared back at her, unmoving, then spoke at last. “It would be ineffective.”

Ishara blinked several times and shook her head. That was not a response she expected. “I - what ?"

"Sending your enemy king a head on a spike," the creature said. "It would be ineffective. An intimidation tactic is only effective when you are the victor. Whatever happened in that village, you lost. Your enemy sent hired mercenaries, not his own soldiers, which means he did not care about the outcome one way or the other. He was after information, which he now has. He won. He was always going to win, even if you had somehow managed to slaughter every one of them, and he will not be moved by a gesture of intimidation. Save yourselves the effort. It would be ineffective."

His voice was surprisingly pleasant: smooth and deep, and with a certain authority bordering on arrogance that made him seem the equal of a king. It was a voice that belied his ugliness, and she found herself wanting to hear more. Her next question came out in a whisper. "Who are you?"

He finally appeared ready to answer, though the one he gave raised more questions than it answered. "I am a vessel, made in the image of Horde Prime to carry his message of enlightenment to the universe."

"I'm afraid we've never heard of any Horde Prime here on Etheria," replied Ishara. "How did you come to be in Arachnis?"

The creature regaled a tale of such absurdity that Ishara could scarcely believe it: of falling through the heavens through a portal from another universe, crash landing, and going toward the smoke rising from Arachnis because he assumed it was a sign of civilization. From there, he had become entangled in the conflict by chance, and fought in self-defense. She decided that they would have to investigate this alleged crash site to see if he was telling the truth. On the whole, the story lined up with what Selkis had said and what they had been able to observe, but it was still so much they were being asked to believe. Worlds beyond their own? Other dimensions? A sky full of stars, each with planets and peoples bent to the will of an all-powerful warlord? Ishara wasn't sure how much of this was true, or how much she wanted to believe, but of two things, she was certain: that this creature was not of their world, and he knew how to fight.

King Weha stepped up beside his daughter and spoke for the first time in the assembly. "Tell me of Horde Prime."

Now, at last, the creature spoke freely. Reverence was evident in his sonorous voice as he regaled the infinite wisdom and many victories of the one called Horde Prime, and his divine mission to bring all the universe into Prime's perfect light. Ishara watched the stranger at first, but before long, she became more interested in the look of fascination on her father's face. The king, in his wisdom, saw an opportunity here - of that, she was certain. She was beginning to see it herself. The stranger had proven his both skill in battle in Arachnis, and his knowledge in the ways of war with his profound insight into the reason the village had been attacked in the first place. Her father was planning something, and Ishara thought she knew what it was.

She just wasn't sure if she liked it.

"Captain Memnon," the king said when the stranger finished, "cut him loose at once."

The captain scowled, but did not dare disobey a direct order from the king. He snipped the ropes that bound the stranger's arms, and the stranger ripped off the collar before Memmon could get to it. The collar and pole fell to the floor with a loud clang. The stranger stood, and Ishara's initial assumptions about his height proved correct - he was taller than her father, and every other man present for that matter. A black uniform with a red insignia, two webbed wings curving upward, hung in tatters on his blotched skin, but he could not have looked more dignified had he been in clad in silken robes and crowned in a circlet of gold. This one had power: not magic like the other kingdoms of Etheria who'd always looked down on the Fright Zone, but power in his intelligence and strength of will. She could feel it. They all could.

"Help us," King Weha said to the stranger. "We need each other, you and mine." He extended his claw. "Show my people how to defeat our enemies, and we will give you what you need to return to your Horde."

Despite her concerns, Ishara found herself smiling as the stranger took her father's claw. Before this was over, Etheria would remember why the Fright Zone's seat of power was named Horror Hall.

Chapter Text

Slowly, carefully, the sorceress eased the glittering sand through her fingers in one final motion. As the last grains fell, the intricate rune on the floor flashed red, then darkened to black glowing purple edges. Pleased at her success, she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding in. The construction for the spell was exceedingly complicated. Her last two attempts had failed, and the one before that, one year earlier, had only given her one image: four eyes on a formless face, three on one side and a single one on the other, which opened and flashed green before the entire spectral figure vanished in practically the same instant it appeared. She was no fool who feared something just because it was unknown, but those eyes, even as briefly as they had appeared, gave her a sense of foreboding she was unaccustomed to feeling. More castings would be necessary before she could attempt to divine the meaning behind these signs.

The shadow sight never lied, but those who interpreted it were fallible. It was possible she was projecting her own emotions onto the vision and memory. The events happening elsewhere on Etheria were usually of no concern to Mystacor; the Sorcerers Guild did not trouble themselves with such mundane things as squabbles over land or the price of grain. It could not be denied, however, that the tensions which existed between Salineas and the Fright Zone as far as anyone could remember had escalated to open war a year ago after a village in the Fright Zone had been decimated. Shortly after, rumors spoke of a new general in Horror Hall, one of extraordinary tactical brilliance. What few squabbles they had lost since then were narrow victories for the sea king. Was it coincidence that the original vision of the four eyes that continued to haunt her first appeared with start of the war?

The sorceress stood and began to walk around the rune, her slow pace belying the excitement she felt. She must not hurry, for if a single grain were knocked out of place, the spell would break. Five candles representing the five pillars of perception were placed around the rune’s circumference, and she lit each as she passed: space, time, light, spirit, and power. Once all five were lit, their yellow-orange flames changed to purple, matching the outline of the rune. She smiled beneath her veil. Already, the light from the candles was stronger than she’d ever seen it. It was time to call forth the shadows.

She raised her arms, and out of the center of the rune rose a black column of something that resembled thunderclouds and roiling waves without being either. When it touched the roof of her chambers, she lowered her hands and turned away from the rune, looking to the shadows the construction cast against her walls. Several long minutes passed, and the sorceress felt a twinge of vexation. It had worked, she knew it had. Why was it taking so…

“... oh!”

The shadows were shifting, and a moment later, a distinct form manifested in front of her: two men standing next to each other, one with pincers and a long tail with a stinging barb at the end, the other, taller, with a long, billowing cape. Red eyes flashed on the tall one, then vanished to be replaced by a glowing pink-and-purple diamond at its throat. The diamond lingered for a moment after the figures melted away into the shadows, and she thought she saw some etching on it, but she could not be sure. The next image to form from the shadows were two faces, with holes where the eyes would be. When she recognized them as faces, color filled the eyes: blue-grey on one, mismatched blue and yellow on the other. The faces merged as one, then disappeared entirely. The shadows became wings, and a formed a circle around them, with dark tendrils reaching out toward them until it devoured them entirely. A sword appeared next, not out of shadow, but light, so bright that for an instant its light was blinding. Her eyes adjusted to the light, and she felt compelled to reach for the sword. As she did, there was a flash of green…

… and a knock on her door. “Light Spinner.”

The sorceress pulled back her hand and cast a wind spell at the rune, extinguishing the candles and scattering the sand. Light, shadow, sword, and green vanished, leaving the room as ordinary as any other in Mystacor. The Guild did not approve of shadow magic. Fools. “Yes, Master Norwyn?”

The door opened, and a tall, horned figure clad in purple robes entered the room. “I wanted to introduce you to our newest student,” the head of the Sorcerer’s Guild informed her. “This is Micah.”

A black-haired boy of about eleven or twelve stepped out from behind Norwyn and looked up at Light Spinner with an expression of hopeful enthusiasm. Her veil concealed the scowl she’d been wearing ever since her spell had been interrupted, as it covered the smile now forming as she studied Micah. This one had power. She could feel it.

“Hello, Micah. Welcome to Mystacor.” She knelt down in front of the boy and placed her hand on his shoulder. “My name is Light Spinner. I think we can expect great things from you.”

Chapter Text

“Again.”

The two combatants stepped to the center of the training ring and faced each other: tall, strong Selkis, with her sharp pincers and fearsome tail, and short, quick Octavia, four long tentacles extending out from her back. The clone considered each of them as they assumed their ready stances. Selkis had demonstrated skill when he first encountered her in Arachnis over a year ago, and since then, his training molded her raw talent to make as formidable a fighter as any of the warriors in the Fright Zone. Octavia, a new recruit to the Etherian Horde, was an unknown variable. She had dominated her first few rounds of training, but, as far as he could tell, only because she was so fast and relentless in her attacks that her opponents did not have time to defend themselves. She had not come off the better in any of her matches with Selkis so far, but she did not give up; an admirable quality. Her skill could not be denied, but these were the tactics of a brawler, not a soldier. She would have to learn to pace herself if she were to enter battle.

Selkis raised her pincers, and Octavia her fists. Both young women looked at the clone, standing outside the circle and slightly apart from the assembled crowd of Horde and Fright Zone soldiers. The clone nodded his indication that they should begin. Octavia, predictably, struck first, lunging at Selkis first with fists, then whipping her tentacles at her. Selkis stepped back and began to circle her opponent, deflecting the strikes with practiced efficiency. It was the same tactic Octavia had used before, and the clone had not been impressed with it then, either. “Octavia!” he barked. “You have six arms, she has two. Use them to your advantage.”

Octavia barred her teeth and rushed at Selkis again, but this time, reached out with one of her tentacles to seize the scorpion girl’s ankle. Selkis saw the move in time and was able to dodge it, but the clone still nodded approvingly. It was something she hadn’t done yet, and probably would have worked if she hadn’t betrayed her intentions by looking at Selkis’s feet first. Even better, the unexpected movement had left Selkis with her entire left side wide open. All Octavia had to do was strike just there, and she could land a critical blow. The clone waited for it. Octavia raised her hands and tentacles, but before she moved, looked up and down the exposed side as if to decide where exactly she wanted to strike. The delay was more than enough for Selkis to recover her balance, and when Octavia finally launched her attack, Selkis blocked it with ease.

The clone growled in frustration, and barked an order before this farce could continue. “Stop!”

The combatants froze, and the clone strode onto the combat zone. “Selkis, your left side was entirely unguarded. A single strike could have brought you down!”

Selkis nodded in acceptance of the scolding. Someone must have cured her of risky back-talk before they met, because she had never displayed insubordination toward him. “Yes, Horde Commander.”

“And you , Octavia!” The clone turned his full attention and disappointment to the new recruit. “Twice you communicated your next move by looking right at where you intended to strike. How do you expect to win a fight when your opponent knows exactly what you are about to do?”

“What am I supposed to do, then?” Octavia argued. “Fight blindfolded?”

“It would be more effective than this pathetic display,” the clone snapped back. “Selkis, explain why she failed to land a blow on you.”

Selkis looked surprised and somewhat pleased by the order. “Okay! So, Octavia, when you tried to get my leg, that was a really good idea, but you looked right at it just before you went for it. And you do that a lot - I’ve been watching you fight, and because you’re so fast, you can usually get away with it. You’ve been fighting people who can’t keep up with you. I’ve been training with the Horde commander for more than a year, and I already had pretty quick reflexes before that, so you’re going to have a hard time beating someone like me if you just count on your speed.”

The crowd around the ring seemed to have grown, the clone noticed. Sparring on the training grounds was always a draw, especially when Selkis fought. He spotted a silver-white head among the assembly that might have belonged to Princess Ishara, but there were too many in front of it for him to be sure. Meanwhile, Octavia, who had looked angry and defensive when the clone first ordered Selkis to critique her methods, was growing less hostile by the second and seemed genuinely interested in what Selkis had to say. It was not how the clone would have approached it, but if it was effective, that was all that mattered.

“So, what are you supposed to do?” Selkis went on. “Well, you don’t really defend, so we’re going to work on that first. Let your opponent attack you long enough for you to get an idea of what they like to do and where they leave themselves open. Pay attention to what they do with their eyes, but watch what they’re doing with the rest of their body. The eyes can lie, but the body can’t.” She looked at the clone. “Should we go again, Horde Commander?”

“No,” the clone replied. “Octavia, stand aside. Selkis, you will fight me.”

An undercurrent of muttering ran through the assembled crowd. The clone rarely participated in the sparring himself, though not for the reasons any of them suspected. It would have been impossible to hide his defect if he were to suffer an attack, and all he had worked so hard to accomplish in the last year would be lost. Taking over the military operations of the Fright Zone, however, gave him access to resources to develop new armor for himself. Aside from reinforcing his frail limbs, it sent an electric pulse through his body to regulate his heartbeat. He had tested it in the privacy of his chambers, finding it highly effective; as long as he wore his armor, he could function normally. It was necessary to maintain his credibility by proving he could fight, and he was confident in his work. He was created to fight. When the time came to reunite with Prime, the clone would show him that he could still fulfill his purpose.

Octavia stepped out of the ring. Someone pushed their way to the front of the crowd, and Princess Ishara stepped out from between two of her ilk. Close behind her was Captain Memmon, his displeasure at being there evidenced by the grimace on his face. The clone scowled. He knew Memmon was jealous of the standing he had with the king, and on a more fundamental level, how the captain resented that the clone had been allowed to live at all after being captured in Arachnis. He did not care one way or another what Memmon’s opinion of him was, but if he came here to make trouble or cause a scene, the clone would not hesitate to put him in his place.

Selkis and the clone faced each other and assumed their ready stances: she with pincers raised and tail twitching, he with his feet shoulder-width apart and hands clasped behind his back. The murmurs in the crowd grew louder. It was so rare that the clone directly engaged in combat in front of others that no one on the sidelines had ever seen him spar, not even Ishara or Memmon. They knew him as a brilliant tactician, not a capable fighter in his own right. Selkis alone was the one he honored with his personal instruction, but she was not privy to all his secrets; she did not know of the defect which kept him to the sidelines in everyday training. Should he experience an attack, the clone could always feign that he’d let her win, but he had the feeling he would not need to resort to such deceptions today.

Her eyes moved first. The clone held his position for a split second longer, then took a step back. Selkis’s tail struck the ground exactly where he had been standing. She lunged at him next. A simple pivot sent her sailing harmlessly past him. Had he been fighting any other opponent, he could have struck at their exposed back and ended the bout right then and there, but he had taught Selkis better than that. She would recover.

As soon as she realized she’d missed, Selkis twisted on the ball of her leading foot and brought her body around in a semicircle. The movement brought her tail to within a hand’s width of the clone’s face, missing him only because he’d anticipated the move and stepped back. Selkis had the advantage for the briefest of moments and struck with her rear arm, but the clone was faster. He shifted to the side, hooked his arm over the girl’s, and took a step forward. The action redirected her momentum toward him, and just before they collided, he planted the leg nearest to her firmly in the ground and leaned his weight into it. The clone released her, and Selkis tripped over his leg, executing a flawless tuck-and-roll which brought her back to her feet, but well outside striking distance.

By  the time she recovered, the clone had resumed his initial ready stance. They made eye contact, and once Selkis caught her breath, the clone nodded. She charged at him, and then did something he did not expect: she dropped to the ground, and while sliding, struck at him with a sweeping motion of her tail. The clone was forced to jump aside to avoid the blow, landing on his shoulder and rolling in a motion nearly identical to the one Selkis had just performed. A collective gasp issued from the crowd. The girl recovered only a moment before the clone did, but in battle, moments mattered. It was long enough to gain the upper hand.

The clone had only just managed to stand all the way before the need came to defend himself from Selkis and her sharp pincers, and had not quite regained his balance. He dropped to his knee after the first strike, and was forced to bring both his arms up to block the second. The move left his sides completely exposed. The clone saw Selkis’s eyes flick back and forth, and in response to the movement, he lowered his arms. His face was left unguarded, but as he’d expected, Selkis tried to strike at his ribs. Her pincers struck his metal-plated arm instead. The clone pushed hard against the ground with his back foot and launched himself forward, tackling Selkis. When they came out of the roll, she was on the ground, and his hand was around her neck. She tried to grab at his forearm, but her pincers could not pierce his armor; in a last-ditch effort, she struck with her tail, but the clone followed her line of sight, and with his free hand, caught her by the stinger inches from his neck. “Yield.”

Selkis looked down, then up. Upon seeing she was pinned, she nodded as far as the clone’s grip on her neck would allow her. “I yield.”

The clone released her and stood up. They made eye contact again; he nodded, and held out his arm, the lower portion dented from her pincers. Selkis grasped his arm, and the clone hoisted her up. “That is enough for today,” the clone said once his first and finest soldier was back on her feet. “Well fought, Selkis.”

When it became apparent that the fight was not going to continue, several members of the audience rushed forward, largely crowding around Selkis. First among them was Princess Ishara. “You were amazing ,” she said, pincers clasped before her and eyes shining with admiration. “When you did that slide move, I was sure you had him…”

The clone tried to walk away from the training area unaccosted - he wanted to return to his workshop and hammer out the dents in his armor - but his way was blocked by a sneering Captain Memmon. “Congratulations,” said the commander of the king’s Sting Squad. “You defeated a teenage girl who has been fighting all day. You must be so pleased with yourself.”

The clone was no fool, and he would not be made to appear as such before his troops. “Cadet Selkis has defeated every opponent she faced in today’s training save for me,” he said. “The purpose of training is not to win, but to face an opponent of superior skill so that one might learn from one’s opportunities. If I merely wished for her to emerge victorious in another bout of sparring, I would have had her face you .”

A frown crossed Memmon’s face as he attempted to work out the meaning of this; Princess Ishara understood right away, as evidenced by the snort of amusement she managed to stop before it turned into a full-blown laugh. Memmon caught on a moment later, and cast his usual hate-filled glare at the clone. He was used to it; Memmon seldom looked at him in any other way. The clone had no desire to dignify Memmon’s reaction with a response. He had more important things on his mind; the dents in his armor needed to be hammered out, and he still needed to prepare his daily report for the king. He strode past Memmon, thinking about the progress his Horde troops had shown and how much longer it might take before they could be deployed into battle on their own rather than intermingled with the Fright Zone’s soldiers. The sooner he had the absolute loyalty of those under his command, the better.

His thoughts and steps came to an abrupt halt when Memmon’s pincers closed around his upper arm. “You dare speak to me like this?”

The clone whirled around and seized Memmon by the throat. None of the restraint he’d shown when holding Selkis in the same move a few minutes ago was to be found. “The next time you touch me,” the clone snarled, “it will mean your end.”

He held on a moment longer to ensure Memmon understood how serious he was, then released his hold. Memmon stumbled back, gasping; Selkis caught his arm to keep him from falling, but he quickly jerked it away and glared at her with almost as much hatred in his eyes as he usually reserved for the clone. The clone resumed his walk away from the training ground, but this time, his thoughts were not on his troops. He was aware of the eyes on him, especially Memmon’s. It was not the first time the captain had attempted to make trouble for him, and despite his warning, he doubted it would be the last. Sooner or later, he would have to be eliminated.

Chapter Text

"Horde!" Clack. "Horde!" Clack. "Horde!" Clack.

The chant had been going for nearly half an hour now, ever since the combined forces of the Horde and the Fright Zone had returned from the battle to retake Arachnis and its surrounding land. Those without pincers struck the ground with spears or foot, or clapped shields against weapons to produce the signature clack noise that accompanied the traditional victory chant of the Scorpioni. Princess Ishara knew well what this day meant to her people. Three years ago, an entire village save for one girl had been wiped out at the whim of an enemy force, and today, that same girl had led the charge against the invaders, flying the red-winged banner of the one who had revolutionized the Fright Zone's military prowess. Not since the days of Queen Scorpia the Great had they been so feared. Ishara knew they owed much to the Horde commander, and much had been given. This alliance had worked out better than any of them expected. Her father had been wise to make it.

Five of them were making ready to speak to the army assembled in the courtyard below: herself, King Weha, the Horde commander, Captain Sargon of the royal guard, and Selkis. Of the five, only Selkis seemed uneasy with the position of authority in which she found herself. She stood off to the side, and kept fiddling with a shiny badge affixed to her collar. Ishara, smiling, went over the tall, black-haired girl who had become a dear friend in the last three years and took her pincers in hers. "Force Captain Selkis," she said approvingly, and released her friend's claw to give the hexagonal badge one final tweak. "It suits you."

"Horde!" Clack. "Horde!" Clack.

Selkis grinned, and a flush of pleasure colored her cheeks. Ishara found herself smiling, too. It was an expression that came easily and often when Selkis was around. "How does it feel to have taken back your home?" the princess asked.

“So incredible,” her friend answered. “You should have seen the way the sentries ran when they saw the Horde’s landspeeders. Half of the village’s defense forces deserted by the time we got past the outer barricade.”

And half of those who remained, if the reports were accurate, had defected to the Horde. It seemed Arachnis had been held in much the same way it had been taken in the first place: by those who recognized the more powerful force in play. Three years ago, that had decidedly been Salineas. Ever since her father placed the Horde commander in charge of their battle strategy, that advantage leaned more and more toward the Fright Zone. There had been a few small skirmishes over the years, but nothing on the level of Arachnis, where the full might of the Horde was finally on display. If their combined forces didn’t have the attention of the other Etherian kingdoms before, they certainly did now.

King Weha leaned toward Sargon and said something Ishara did not catch; the captain of the guard nodded, and the two of them looked briefly at the Horde commander before stepping out onto the balcony. A cheer rose from the crowd as the king held up his claws in greeting, followed by a change in the chant: “Weha!” Clack. “Weha!” Clack. “Weha!” Clack.

After the echo from the third clack died down, the king lowered his arms and spoke. “Citizens of the Scorpion Kingdom! Soldiers of the Horde! Today we celebrate your victory in the name of the Fright Zone!”

He almost didn’t need the strategically-placed microphones to amplify his voice so that it carried his words to all corners of the courtyard. His pride and pleasure in their triumph lent itself well to projection, and the king had always been an eloquent public speaker. The crowd responded in kind. “Weha!” Clack. “Weha!” Clack. “Horde!” Clack.

Ishara normally would have greeted her subjects alongside the king, but she held back for the sake of Selkis, and to a lesser degree, the Horde commander. He was trying to look very above-it-all, but the perceptive Ishara had observed her father’s top general over the years and knew better. Not that she needed to be particularly attuned to his emotions to guess what he was feeling right now - certain moods were universal. He was a brilliant tactician, and his technological skill was even greater, but to the best of her knowledge, had had never made a speech.

“Three years ago,” Weha went on, “on our forces failed you. We were not strong enough to prevent our enemies from taking Arachnis and the lives of our people.”

The chanting shifted to hissing, and the clacking of claws, spear, and shield grew disjointed. Weha lifted a claw, and the assembly fell silent. “It was a dark day for us,” he acknowledged. “We mourn for our loss, and we curse the ones that took our people from us. I made a promise to you that day: a promise that we would avenge our fallen and make our enemies cry out with the same pain they inflicted upon us. Out of the very ashes of Arachnis came the one who made this possible!”

“Horde!” Clack. “Horde!” Clack. “Weha!” Clack.

Ishara nudged Selkis with her claw and went to stand by the Horde commander. He did not openly acknowledge her, but a flicker of his long ears indicated he was aware of her presence.

“They honor you,” the princess told him. “Traditionally, the chant is reserved for members of the royal family. It symbolizes our strength and unity.”

The Horde commander gave a quick nod in acknowledgement of her words, and deigned to speak at last. "The glory belongs to Horde Prime."

“Salineas made two grievous mistakes that day,” the king continued from the balcony. “The first was to test the full might and rage of the Fright Zone. And the second…” He paused, and in his silence, the cheers and clacks of the crowd grew in anticipation. “The second was they failed to defeat a single warrior, fallen from the sky! They failed, as they will always fail, to stop the Horde!”

"HORDE!" Clack. "HORDE!" Clack. "HORDE!" Clack.

"With all due respect, it wasn't Horde Prime who assembled the army that allowed us to take back our lands," Ishara replied. "It wasn't Horde Prime who improved our weapons, came up with a strategy, or recruited and trained the greatest fighting force the Fright Zone has ever seen. It was you. This is your victory. They all know it, and they honor you."

“Horde!” Clack.

A thought suddenly occured to Ishara, one of such profound simplicity that she couldn't believe she hadn't thought of it sooner. "You've been here on Etheria for three years. Don't you think it's time you had a real name?"

He finally looked at her, brow furrowed in confusion and a frown tugging at the corners of his thin mouth. "I'd say you've just been given one," the princess continued. "Wouldn't you agree, Force Captain Selkis?"

Selkis came alongside Ishara, and understanding illuminated her face as she listened to the sound of "Horde!" - clack rising up from the courtyard. "The chant," she realized. "Horde." She clicked get pincers together to produce the characteristic clacking sound. "Horde." Clack. "Horde - ack."

"That settles it, then." Ishara strode toward the balcony. Selkis was a half-step behind. Just before the princess crossed the threshold to join her father, she stopped and looked back over her shoulder. "Would you honor your troops with your presence… Lord Hordak?"

He stared at her a moment longer, and as his own understanding set in, his face broke into a fanged grin. Somehow, the smile was more menacing than his usual scowl, but the princess wasn't afraid. She was not his enemy.

“Horde!” Clack. “Horde!” Clack. “Horde!” Clack.

Chapter Text

“Impressive casting, Micah,” Light Spinner told her young charge as the fractals of her giant phoenix illusion scattered across the sky of Mystacor. It had been an impressive cast - his skill was far beyond that of his peers. To take him from good to great, though, he would need to master his control as well.  “But you allowed yourself to become distracted.”

“Ooooooh,” came the teasing taunts of the two girls the sorceress had been instructing before Micah’s interruption.

“You cant expect me to out-cast Light Spinner, the greatest sorcerer to ever walk the halls of Mystacor!” the boy exclaimed. 

He raised his arms in a flourish of grandeur and made something of an attempt at a bow as he danced around in front of her. He was about a foot taller than when she’d first met him three years ago, but those dark eyes sparkled with the same mischief and eagerness as they had on the first day. “I’ve no time for your flattery,” she retorted. The boy was a charmer, there was no doubt about that. “If you’re going to interrupt my lessons, you might at least apply yourself.” She tapped him on the chest for emphasis. The power she channeled through the seemingly-simple move sent Micah stumbling back several feet, and she turned her attention back to the lesson. “I want focus as you conjure your own illusions.”

Micah, however, was not done. “Light Spinner, wait!”

“What is it this time, Micah?”

“I’m bored,” he complained. “I’ve been doing light illusions since before I can even remember.”

Her pupil drew a half-circle in the air before her, but it was uneven; Light Spinner adjusted the girl’s hand position, and it sprung to light. Satisfied, she moved on to her second charge. Micah, however, refused to be ignored. “Teach me something real,” he pressed. “I want to levitate, and travel through mirrors, and shapeshift!”

The second girl had completed the full rune, but it, too, failed to achieve the perfectly circular form necessary to channel its caster’s power. Light Spinner passed her hands over the rune’s form to refine its shape. She narrowed her eyes at Micah in displeasure, nearing the end of her tolerance of his interruptions. He went on, undaunted as usual. “You know, the cool stuff!”

How many times must she have this conversation with him? “The Guild forbids third-years from learning such things. You know that, Micah.”

“The Guild of Sorcerers prides itself on being out-of-touch geezers.” His voice shifted down in pitch and had taken on a distinctly mocking tone. “We wouldn’t want anyone to learn actual magic or anything fun.”

She turned around to see that he had cast an illusion upon himself of a horned, bearded man in a long robe - a sloppy one. “That’s a poor likeness of Master Norwyn.”

Micah threw his hands into the air, dispelling the illusion with his motion, and gave her his brightest smile. “Then teach me shapeshifting!”

“Patience, Micah. You must start at the beginning.” An idea came to her, and she smiled beneath her veil. “Since you are so eager to prove yourself, perhaps you can assist Tasi and Danaë with their light rings.”

Micah grumbled something indistinct, but a flash of pleasure in his dark eyes betrayed that he was not entirely displeased with her orders. He scampered back to the two girls and began to demonstrate the proper technique for creating the light rune. Danaë gave Light Spinner an exasperated look, but when the sorceress made no move to rejoin them, the shaggy-headed girl’s attention returned to Micah, and she mirrored his example. He in turn started to walk around them, adjusting hand positions and smoothing out motions in much the same way Light Spinner had done. She watched from the edge of the courtyard, pleased with what she saw. Micah had enormous potential, but he could be heedless and insubordinate. Once his raw talent was refined, he could be the most powerful sorcerer to come out of Mystacor in living memory.

And I will be the one to mold that power.

A shifting shadow on the ground caught the corner of Light Spinner’s eye, and she watched as it resolved into the distinct horned shape of Master Norwyn. She turned to face the head of the Guild. For a moment, she wondered if Norwyn had seen Micah’s impression of him and had come to tell the boy off, but no, that could not be it; he would have exuded an air of anger or annoyance instead of the profound concern that wrought his face now. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

“What is it?” Light Spinner asked, skipping over the formalities in light of the obvious urgency. “What’s happened?”

“We’ve just received word from the Sea Garden,” Norwyn replied. “There has been… an incident.”

After a moment of thought, Light Spinner remembered that the Sea Garden was Tasi’s home village. It was a small settlement on an archipelago between Salineas and the Fright Zone, and of little note to anyone, even the two kingdoms who constantly squabbled over which one of them controlled the region at a given moment. Tasi herself, as a magic user, had been the most exciting thing to come from the Sea Garden in a generation. “What kind of ‘incident’?”

“A supply ship on its way to the Fright Zone docked in their port,” Norwyn answered. “They were Scorpioni, but they sailed under different colors: red wings on a black flag.”

Light Spinner recognized the description. “The same banner as was hoisted above Arachnis when the Fright Zone retook it last year.” The same wings I saw in the shadows. “I thought King Weha used the Black Garnet as his sigil.”

“He’s made an alliance, though of what sort, I cannot tell; some kind of paramilitary organization, or a new guild of mercenaries.” Norwyn sighed and shook his head. “But it is irrelevant. As I understand it, the ship needed repairs, and they were willing to pay, but the portmaster refused to help them, at any price. The conflict became violent. King Marinus named the survivors, once they were able to reach him at Castle Salineas. Tasi’s fathers, they… one didn't make it out of the Sea Garden, and the other is not expected to live through the night.”

Out of earshot, Tasi successfully completed the light ring under Micah’s instruction. She jumped up and down and clapped her hands in delight. Micah, too, let out a whoop of triumph and pumped his fist in the air. Light Spinner clenched her fists, and glowing tendrils sparkled and swirled around them as she fought for control of her anger. “Surely there is something we can-”

“Mystacor has sworn to remain neutral in the conflicts between the individual kingdoms,” Norwyn reminded her before she could finish. "What we can do is help Tasi through her grief with all the powers that are available to us, just as we would if she had been born in the Fright Zone instead of Salineas and one of their cities had fallen."

Light Spinner loosened her hands and attempted to marshal her wits. "This force is not a kingdom," she pointed out. "They could threaten all of Etheria. We would not betray our vow if we were to move against them, and it would save further bloodshed."

"To strike against an ally of the Fright Zone would be the same as moving against King Weha himself," Norwyn replied, his voice strained with exasperation. "I don't want further bloodshed any more than you do, but this is not our fight. By their own admission, Salineas started this war. Nations will rise and fall, and Etheria will take care of itself, as it has always done."

Micah cast another illusion on himself, assuming the guise of a tall sorceress with long, dark hair and a veiled face. Tasi and Danaë burst out laughing, clutching at both their stomachs and each other. "Do you think she'll agree, Master Norwyn?" asked Light Spinner. "What will you tell her when she asks why Mystacor had the power to stop those who killed her family and chose to do nothing?"

"The same thing I tell you now, Light Spinner: that we see further than others because we stand on the shoulders of giants. I will not allow that foundation to crumble."

Light Spinner had a sneaking suspicion that the only giant in this situation was the mistake Norwyn was making by insisting Mystacor remain neutral. There was something different about the Fright Zone's alliance that she could not exactly place, but she sensed it had something to do with what she saw in the shadows the day Micah came to the Hall of Sorcerers. She knew Norwyn would not be persuaded to change his stance - especially if he knew she had been experimenting with forbidden magic - so she did not put her forming thoughts to voice just yet. The Guild would be no help in this matter; that much was clear. If she wanted to learn more about this potential threat, she would have to do it on her own.

“Could we send emissaries?” Light Spinner suggested. “Invite them to the halls of Mystacor to discuss peace on neutral ground?”

“Queen Angella made a similar gesture shortly after the Fright Zone retook Arachnis. Both kings refused.”

The sorceress would not have been surprised if the failed bid had less to do with either Marinus or Weha refusing to negotiate than it did with Angella herself. No matter how illustrious one’s titles were or how great their accomplishments, the queen of Bright Moon had a special talent for making anyone feel like a child being scolded by their mother. Light Spinner had never cared for her.

Norwyn took a step toward the children, but Light Spinner held out her hand to stop him. "Wait," she said. Micah, still in the light fractal disguise clearly meant to be an imitation of her, was making exaggerated sweeping gestures with his hands. Danaë was doubled over laughing, and Tasi had collapsed entirely, rolling on the ground and cackling at Micah's antics. "Let them have their fun a moment longer."

For once, Norwyn appeared to agree with her wisdom. He nodded, stepped back, and joined Light Spinner in watching the young spellcasters-in-training play their game. It would be a long time before the peals of Tasi's laughter would ring through the halls of Mystacor again after she learned of her fathers' fates. Light Spinner saw no good reason to rob the girl of what joy she still had just yet.

"This ally of the Fright Zone, this new force… what do we know about them?" Light Spinner asked. At Norwyn's look of warning, she added, "I ask only to satisfy my curiosity. You know how I dislike being the last to know things, Master Norwyn."

"We don't know much," he admitted. "As near as we can figure, the alliance began shortly after the first battle of Arachnis. Their leader is one of the survivors, but he's not Scorpioni. Those who've seen him say he's like no one they've ever seen on Etheria before, and he's not just a general - apparently, he's also quite skilled with technology. He's designed new weapons and equipment for the Fright Zone that are vastly superior to what they had before. He has no magic, but if what rumor says is true, he doesn't need it."

"Does this figurehead have a name?"

Instead of answering, Norwyn watched as Micah dispelled his Light Spinner impression/illusion, helped Tasi to her feet, and resumed his instruction. Moments later, both Tasi and Danaë perfectly conjured the rune Light Spinner had been attempting to teach them all morning. All three children let out a whoop of triumph and embraced each other, laughing and cheering. Even Light Spinner felt a smile tugging at her lips at their excitement, in spite of everything.

Finally, Norwyn spoke. When he did, his voice was so soft that she had to strain to hear him. "They call him Hordak."

Chapter Text

Step, step, turn, strike. Force Captain Selkis moved through her forms with practiced ease, and reset into the beginning stance as soon as her final strike was complete to begin again. Step front, twist, step side, strike forward, strike back, pivot. At this point, the movements came as natural as breathing, but she still practiced longer and harder than any of her peers. She was the best, but she didn’t get that way from sitting idle, and she wouldn’t stay that way without work, either.

“You’re allowed to take a break, you know.”

Selkis was balanced on one foot, her other leg held in position to kick, with her new spear extended outwards in a thrusting strike when Princess Ishara spoke. “No can do, Princess,” she replied. Hold for three, two, one. “Practice makes perfect.”

Ishara feigned a noise of annoyance and leaned back in her chaise. “You must have done it a hundred times already.”

Selkis dropped to one knee and made a sweeping motion with the spear, following it by an upward arc with her tail that also returned her to a standing position. “Thirty-seven,” she clarified, and began a series of complicated strikes with spear and tail. “Grizzlor has probably done it a hundred times, though. Can’t let him get ahead of me.”

The princess snorted. “I don’t think Grizzlor can even count that high.”

Selkis chuckled as she went through the next few motions of her form. Jump back, sidestep, pivot, pivot, strike. “You have a point there.”

It was a typical day in the Fright Zone, or as typical as days went when a kingdom and its paramilitary-force ally were at war. Hordak and his senior force captains had spent the morning in meetings with King Weha and his generals, making ready to move on a strategic pass outside of the city of Devlan. After a brief respite, the Horde’s forces resumed their training while Hordak himself disappeared into his laboratory. Selkis oversaw most of the cadet training, which left her little time to train herself; it was only moments like this, when she was in between afternoon training and evening debriefs, that she was able to practice her own combat skills. Ishara had sent for her earlier, but didn’t seem in any particular hurry to say why. The two young women were relaxing in the princess’s private courtyard outside her chambers, or as close to relaxing as they ever got: Ishara was reading an official-looking scroll, and Selkis, who had been incapable of holding still for more than a minute ever since she was a child, practiced her fundamentals. The important thing was that they were together. The obligations of both were increasing as they advanced in age and standing, and neither wanted their friendship to suffer for it.

“What’s with the spear, anyway?” Ishara asked, breaking the chain of Selkis’s thoughts. “It seems a bit… overkill.”

“It’s mostly for show,” Selkis admitted as she began another series of strikes and spins. “That, and proof-of-concept. Lord Hordak’s been experimenting with new ways to refine irridulium, and he made this spear as a prototype.” She thrust the spear forward in the form’s finishing move, held the position for a moment, then relaxed. “The plan is for me to use it in battle to signal my troops, and fight with it if I need to.”

Ishara sat up, suddenly alert. “That’s irridulium? You’re joking.”

“Nope. Here, check it out.”

She closed the short distance between them with three lengths of her long stride and passed the spear to the princess. Ishara turned it around to examine it from several different angles, eyes wide with fascination. The shaft shone bright in the afternoon moonlight, and minimal nicks and marks were present on the surface despite being handled extensively by sharp pincers. “Wow,” Ishara whispered. “I would have never thought…”

Selkis could understand the reaction; she hadn’t believed it at first, either. Irridulium was abundant in the Fright Zone, but it was full of impurities and had little practical use. They had to import most of their metal from other kingdoms, or journey into unsettled lands far beyond their borders to mine. This had been something of a sore subject between Hordak and King Weha lately; the materials were necessary to build weapons and armor, but obtaining them was expensive, and the royal treasury was quickly being depleted. Selkis knew Hordak was interested in studying irridulium more closely for himself, and had even accompanied him on an excursion to a mine almost a year ago. It would solve several problems at once if the metal could be made viable for the war effort, but no one expected anything to come of it. We should know better by now , the young force captain found herself thinking as she recalled the memory. Hordak improves everything he touches

She herself was an example of this. Selkis did not follow Hordak blindly: he won her allegiance the day he saved her life, and her respect and admiration for the stranger in a strange land had only grown since then. It was certainly true that no one loved Hordak for his personality - he was sullen and haughty, and his temper was a force to be reckoned with - but he was not cruel, exactly; rather, he had high expectations, and when they were met, he gave freely. The Horde, and by extension, Hordak, gave her purpose, a chance to prove herself, and the opportunity to be part of something greater. For all his faults, he was not a bad person, and Selkis was grateful to him. Someday, all of Etheria would be made to see this.

Ishara handed the spear back to Selkis, but as she did so, she bumped her scroll and knocked one end off the chaise. It hit the floor and rolled, unraveling as it went. Selkis jumped up and chased it, stopping it with the point of her spear after it had gone much further than it should have. "This scroll is a lot longer than it looks," she said, handing it back to her friend. "Or is it new wallpaper for your room?"

"It's my invitation to the All-Princess Ball," Ishara explained. "It came earlier today." She rolled the scroll back up and slipped it into a fold in her gown. "I'm thinking about going, actually."

For the first time all afternoon, Selkis fumbled her grip on the spear. She managed not to drop it, but it was a near thing. "You are?" She didn't know why this came as such a surprise. Ishara was a princess. Princesses went to princess balls. "That's… yeah, that's a thing that happens." For some reason, she couldn't find it in her to look Ishara in the eye. "Sounds nice, if you're into that sort of thing, I guess."

Ishara tossed her silver-white head in a dramatic fashion and made a show of picking the scroll back up again. "Well, I was going to ask if you'd like to come as my plus-one, but if you're not 'into that sort of thing,' I could always ask that new recruit, what's-her-name... Huntarrie? Hunterra?"

"Huntara," Selkis corrected - a little too quickly, based on Ishara's subsequent smirk and raised eyebrow. She felt her cheeks grow hot, and twisted the butt of her spear against the stone floor. "Yeah, sure. I mean, I didn't know you'd ever talked to her or anything, but if that's what you want-"

"Selkis!" Ishara interrupted, half-laughing. "Will you go to the ball with me?"

She knew her cheeks had to be as red as her exoskeleton, but this time, the glow was from pleasure. "I'd like that."

"Great!" The princess jumped up and hooked her arm around Selkis's, pulling her in the direction of her dressing room. "This year's theme is Masquerade Carnival. Let's pick outfits!"

Selkis felt a little dazed as Ishara tugged her along. I'm going to a princess party. With a princess. What would it be like? If Ishara was there, nothing else really mattered. It would be nice to spend a few hours together without the clouds of obligation hanging over their heads. It suddenly occurred to her that she probably should have checked with Hordak and made sure it would be all right to be excused from her duties before she accepted the invitation, but what if Ishara had changed her mind if she hadn’t said yes right away? Just the thought of her taking someone else to the ball made her stomach churn with jealousy. It was a diplomatic event as much as a party. Surely Hordak would understand.

Ishara released Selkis’s arm once they were in her dressing room, and flung open the doors of an armoire. “The ball’s in Plumeria this year,” the princess said as she pulled a seemingly-endless variety of dresses, scarves, and hats out of its depths. “Princess Artemisia is only a few years older than us. I’ve never met her, but people say she’s really nice.”

Selkis pulled a garment off her face, and examined it briefly before dropping it; she thought it might have been a skirt, but as it seemed to be composed entirely of ruffles with no distinct form, she couldn’t be sure. “That’s… good, then.”

“I’ve been looking forward to the ball for ages,” Ishara went on. “My father wouldn’t let me go last time. He said I was too young. It’s only held once every ten years, and all the princesses of Etheria are invited.”

A slinky black garment caught Selkis’s eye, and she pulled it out from the pile to examine it more closely. “Including Salineas?”

Ishara stopped pulling things out of the armoire. “Yeah,” she said, oddly distant with her tone. “They’ll be there, I expect.”

“And the fact that we’re at open war with them won’t be an issue?”

Ishara clasped her pincers in front of her, took a deep breath, and turned around. She was trying to look calm, but Selkis knew better. “The ball is neutral ground. All conflict is left at the door.”

Selkis was not entirely reassured by this. Maristela, crown princess of Salineas and the daughter of King Marinus, was one of the people directly responsible for the attack on Arachnis five years ago - the attack that started the war, took her family from her, and marked the arrival of the Horde. She set the dress down and touched a pincer to her Force Captain badge. Go with them, Sobek, she had told her little brother as the crowds were retreating into the tunnels that had saved them before. You’ll be safe. I’ll see you on the other side, I promise. Even then, she’d known it was a lie, though she expected she would be the one to fall at the hands of their enemies while the children and families escaped unscathed. She hadn’t been strong enough to save them. She looked at Ishara, and a swell of something resembling protectiveness and adoration without exactly being either surged inside her. If the need arose, would she be able to keep her princess out of harm’s way?

“Actually, I’m hoping they’re there,” Ishara continued. Her voice was bright and cheerful again, though the strain of doubt flowed beneath the surface. “With it being neutral ground, no one is allowed to bring up the war. We can talk to each other like people, not enemies. Maybe we could even become friends.”

Selkis smiled too, but it quickly darkened into a frown. “You really think you could end the war by making friends with the other side’s princess?”

“Why not? It’s happened before.” She pulled the scroll out from the fold she’d stashed it in and let it unroll to nearly the end. “Three hundred years ago, before the various villages around the Whispering Woods were united under Bright Moon, they were always fighting over one thing or another. Bright Moon hosted the ball that year and invited the village elders. They ended up being so pleased with how they were treated that peace terms were negotiated within a year. And a hundred and seventy years ago, Dryl and Halfmoon were at war. Their princesses met for the first time at the ball and hit it off. They were married a few years later, and joined their kingdoms at the same time.”

Selkis was a student of history, too, and she noticed that Ishara skipped over a few important bits. “That didn’t work out so well for Halfmoon, if I recall,” she pointed out. “Didn’t they try to declare independence fifty years ago and have it lead to-”

“Their runestone being destroyed and the people scattered into the mountains, yes, yes,” Ishara finished, tossing the scroll over her shoulder. “Not my first choice of outcomes, either, but my point remains valid: all throughout Etheria’s history, Princess Prom has been a critical juncture of diplomacy.” She stepped away from the wardrobe, crossed the room, and took Selkis’s pincers in hers. “We could end the war, Selkis: not with weapons and bloodshed and the Horde, but with friendship and understanding. Isn’t that what you want?”

Selkis wanted whatever it took to end the war, but she knew Ishara’s idea wasn’t part of Hordak’s plan - or King Weha’s, for that matter. The majority of their followers subscribed to the same view. The Fright Zone had been shunned and sidelined by the other Etherian kingdoms for as far back as anyone could remember, and Hordak’s mission of conquest was an outlet for their deep-rooted resentment. She also saw how much Ishara hoped for her vision of elysium to ring true, and could not bring herself to shatter that dream. She gave the princess’s claws a squeeze. “If you think it could work, then I’ll support you - whatever it takes.”

Ishara grinned and gestured at the stacks of clothing. “Come on! We need to pick our outfits!”

Every garment the princess owned seemed to be scattered on the floor. She opened another chest and began to empty its contents over her shoulder. It proved to be an impressive collection of masks: sequins, feathers, glitter, intricate designs, gemstones, ribbons, whatever a princess could desire. Selkis shifted through the pile and found one far more understated than the others - plain black, with no decoration or design - and fitted it to her face. “Ishara.” The young woman looked up, and Selkis made the split-second decision to lean into her joke. “Who am I?” She dropped the tone of her voice as deep as it could go and made a growling noise. “Hrrrrr. Get out!”

Ishara’s cackle of amusement rang through the rafters. “Oh, you have to let me have a go,” she said, holding out her pincer. Selkis passed her the mask, and Ishara put it on her face. “Hrrrr,” the princess said in an attempt at Hordak’s low growl. “Glory be to Horde Prime!”

“Oh, oh!” Selkis said, motioning for the mask. As much as she respected Hordak, she was not above a little good-natured humor at his expense. It wasn’t like he would find out. “Let me do him from the Force Captain meeting.” She put the mask over her eyes and lowered her voice again. “Your ability to comprehend strategy never ceases to underwhelm me, Octavia.”

Ishara clutched her stomach, laughing so hard she nearly fell over. When she straightened back up, her dark eyes were sparkling. “I’m really glad you’re going with me, Selkis,” she said. “We’re going to have a great time, and make new friends, and nothing will go wrong.”

Despite her doubts, Selkis felt her heart lift. Maybe the ball would be everything Ishara hoped for, and maybe it wouldn’t, but if that ended up being the case, it didn’t matter. As long as they had each other, everything else would find its way. All storms might be weathered in the safe harbor of that smile.

Chapter Text

Plumeria had always occupied an interesting spot in the hierarchy of Etheria’s kingdoms. It did not have the glamor of Bright Moon, the strategic position of Salineas, the industry of the Fright Zone, the austere dignity of the Kingdom of Snows, the technological advancement of Dryl, the deep-rooted magic of Mystacor, or anything else that wholly and uniquely distinguished it from its allies and rivals. The Heart-Blossom runestone gave its princess power over plants and flowers, which did create a thriving agricultural trade in Plumeria, but they were not the only ones to grow food; in fact, they regularly traded with Bright Moon to supplement their peoples’ needs. All agreed that it was beautiful, but every kingdom was beautiful in its own way. King Weha had once remarked, somewhat scornfully, that the only thing special about Plumeria was that it smelled nice. It certainly did that , Princess Ishara silently agreed when she disembarked from the Horde transport that had carried her and her retinue from the Fright Zone. She found herself taking several deep sniffs to fully appreciate the sweet, aromatic scent of the air. Nothing smelled like that in her own kingdom.

The Fright Zone has other compensations, though , the princess thought as Force Captain Selkis descended from the transport, looking resplendent in a gown of pale blue silk and gold filigree, with a matching mask and her black hair bound in a glittering golden hairnet. Ishara had always dressed well, and she knew her rose-gold, ivory, and garnet-red ensemble was exceptionally becoming, but she felt she paled in comparison to her friend. All that time training with the Horde had given Selkis a well-defined physique as well as confidence and grace in her movements.  Ishara thought she had gotten used to it - they had known each other for over five years, after all - but there were still moments when looking at Selkis made her go weak in the knees and wonder if she had ever seen anything so beautiful. Perhaps, if things went well tonight, they could have a conversation they should have had long ago…

Arm in arm, they joined the procession moving toward the entrance to Heart-Blossom Grove, occasionally glancing around to take in the sights or get their bearings, but for the most part, saving their eyes only for each other. When they had advanced as far as the third pair in line for entry, Ishara brought their attention back to the moment with a reminder of the rules and customs with the ball. “The neutral ground policy means no weapons are allowed,” she said, gesturing at a figure dressed in the blue-and-white garb of the Kingdom of Snows who was handing a sword to a Plumerian guardsman. “We’ll check your spear at the gate.”

Selkis frowned at the irridulium spear in her claw, still bright and shining with minimal nicks and scratches despite hours of practice every day since Hordak had given it to her. “Why did you want me to bring it in the first place, then?”

“Well, for one, I think it really completes the outfit, don’t you?” She grinned and winked as the line advanced. “Actually, I’m hoping Prince Reidar from Dryl is here. They’re the only kingdom besides the Fright Zone that has mining as a major industry, and they’re also the only ones who buy mass quantities of raw irridulium. If he knew what Lord Hordak has discovered about its properties… well, just like me, I don’t think he’ll believe it until he sees it.” Furthermore, Dryl was rich. A trade deal with Reidar and his court could solve the Fright Zone’s financial troubles. Dryl first, and if things go well tonight, we’ll move on to Salineas…

“Good thinking,” Selkis said approvingly. She handed her spear to the bemused guardsman, who looked very much like he wanted to say something about them being there, but then thought better of it. Ishara let out the breath she’d been holding in when she realized they would be allowed in unaccosted. She was expecting to have to explain their presence at least five times over the course of the evening, and was not eager for that tally to begin right away.

“Now we‘ll greet the hostess,” Ishara explained as they passed under a series of arches covered in flowers. “We’ll have about half an hour or so to mingle while the guests arrive, and then we’ll have the first dance.”

The tunnel opened up into Heart-Blossom Grove, the heart of Plumeria, and Ishara’s rundown of the evening’s schedule was temporarily halted as the young women gazed upon the true beauty of the host kingdom. Columns were set around the perimeter of the clearing, with ornate curtains of white, pink, and yellow flowers hanging between them. Above them hung garlands of ivy, ribbons, and tiny gold lights, all anchored at one end on the columns and meeting in the center of the grove at the top of a tall pole, from which hung many long ribbons of lavender, blue, yellow, and pink. To their left, a quartet of musicians plucked stringed instruments, and to their right stood tables laden with fruits and vegetables. Directly across from the entrance was the Heart-Blossom Tree itself, with Plumeria’s runestone embedded within the tree’s trunk. The stone gleamed pink in the early evening moonlight, glowing slightly around its edges. The perfumed scent of flowers hung in the air, combining with the soft music and ambient light to create an effect that was almost intoxicating. One could not help but feel at peace in this place.

Ishara and Selkis took their place in the short queue to greet the hostess. While they waited, Ishara looked around for anyone she might recognize. No results came from the effort, but she was not discouraged; though she knew the names of most of those expected to be in attendance, she did not expect to immediately recognize anyone outside the host kingdom by face but Prince Reidar, who famously lost a hand in a mining accident years ago and had a robotic one instead, Queen Angella of Bright Moon, whose reputation preceded her wherever she went and would likely not be in attendance anyway, and Princess Maristela, her enemy of circumstance. Hopefully, by the end of the night, that would change.

Then, it was their turn. Princess Artemisia stood on a raised platform in front of the Heart-Blossom, with her consorts, Reed and Willow, standing to either side. “Revered Hostess, distinguished Lord and Lady,” Ishara and Selkis greeted in unison, each performing a deep curtsey. Ishara spoke for both of them next. “I am Ishara, Princess of the Fright Zone, and this is Force Captain Selkis of the Horde. We thank you for your invitation.”

Artemisia lifted her arm in an arc as Reed bowed and Willow curtseyed in response to the greeting. A yellow flower appeared for each of them, tucked behind an ear. “Greetings, Princess Ishara, and to you, Force Captain Selkis. You are welcome in Plumeria under the ancient rules of hospitality. Leave conflict at the door.”

From behind came a derisive snort. Ishara turned around, and found herself looking into the sea-green eyes of Princess Maristela. She felt a sense of panic well from within; she did want to speak with the princess of Salineas before the night was over, but she wanted it to be on her terms, after moods had been softened by the festivities. With Maristela were several uniformed guards, along with another whose identity Ishara did not know, but strongly suspected: a tall, elegant, teal-haired woman who bore no physical resemblance to Maristela, but was clad in the same blue, green, and gold colors of the royal family. At once, Ishara assumed this to be Maristela’s stepmother, Nereida. The description fit; she looked to be only seven or eight years older than Maristela herself, whose mother had died when the princess was an infant. King Marinus had been long in mourning, and by all accounts, the affection both he and his daughter held for his young and beautiful second wife was genuine and significant. There was nothing affectionate, however, about the way Maristela, Nereida, or their companions were looking upon Ishara and Selkis now. Ishara bit the inside of her cheek to suppress the urge to fire a quip back at the delegation from Salineas. They were trying to bait her, and she would not rise to it.

Selkis looked like she might, but Princess Artemisia intervened before anything could escalate. “Greetings, Princess Maristela,” she said, waving her arm to conjure the flowers again. “And to you, Lady Nereida. You and your court are also welcome in Plumeria under the ancient rules of hospitality. Leave conflict at the door.” 

Maristela stepped forward, coming alongside Ishara. She did not curtsey. “Forgive me, Revered Hostess,” she said in a voice tinged with sarcasm. “We were under the impression that no weapons were permitted at the ball. If you will not hold all guests to the same standard, well, I don’t think anyone would be very pleased with that.”

Artemisia frowned in apparent confusion. Reed and Willow exchanged a few words between them, and then Willow stepped forward and whispered something into their wife’s ear. Artemisia’s frown vanished, but her confusion did not. “I am told the only weapon brought by the Fright Zone was a spear, which was left at the entrance like all the others.”

“I'm not talking about a spear. I'm talking about that ,” quipped Maristela, and gestured at Ishara. “They’re a danger to everyone here just by existing . If we're going to have a no-weapons policy, I think it should extend to a giant stinger sticking out of someone's butt, don't you?"

The delegation from Salineas burst into mocking laughter, and Ishara’s cheeks flushed hot with embarrassment. Artemisia, however, was not amused. “I will remind you that all princesses and their chosen partners are welcome,” she said firmly. “They have done nothing to violate the ancient rules of hospitality, and I will not tolerate such behavior toward my guests.” She forced a smile and made eye contact with Ishara, Selkis, and Maristela in turn. “Please enjoy the ball.”

“Come on,” Selkis muttered, taking Ishara’s arm. “Let’s get something to eat.”

Ishara allowed herself to be steered over to the food, where Selkis chose a wide variety of fruits and vegetables for them to share. They took their platter to one of the many white-clothed tables, each with a different ornate floral centerpiece, and sat down. Selkis picked up an apple slice and held it out to Ishara. “Here,” she said. “You’ll feel better.”

"I'm not hungry."

"Maybe not, but it'll give your body something to do besides… whatever it is you're feeling. Lots of different things, I expect." She gave the apple slice a shake. "Eat."

Ishara relented and took the apple. It was juicy, sweet, and made a pleasant crunch as she bit into it. It had been a long time since they'd had fresh fruit in the Fright Zone, even before the war started. Her kingdom didn't have the right conditions to grow food like this, nor could they justify the time and expense for a luxury that could easily go to waste if it was not consumed right away. She'd forgotten how good it tasted, and how much she missed it. She took another apple slice, under Selkis's approving eye, and allowed her mind to keep wandering. Artemisia had been sympathetic toward them in the face of Maristela's cruelty; maybe they could discuss trade? Plumeria was not so far from the Fright Zone, and apples kept longer than other fruits. What could they offer in return? She doubted they would be interested in irridulium. Plumeria did no metalwork that she knew of. Other technology, perhaps? Hordak knew so much - surely there was something he could make that Plumeria could use. Would he be willing?

"That's better," said Selkis, bringing Ishara out of her thoughts and back to the moment. She pushed a small pile of strawberries toward the princess, and smiled her beguiling, mischievous grin. "Now eat this one, and pretend it's that stupid princess's head."

Ishara snorted, and the strawberry in her claw splattered into mush as she involuntarily clasped her pincers a bit too strongly in response to the quip. She took another, taking care to handle it more delicately. Selkis, too, helped herself to a strawberry. Despite Ishara’s statement that she wasn’t hungry, the fruit disappeared quickly; Selkis’s judgment on the distracting qualities of food proved shrewd. She was feeling better with every bite. They had the whole night ahead of them. There was no reason to waste any time dwelling on Salineas.

They were contesting the last strawberry, each trying to press it onto the other, when the gleam of light on metal caught Ishara’s eye. She turned her head, and its origin was confirmed to be the distinctive robotic hand of the person she most wanted to meet tonight. “Prince Reidar!” Ishara called, standing up and waving. “Prince Reidar, over here!”

The prince of Dryl looked her way, and a wide smile split the lower, visible portion of his face. He began to make his way toward them. At first, Ishara thought he was alone, but a few steps behind him was a robot who’d been made to look like a man, complete with a large mustache and wearing a grey and purple suit. Reidar himself wore a coordinating high-collared, sleeveless tunic of ash grey over darker leggings, with a wide purple belt at his waist and a cluster of pink flowers - Artemisia’s work, likely - at his non-mechanical left wrist. He was not wearing a traditional masquerade mask, but a visor with one long, thin lens of purple glass running across its length. Ishara knew him to be at least ten years older than she was, but there was something in the way he moved that was almost childlike in its enthusiasm. She liked him at once. This encounter would go much better than the one with Salineas, she knew it.

“Hi!” he said in a bright, cheerful voice. “You must be King Weha’s daughter - Ishara, right?”

“That’s right,” she confirmed. “And this is Selkis, Force Captain of the Horde. Won’t you join us?”

“Horde? I’ve heard of you!” said Reidar, sitting down at their table. The dapper robot took the seat next to him. There was no malice in his statement, only curiosity - a far cry from the tone adopted by most who’d “heard” of the Horde. “A while back, one of our scouts spotted an impressive transport moving across the no-man’s-land near the borders of Highpoint. Six cars long, moving at high speeds over rough terrain, flying that bat-wing crest no one had ever seen until a few years ago. It was one of yours, wasn’t it?”

“Had to be,” answered Selkis. “Pretty much the entire Fright Zone is ‘rough terrain,’ so Lord Hordak has been retrofitting all the old equipment with hover technology.”

Reidar scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Hmmm… it’s a good idea, but hovercraft have diminishing returns in efficiency the larger they get. Obviously, you’ve found a workaround. What’s the load displacement on something like that?”

“Uh…"

“You know, Prince Reidar, I really think you and Lord Hordak would have a lot to offer each other,” Ishara chimed in. “He’s done incredible things with our technology in the last few years. Just a few weeks ago, he discovered a new way to refine irridulium. Our armory hasn’t been this busy in years.”

“Irridulium?” he repeated. “But I always though the low tensile strength would render it useless for any shaped work, even if you could fully extract the pure metal from the ore.”

“He’s done all that and more,” said Selkis. “I have a spear made out of irridulium. I can grip it tight and barely scratch it.” She clacked a pincer for emphasis.

Reidar let out a low whistle. “It would have to be strong to withstand your grip. The force application of your pincers is incredibly efficient. I know there’s not much you can’t cut as long as you can close your claws around it.”

“We can show you after the ball, if you like,” Ishara offered.

“Absolutely!” the prince exclaimed, clapping his hands. “And I want to meet this Hordak character, too. It sounds like he has some fascinating ideas.”

Ishara smiled, feeling pleased with herself, and exchanged a knowing glance with Selkis. Reidar’s bubbly, enthusiastic nature might grate on Hordak’s sullen stoicism at first, but if they were given the opportunity to get used to each other, it could give Hordak something he’d been missing all this time: an equal. Maybe, with time, even a friend.

Reidar turned in his seat and looked at the robot. “Robo-Tripp, remind me to discuss a diplomatic mission to the Fright Zone with Real Tripp when we get back to the Crypto Castle.”

The robot’s eyes lit up, and the tips of its mustache worked up and down as it gave a monotone response. “Affirmative.”

“Hang on,” Ishara said, and peered closely at the metal man. She knew Reidar’s husband was named Tripp, and even though she didn’t know what he looked like, she was quite certain he wasn’t a robot. “Is that…”

“Oh, forgive me!” Reidar laughed. “How rude of me to not introduce you. Princess, Force Captain, this is Robo-Tripp, an electronic personification of my husband, Tripp - or Real Tripp, if it helps make it easier to tell them apart. Robo-Tripp, these lovely young ladies are Princess Ishara and Force Captain Selkis, both from the Fright Zone.”

The robot lifted its arm and waved. “Pleased. To. Meet. You.”

“We have a robotic version of me, too,” Reidar continued. “He’s at home with Real Tripp and our daughter. We figured the ball would be the perfect place for Robo-Tripp to collect data on social behavior.”

“Your daughter?” inquired Ishara.

“Our baby, Entrapta,” Reidar replied. He let out a long sigh of contentment. “Six weeks old yesterday! I hated leaving her, but this is a special occasion and it’s only one night. Besides, she has Robo-Me and Real Tripp there with her! She’ll hardly know the difference.” He gestured at the robot’s suit jacket. “Robo-Tripp, show them pictures!”

Robo-Tripp reached into his pocket and pulled out a small booklet. An accordion-style cascade of pictures tumbled out when he opened it. They all depicted a round-faced, bright-eyed baby girl who, despite being hardly more than a newborn, had a full head of purple hair that was almost as long as she was. It was bound in high pigtails and stuck out in a different direction in every picture, almost as if it had a mind of its own. In one picture, her hair was even gripping a wrench. The young women from the Fright Zone did not have to feign delight at the sight of little Entrapta - she was adorable. They oooh-ed and awww-ed over the infant princess while the proud father looked on, pleased by their reactions. All the while, a question was nagging at the back of Ishara’s mind; one she wasn’t exactly sure how to ask without coming across as rude. When the last of the long line of pictures had been sufficiently admired, she put it to words. 

“Prince Reidar,” she began carefully, “forgive me if I’m overstepping, but why do you have a robot of your husband… and of you?”

“Not at all!” the prince exclaimed. “For months now, we’ve been programming our personalities into our robotic counterparts, even before Entrapta was born. Believe it or not, making it easier to meet our social obligations wasn’t part of the plan when we designed them - just a nice bonus.” He held up his cybernetic right hand, and flexed his mechanical fingers for emphasis. “It’s common knowledge that Tripp and I don’t exactly lead the safest of lives. We take what precautions we can, but, well, in a mine, anything can happen.”

She nodded, understanding completely. Mining was the primary industry in her kingdom, too.

“On top of that, the remnant clans have been making trouble for us in the borderlands,” Reidar continued. “My convoy was nearly attacked on the way here, but I picked up their readings, and they scattered after a few warning shots.” He tapped his visor, and it suddenly occurred to Ishara that it was not a decorative accessory at all. “The idea is that if something happens to us, Entrapta can be raised by the closest approximation possible.”

“That’s…” began Selkis, who paused, then finished, “... a really good idea, actually.”

“Thank you!” the prince said, casting his bright smile upon Selkis. “We thought so, too!”

The music from the stringed instruments, which had been present ever since they entered Heart-Blossom Grove, was suddenly noticeable by its absence. Instinctively, Ishara looked to the head table; Reidar and Selkis followed suit. Princess Artemisia had stepped to the front of her platform. “Welcome, one and all, to the all-Etheria Princess Ball!” she announced. “On behalf of all of Plumeria, I bid you welcome. Let us begin with the ribbon dance, the traditional dance of our kingdom!”

“You must honor me with a dance after this, Princess Ishara,” said Reidar as the four of them stood. “And you, Force Captain.”

“Of course,” the young women said in unison. Ishara caught Selkis’s eye and smiled. This was going even better than she’d hoped.

All those in the assembly moved toward the large pole in the center of the clearing. Ishara attempted to remain close to Selkis, but they were separated in the hustle and bustle; by the time she found a ribbon to grasp, she was between Prince Reidar and Princess Maristela. She smiled at the first, and scowled at the latter; the sentiment was mutual. “Watch it, Scorpion,” the sea-princess hissed. “Keep that stinger away from me!”

Ishara refused to dignify Maristela’s comment with a response. She sought Selkis instead; her companion was three people ahead of her, with Reidar, Robo-Tripp, and a girl with purple hair and wearing the colors of Bright Moon between them. Selkis was too far away to lean on for reassurance, but Reidar heard, and was sympathetic. “You’re all right,” he whispered. “They fear what they don’t understand.”

She felt like she should have been more encouraged by these words than she was. Wasn’t the whole point of events like Princess Prom to bridge the gaps in understanding? There was no time to consider the implications, however; the musicians had struck up a new tune on their stringed instruments, and the ribbon dance began. Ishara took her three steps forward, one step back, spun, stepped out, then back in again in the carefully-choreographed movements of the ribbon dance she and Selkis had memorized and rehearsed. The Fright Zone girls, each holding a pink ribbon, held their positions as those holding blue - Maristela and the girl between Reidar and Selkis - dipped under the other ribbons, did a circle around the pole, and returned to their positions. Ishara, Selkis, and everyone else holding a pink ribbon mimicked their movements, followed by those holding yellow, then lavender. By the time the sequence was over, everyone was between the people they’d started out next to, with the whole circle shifting a few steps in one direction. Such would be the motions until the dance ended; there were sixteen planned iterations, four for each of the colors. Every movement in the ribbon dance was structured to ensure that the participants would end in the same spot in which they started. There was no margin for error.

Which was why Ishara was surprised when Maristela failed to step backwards after the third count of the second iteration.

“Hey!” Maristela exclaimed when she missed the fourth step of the dance’s step and nearly collided with Ishara as a result. “I told you to watch it!”

“I didn’t-” Ishara began, but Maristela and the others holding blue ribbons had already begun the next step of the dance. Looking behind her gave her a clear view of Nereida, though, and the sneer lingering on the face of the princess consort made it clear that she was no happier with Ishara’s presence than her stepdaughter was. She looked forward and tried to catch Selkis’s eye, and when she was unsuccessful, let it go in order concentrate on the dance. She just had to get through the next few minutes. Everything would be fine after that.

Four full sequences passed with no greater trouble than Maristela taking several of her steps a half-beat late, followed by scowls and muttering when she came close to Ishara. Reidar gave her a friendly smile whenever they made eye contact, though, and Selkis whispered words of encouragement at first, then references to some of their private jokes when they passed each other. Before long, she was grinning broadly and enjoying herself again. Looking around the grove, she saw smiles on nearly every face, and the occasional burst of laughter rising up above the music. If Salineas was so bound and determined to have a bad time, that was on them - no one else. Certainly not her.

The fifth iteration began. Ishara took three steps forward and one step back in time with the music. Maristela did not.

By the time she saw it coming, it was too late to do anything about it. Maristela stepped to the side to avoid a full-on collision, but the placement of her foot in the direct line of Ishara’s heel could not be an accident by anyone’s standards. Ishara stumbled and flailed, ribbon flapping feebly as it was ripped from the pole by the sudden unexpected movement. She attempted, in vain, to regain her balance by twisting her body and stepping forward, but she was too far off-center to have any control over her movements. A cacophony of gasps, shouts, and jeering laughter rose around her. It was chaos. Pandemonium. She was falling, and nothing could stop her.

No sound, however, was more distinct or horrifying than the low thunk and subsequent “Oh…” from Reidar as her stinger struck him directly above the heart.

Someone screamed, or maybe it was several someones - she couldn’t be sure. Ishara made the attempt to do so, but no sound came out. Selkis had leaped into action as soon as she realized what was happening, and while she couldn’t get all the way to Ishara, she at least managed to catch the prince of Dryl before he hit the ground. “Come on, Reidar,” she said, giving him a gentle shake. “You’re okay. Stay with me.”

“Look what you did!” came the shrill, accusing cry of Princess Maristela.

Ishara glared at her rival as she picked herself up off the ground, her beautiful ivory silks torn and grass-stained. “I didn’t do anything!” she spat back. “ You -”

“What is the meaning of this?”

Princess Artemisia had arrived on the scene, her face hardened with anger and dismay. “This is just… explain yourselves at once!” she spluttered.

“I was following the steps of the dance, and she didn’t step back on-” Ishara began.

“I told you!” Maristela interrupted. “I knew it was a mistake to let the scorpions in, and now look what they’ve done! She attacked Prince Reidar!”

“I didn’t - I never-”

“He’s all right,” chimed in Selkis. “He might be out for a few hours, but he’ll be fine.”

“With all due respect to you and the royal court of Plumeria, Princess Artemisia, this is exactly the kind of trouble you invited when you agreed to let the Fright Zone cross the threshold of your kingdom,” said Nereida, coming up beside Maristela and putting her arm around her stepdaughter’s shoulders. “Like it or not, there are reasons we have been at war with the for the last five years. They are dangerous, and have no regard for anyone but themselves.”

“She tripped me, and this whole time she’s been-” Ishara began, but her statement was overriden by Selkis. She stood, passed Reidar’s unconscious body into Robo-Tripp’s care, and loomed over Maristela, Nereida, Artemisia, and anyone else in proximity. “How dare you.”

For as close as she and Selkis were, Ishara had only ever seen her kind, gentle, and caring friend, not as the hardened warrior Hordak had trained her to be. There was no trace of the girl as she abanonded the pretense of neutrality, only the first and foremost Force Captain of the Horde. “Three thousand, nine hundred, and forty-seven. That is the number of souls you personally took the day you flooded the tunnels of Arachnis. Do you ever think about their names? Their faces?” She stepped forward and seized Maristela by the front of her gown. “It should have been three thousand, nine hundred, and forty-eight. Because of Lord Hordak, it isn’t. You can remember to thank him for that later. Or curse him. Whatever. Just know that I will not rest until I have righted the wrongs you have inflicted against my people!”

“Enough of this!” cried Artemisia. “The ball is meant to be a place of peace and neutrality! The behavior I have seen between the two of you is just…”

“Princess Artemisia,” Ishara began. “I have no quarrel with anyone here. Yes, the Fright Zone and Salineas are at war. I won’t deny it. One of the reasons I wanted to come here was so we might find common ground and make peace.” She looked at Maristela, and the tears she was trying so hard to disguise broke free the moment the sea-princess met her gaze. “Have we not hurt each other enough? When will it end?”

For the briefest of moments, Maristela appeared sympathetic, and Selkis released her. Nereida pulled her back in a hug and glared at the girls from the Fright Zone. “It will end,” she hissed, “when you admit that you and your kind are a scourge on the face of Etheria, and are worth nothing more than the dirt between your toes.”

Ishara turned to their hostess. “Princess Artemisia…”

The ruler of Plumeria would not meet her in the eye. It took a long while, but eventually, she spoke. “I think…it would be better if you left.”

Ishara could not believe what she was hearing. “Surely you don’t-”

“You heard her!” Nereida quipped. “You’re not welcome, monster! Get out of here!”

She looked around for support, and found none; the closest was the purple-haired girl from Bright Moon, who could not maintain eye contact with her for more than a moment before looking away with a soft “oh!” She continued to stare at Artemisia, but the princess of Plumeria still would not meet her eyes. Reidar remained unconscious.The only sympathetic eye in the grove belonged to Selkis, who, thankfully, seemed to be the only person capable of reading the room. In an instant, Ishara decided she needed to get out of there. They all hated her, she knew it. Salineas, Plumeria, Bright Moon, Dryl, whatever. She made one last attempt to communicate her distress to Artemisia, who made eye contact with her for the briefest of moments, then looked away in disgust. “Please…”

“Come on,” said Selkis, who stepped forward and took Ishara by the arm. “We’re getting out of here.”

Ishara did not remember much about what happened next. Gone were Maristela, Nereida, Artemisia, Reidar, and anyone else who played a significant role in the events of the night up to that point. She allowed herself to be steered back to the transport from the Fright Zone from which they had arrived, at which point Selkis took over. “We’re leaving,” she told the quartet of guards at the base of the entrance ramp. “Get this bucket of bolts moving.”

“Force Captain, your spear-”

“Forget it,” Selkis interrupted. “Tell them to give it to Prince Reidar of Dryl. A gift, an apology, a peace offering, whatever.”

One of the guards leaned to the left, trying to get a look around her. “The princess…”

“That was an order!” Selkis barked. “Get moving!”

All four voices rose in acknowledgement of her command, with “yes, Force Captain” and “right away, Force Captain” emerging as the most distinct statements. Three went inside the transport, while the fourth hurried off to the entrance they’d passed through with so much hope less than an hour ago. Selkis led the princess to the private seating area at the fore of the craft, and once the door was closed and secured behind them, set a pincer on Ishara’s shoulder. “Hey.”

Ishara shoved her away and clutched at her mask. Even though it didn’t impede her breathing, she still felt suffocated. A few seconds of fumbling at the ribbon which bound it to her head was enough; frustrated, she slid the lower part of her pincers underneath the knot and cut it. She was fairly certain a good amount of her hair went with it, but she didn’t care. She was beyond caring about much of anything at this point.

“Ishara…”

Out of the corner of her eye, Ishara saw her friend’s claw reach for her. She knocked it aside. “Don’t touch me!”

Selkis took the hint and said no more. The transport’s engines ignited, their hum of life resonating throughout the machine’s structure. Soon after, they lurched forward; they were on their way. Selkis waited several minutes before she tried again. “Hey. Talk to me.”

She had so many things she wanted to say, but none of them seemed able to manifest. Her jaw worked back and forth, trying to find the right words, but to no avail. Finally, she gave up, and when she spoke, her voice betrayed the brokenness in her spirit. “My father always said the other kingdoms hated us. I didn’t want to believe him. He was right all along.”

“Hold on just a second,” Selkis argued. “That’s not what happened at all. Artemisia stood up for us, and Reidar-”

“Artemisia didn’t stand up for us when it counted!” Ishara interrupted. “And if Dryl doesn’t declare war on us after this, it’ll be a miracle!”

“Reidar was delighted by you,” Selkis pressed on. “We’ll give it a few days, and then we’ll talk to him. He said himself that he wanted to see the irridulium refinery and meet Hordak. It’ll be okay!”

Ishara shook her head. “We should never have come here. Plumeria only invited us because they had to. Reidar was the only person there who showed us any real kindness, and that’s ruined now!” All she wanted was to bury her face in her claws and pretend that the night had never happened. Instead, she forced herself to look at Selkis; her friend deserved that much, despite the gravitas of her position being diminished by the waterfall of tears falling from her eyes. “They’re all right about us. About me. My father, Salineas, Plumeria, Bright Moon, even the Horde! Hordak doesn’t take me seriously, and why would he? I’m naive, stupid, worthless-”

“Hey!” Selkis had had enough. She pulled off her own mask and placed her pincers on either side of Ishara’s head, forcing the princess to look at her. “Watch it. That’s my best friend you’re talking about.”

Ishara stared at her a moment, then clenched her eyes shut and made a noise that was something between a sob and a splutter. “And what good has that done you? Congratulations on being best friends with the dumbest, most pathetic person in the-”

“Look at me. Look at me !” Her voice was cracking. She took a few steadying breaths to compose herself, and waited for Ishara to open her eyes before she continued. “What happened back there wasn’t your fault. You’re a good person. You are strong, and kind, and smart, and you try so hard, and I…”

She paused. Gulped. Ishara felt her heart lurch.

“... and how have I not kissed you yet?”

They looked at each other for what felt like a very long while. She couldn’t be sure. She had temporarily lost all sense of time, understanding, or regard for anything except the face of the girl who’d never failed to amaze her with her strength, loyalty, compassion, and wisdom.

The girl she loved.

Despite her burdens, Ishara’s face broke into a smile. “I honestly have no idea.”

She was suddenly very aware of her claws, and how stupid they must look hanging by her sides instead of wrapped around a certain force captain’s waist, so she fixed that. Selkis responded in kind, moving her pincers away from Ishara’s shoulders to her back, pulling her as close physically as they were in their hearts. The ribbons of their masks laying on the floor gave a flutter as they passed them by, and were quite forgotten.

Chapter Text

Hordak was in a bad mood.

That in itself was not unusual; most of his moods were bad. This particular morning was darkened by several aspects that would have tested him even in the best of circumstances, and to have them all happening at once was stretching what little patience he had very thin indeed. His condition was troubling him again. After going almost a year without a major attack, he’d nearly collapsed in front of his force captains two days ago. He’d managed to keep control of his broken body long enough to bark an order that he was not to be disturbed under any circumstances and lock himself in his laboratory, where he immediately dropped to the floor and couldn’t move for hours. He was finally able to emerge from his quarters today, even though every step, every breath, every heartbeat sent tendrils of fire coursing through his nerves. He prayed to Prime that he could get through the morning without succumbing to his weakness.

He probably should have stayed in isolation longer, but this morning was an important meeting that could not be missed: for weeks, they had been gathering intelligence on an important settlement near the borders of Salineas that would cut off one of their enemy’s major trade routes, and the time had come to make a plan to capture it. Several of the Horde’s and Fright Zone’s top commanders had been recalled from the field to take part in the discussion, including the perpetual thorn in his side Captain Memmon. Little went on that Hordak did not know about thanks to the extensive surveillance technology he’d laid in over the years, and as such, he knew Memmon had wasted no time speculating on Hordak’s “mysterious absence” loudly and often. They had not had a direct confrontation since that day on the training ground years ago, but Hordak knew it was only a matter of time. The sooner Memmon could be removed, the better.

On top of everything else, Force Captain Selkis, while not technically late, was the last to arrive. This was highly unusual. Her transport had arrived hours earlier than expected last night, so he knew she’d returned from the princess ball or whatever nonsense she and Ishara had been up to. Earlier that morning, King Weha had received word of an incident related to the ball, and wanted to question both his daughter and Selkis about what had happened. What this could be, Hordak did not know; the messenger spoke to the king alone. Hordak attempted to waylay the messenger as they left, but was disregarded, taking the incident from mere slight to outright insult. As if he, commander of the Etherian Horde and clone of Horde Prime himself, were some underling and not the master and commander of the Fright Zone’s forces! Weha had not seen fit to share this news with him, saying he would discuss it in the war room once they were all assembled. Hordak’s one consolation was that Memmon had not been told, either. Whatever it was, they would hear it from the king soon - or Selkis, likely a first-hand witness to the incident and therefore a better source of information. Provided, of course, that she showed up.

Across the large circular table around which they all stood, Memmon cleared his throat loudly and repeatedly until Hordak finally deigned to look at him. Once he had his attention, the leader of Weha’s Sting Squad said, “Your Force Captain is certainly taking her time today, Lord Hordak. I didn’t realize your standards for behavior from your senior commanders were so lenient.”

Hordak bared his teeth at Memmon, who looked like he had more to say, but was cut off when the door to the war room slid open. He looked over, expecting Selkis; instead, it was Princess Ishara who entered first, with the force captain a half-step behind her. Selkis took her usual place at his right hand with a mumbled “Lord Hordak,” while Ishara stood on her other side. Weha’s advisors shuffled their positions to make room for her, raising no protest under her glare, the likes of which Hordak had never seen from Ishara. Something had happened to spark a change in her demeanor, which had always been soft, and therefore weak. He wondered what it could be, but more importantly, what could result because of it.

Sargon, the captain of the royal guard, was the first to speak. “I beg your pardon, Your Highness,” he began. “This is a private meeting.”

Ishara glanced over her shoulder before leveling her cool gaze at Sargon. “Then close the door.”

Sargon stared at her, dumbfounded, until it became clear that she was not going to move or yield. Finally, he stepped away from the table and edged to the door, never once taking his eyes off Ishara. Memmon tried next. “This is a meeting of the war council, Princess. Your presence here is-”

“Save your lecture for your troops,” Ishara interrupted. “Or better yet, don’t. I expect they’ve learned to tune out your constant droning by now.”

Memmon’s ruddy face flushed even redder. “You dare come in here and insult-”

“Silence!” barked Hordak and King Weha at the same time. The two made eye contact; Weha was both the first to look away and to speak. “If you insist on being here, Ishara, perhaps you can tell us what happened at the ball.”

Before she could respond, Selkis blurted out, “It wasn’t her fault! Princess Maristela tripped her! Everyone saw it, they knew it was on purpose, and they still made us leave!”

“It was an accident,” Ishara added. “I didn’t mean to sting him!”

From the way the king’s brow knotted in confusion, Hordak knew at once that this was not the information Weha expected his daughter to corroborate. “Sting who?”

She, in turn, looked surprised and confused as well. “Prince Reidar, from Dryl. You didn’t hear about that?”

“Not that part.” Weha waited until he knew every eye in the room was upon him, and then a moment longer, undoubtedly for dramatic effect. “Prince Reidar is dead.”

Everyone in the room save for Hordak visibly reacted to this news, but none more strongly than Selkis, who gasped and covered her mouth with a claw, and Ishara, whose face had gone nearly as white as her hair and was gripping the table for support. “No,” the princess squeaked. “That can’t be. Our venom doesn’t kill, it just paralyzes.”

They all knew that. Hordak wondered who she was trying to convince. Herself, perhaps?

“Reidar is a good man,” Ishara spluttered. “He’s kind, and smart, and funny, and he just became a father…” Her next words came out in a wail. “He can’t be dead! That’s impossible!”

“According to the report, his convoy was attacked near Horst Pass late last night,” the king replied. “Half of his entourage was slain. Reidar himself was found run through with a strange spear: thin and light, but strong, with no decorations or distinguishing marks. That sounded a lot like your spear, Force Captain Selkis, which is why I wondered if you had anything to do with it.”

Selkis lowered her claw and straightened. “The remnant clans,” she said in a tone of realization. When several inquiring faces turned to her, she continued, “Reidar told us at the ball that he was nearly attacked on the way there. He fired shots and scared them off, but…” She paused and looked at the princess. “Oh, Ishara… the advanced targeting system, remember? I think he controlled it through his visor. If he was still unconscious…”

Hordak had heard of the remnant clans. Formerly, they were a separate kingdom who had joined with Dryl over a hundred and fifty years ago. A generation earlier, they attempted a coup, unsuccessfully, and those that remained were ultimately driven into the mountains in Dryl’s borderlands. While they occasionally made trouble, they were not considered a serious threat, so he did not trouble himself to learn more about them in his study of Etheria’s military history. Perhaps he would have to reevaluate.

“I told our guards to give the spear to Reidar,” Selkis continued. “He was so excited when we told him about Lord Hordak’s work with irridulium. We wanted to make an alliance, and we probably would have, too, if not for Maristela.”

“Surely the Fright Zone can be absolved of any blame in this,” piped in Sargon. “Dryl is in the opposite direction from Plumeria as we are, and the princess’s transport had to be nearly back here at the time this attack occurred.”

“Do you think that will matter to the other kingdoms?” asked one of the advisors whose position Ishara had usurped. “For all they know, the Horde could be in league with the remnant clans.”

“Dryl and the Fright Zone haven’t had a quarrel with each other for hundreds of years. They’ll know who is to blame.”

Across the table, Memmon was whispering with one of his Sting Squadron commanders. At a look from Weha, he ceased his muttering and shared his thoughts with room. “Your Majesty, if Dryl engages in another civil war, their defenses will be distracted and stretched thin. It will be the perfect opportunity for us to move against them.”

“No!” cried Ishara.

“No,” said Hordak at the same time.

He and the princess looked at each other. Lest she mistake his response for sentimentality, Hordak went on to explain his reasoning. “We do not have the resources to fight a war on two fronts. Let Dryl and the remnant clans fight each other. Whoever emerges victorious from their conflict will be weakened and diminished. Then we will reassess our position.”

Hordak looked around the table. When no one else seemed ready to bring up any more ridiculous ideas, he moved on. “Dryl does not concern us. Our focus is Devlan and the Confluence. Force Captain Grizzlor, your report.”

Grizzor snorted and shook his mane. “We’ve scouted the passes, and only one presents a viable option for an attack.” A holographic projection of the region in question appeared on the table, with a blinking dot on the pass in question. “Anything else is too narrow to move the kind of troops we’d need to take the city.”

“The topography is similar to the area around Arachnis,” said one of the Sting Squad commanders whose name Hordak had never bothered to learn. “We can employ the same strategy we used to take it back.”

“No, we can’t,” said Selkis, frowning. “It might look similar from that one angle, but Devlan is nothing like Arachnis.” She waved her claw, and the map projection shifted to one side; on the other appeared a hologram of her home village and its surrounding geography. “Arachnis had the mountains on three sides. The only overland route was through this pass, and we knew that would be a choke point, so the tunnels were built to provide a means for evacuation in an emergency. We knew it was a weakness, so we never relied on it for defense.”

“Which worked, and worked well, until Salineas discovered the safeguard and exploited it,” said Memmon. “Devlan won’t make that mistake.”

“You’re right, Captain,” agreed Ishara, completely correct, but perhaps also in attempt to placate from their earlier interaction. Even Hordak could allow that Memmon was not a complete idiot, and they could not expect the same strategy to work twice. “But more important than the geography is the intent: when Salineas came for Arachnis, they were after its people, not the land, like we are with Devlan. Anyone smart will know to run when they see the Horde coming, and if they abandon the city, that means less risk to our troops, too.” She looked at Grizzlor. “What defenses does this pass have, Force Captain?”

Grizzlor looked at Hordak instead of responding. Hordak, for his part, was equally annoyed at the delay and intrigued by Ishara’s sudden interest in being involved. She displayed intelligence when she could control her emotions, and her popularity with the people of the Fright Zone could make her a valuable asset. More importantly, he knew Selkis respected her, and Selkis in turn had earned Hordak’s trust. It was time to see what this princess was really made of. “Answer her.”

The young Force Captain pressed a button on the table. The hologram of Arachnis vanished, leaving the projection of Devlan and its surrounding landscape. “This fortress sits at the top of the pass,” he began. The map zoomed in on the pass, with a blinking red dot appearing at the place he indicated. “There are sentry towers at the top of the peaks as well as halfway down the mountain. The fortress itself has an outer wall of iron and stone, laser turrets, and a gate that can only be opened by a code that changes every twelve hours.”

“Hmph,” snorted the same Sting Squad commander from earlier. “It seems like this is exactly the opposite of a viable option for an attack. Why can’t we approach from the rivers?”

“The chains,” was Grizzlor’s succinct response.

“What chains?” asked several others in unison, including both Ishara and Hordak.

“It’s how they both control the river traffic and combat any threats that try to attack from the water,” Grizzlor answered. “There’s one upriver and one down. A net of chains sits at the bottom, which they can raise and block anything trying to come through. They were made by the First Ones, and as soon as they break the surface of the water, the whole thing becomes some kind of electrified shield. It toasts anything that touches it.”

“That sounds a lot like the Sea Gate at Salineas,” Ishara mused. “We’re definitely not getting through that way. Unless… no, that wouldn’t work…”

Hordak waited a moment, but no flash of brilliance or insight came from the princess, so he moved on. He didn’t like moving against a well-guarded pass where the enemy could see them coming well in advance. He liked even less the amount of time and resources it would take to mount a siege. They needed Devlan, but what would happen to the other regions and settlements they held if they needed to focus all their energy on one city? Was it worth it? “We’ll need to modify our weapons and equipment,” he said. “They were not designed for-”

“I’ve got it!” Ishara exclaimed. Excitement lit up her face, and she cast a broad smile at Selkis. Hordak, standing beside his top Force Captain, caught some of it as well, though he was immune to its effects. “I know how we can take Devlan.”

Murmurs broke out around the table. Ishara didn’t wait for anyone to override her. “Force Captain Grizzlor, where would they expect an attack to come from: the river, or the mountains?”

“The river - or, rather, the plains,” Grizzlor replied at once. “It’s open country for miles around, which doesn’t help for cover, but an enemy force could move huge quantities of troops, weapons, whatever they wanted.”

“So that’s where their primary defenses will be focused,” Ishara concluded. “The pass is the only other way to take Devlan, and the lay of the land forces any assailants into a bottleneck at that one point. They can defend it indefinitely with minimal troops, right?”

“There won’t be minimal troops once they see us coming,” someone pointed out.

Ishara was not swayed. “Don’t bother building siege engines, Lord Hordak. We won’t need them.”

“We can’t take the pass without a siege!” Grizzlor protested.

Ishara’s smile turned sly. “We can if they’re distracted.”

Hordak turned and looked at Ishara over the top of Selkis’s head. She had his curiosity before, but now she had his attention. “What do you propose, Princess?”

“A threefold attack,” she replied. “We’ll send the bulk of our forces across the plains and up the river. The chains will stop them, but ranged weapons will be enough of a nuisance to where they’ll need to devote some resources to stopping it. We’ll let them think we mean to cross the river at this spot, just below the shoals.” She pointed to an area on the map between where Grizzlor indicated the chains were raised. “Meanwhile, a transport containing an elite group of fighters - the Sting Squad, maybe- will come up the pass. With one attack coming by land, and another by the river, where’s the last direction they would look?”

Hordak was catching on. “Up.”

“Exactly.” Ishara waved her claw at the map, and it zoomed in on the pass. “At first, I thought we might be able to take a small group of soldiers on foot through one of the smaller passes Grizzlor mentioned and have them drop down onto the gate from either one of these peaks, but moving both the people and supplies we’d need for that approach wouldn’t work. It would take too much time, and the terrain is too rough. Then I remembered the high-altitude drones the Horde has used for surveillance and the occasional supply drop. Lord Hordak, do you think you could modify them to carry a small force - say, ten, maybe twelve soldiers?”

“Hmm.” It was certainly possible. It would take time, as well as materials he wasn’t completely sure they had, but it could be done. The hard part would be training whatever soldiers were selected to be part of the unit. It was an effective maneuver, but difficult and dangerous. Whoever was among them needed to be their very best.

“We can’t take the fortress with so few people,” Memmon protested. “Even if we do take them by surprise with a drop force, they’ll have seen the other transports coming and augmented their defenses.”

“They don’t need to capture it. They just need to get the gate open. After that, our soldiers outside can finish whatever needs finishing to take the pass, move down into the city, and lower the chains from the inside.”

As much as Hordak hated to agree with Memmon, the captain made a valid point. Furthermore, there was one more critical aspect of the plan Ishara seemed to have overlooked. “And the gate?” he asked. “According to Grizzlor, the code changes every twelve hours, and they would certainly have contingency measures in the event of an attack.”

The princess took a deep breath. “Well, that’s where you come in.”

Their eyes met. It had been a long time since he looked directly at her like this, and no trace of the meek, soft-hearted girl he took her for remained. “You have the skills to crack the code,” Ishara began, “but without knowing what we’re dealing with, we can’t be sure if it’s something where you could create some kind of code-breaking device or if you’d have to be there in person. You’re the only one who pull it off.”

As a rule, Hordak rarely went into the field. This was largely accepted by those in the Horde as “risk,” though he made no attempts to clarify exactly what type of risk it represented. Death in battle was the obvious one, and a fate he would gladly accept over anyone learning the truth about his weakness - the far greater risk that came with engaging in combat on the front lines. Furthermore, few outside the Horde had ever seen him in person, which cultivated a fear of the unknown in their enemies; more than once, a captive had doubted that Hordak even existed until he came to interrogate them. He was a leader and a strategist, and the fact that Selkis had grown into a highly-capable commander who could be trusted to carry out his orders was proof of his own effectiveness. He was also, by far, the Fright Zone’s most brilliant engineer. Ishara was right: he was the only one who could bypass the gate’s defenses, and without knowing what it would take, he could not program a device in advance. It was their only choice.

Hordak nodded in acknowledgement of her plan. “Then it will be done.”

“It’s a good plan,” agreed Selkis, “and I know we’re not moving on Devlan tomorrow, but the kind of equipment we’ll need to pull it off is just… I mean, we’re talking about refitting or redesigning almost all of our war machines. At our current rate of production, I think we’re looking at a year or more before we could be ready.”

“Then we need to increase our capabilities,” Ishara concluded. “What would it take to advance that timeline down to, say, seven or eight months?”

Selkis shrugged. “I’m sure Lord Hordak could get designs ready in a week or so, but for the construction… more power, really. A lot of the materials we use for powering the forges could be turned around to power the equipment instead, but then we’d fall behind elsewhere.”

Ishara puzzled over the dilemma for a moment. When she finally spoke, it was with an air of finality. “What if there was an alternative power source?”

“Like what?” asked Grizzlor. Hordak’s ears gave a twitch; he had almost forgotten Grizzlor was there - or anyone else, for that matter, save Ishara and Selkis. Across the table, Weha suddenly seemed quite interested as well. The king had been curiously quiet during the exchange between his daughter and the Horde leaders. Did he suspect where Ishara was going with this?

Ishara’s gaze was upon the table, and the strategic location that would deal a critical blow to their enemies. “The Black Garnet.”

Murmurs broke out around the table, with the king’s voice rising above them. “Ishara, no. The Black Garnet is a symbol of our family’s legacy. To take it and-”

“It doesn’t work for us!” Ishara interrupted. “All it represents is a broken line and the ridicule of the kingdoms whose runestones give them the power to stand against us!” She looked around the table, almost as if daring someone to disagree with her. No one did. “The Black Garnet is mine by right. If Lord Hordak is able to turn it into something useful, then he has my permission and desire to use it as he sees fit.”

Weha did not appear upset by this ultimatum; if anything, he seemed intrigued. Sargon attempted to say something to the king, but Weha waved him down almost flippantly. Hordak did not much like the way the king offered no further protest against the surrender of his family’s last and greatest treasure, but whatever thoughts drove Weha’s easy acquiescence remained elusive. The Black Garnet would certainly give Hordak the power he would need in order to drive the production of his war machines. It was better to take the hand now, when it was extended, than to attempt a fight for it later.

“Very well,” Hordak agreed. “Force Captain Selkis, see to the relocation of the Black Garnet to my sanctum.”

“At once, Lord Hordak,” his top Force Captain agreed, bowing her head.

For the first time in days, the fire in his nerves flickered as excitement surged from within. Long had he pondered how his forces might take this critical settlement, and at last, they had the means to do so - because of the princess, of all people. She had cast off her chains and risen above all expectations, particularly his. Hordak did not like to be wrong, but in this case, he was pleased by the outcome. He would not make the same mistake again.

The rest of Etheria, he trusted, would.

Chapter Text

The next six months passed in a blur for Force Captain Selkis. The days were spent training her troops, creating, reviewing, and revising the battle plans, and ensuring her teams and equipment were up to the challenge that lay before them. Her nights were full of Ishara: stolen kisses in the corridors during a quiet moment here and there, the occasional hour or so in between their obligations, and every time she went to sleep, dreams of what their shared future might hold. After the first few weeks, Ishara’s presence filled her days as well. The princess possessed a previously unexpected mind for military tactics, and Selkis was not the only one who noticed. Hordak in particular had come to rely upon her, and as they moved closer to the strike upon Devlan, not a single meeting took place in which Ishara was not present. She had even begun to join Selkis and her soldiers in combat training. It was clear from the onset that this would never be Ishara’s true strength, but Selkis didn’t care. In lives such as theirs, it was necessary to be able to defend oneself. Furthermore, disturbing whispers had reached her ears; rumors of doubt and dissent in their ranks, for both the Horde and the Fright Zone. She didn’t think Ishara was in any danger - the princess was beloved by both sides - but she didn’t want to take any chances.

That was how the Force Captain found herself one day, approximately two weeks before the Horde planned to move forward with their attack on Devlan, overseeing a three-on-one sparring match between Ishara, two other Horde soldiers, and Huntara, a recruit they’d pulled out of the Crimson Waste shortly before the ill-fated trip to Plumeria and princess prom that had changed everything. The princess was outperformed in every way by the others, but that was not the point of the exercise. Ishara needed practice, and Huntara needed experience in battling multiple opponents at once. Selkis had selected her to lead the drop squad and partner with Hordak. She had no doubt their enemies would throw everything they had at Hordak once they realized what he was up to. He had to succeed, and not even at any cost, for he had to be around to lead the Horde into the future.

The decision had been made months ago, and Selkis still did not wholly agree with it. When Ishara first proposed the plan to send a squad to hack the gate, Selkis immediately assumed she would be part of that team. Hordak, however, had ordered her to lead their forces from other side and attack Devlan once the chains were lowered. She was not convinced that was where she needed to be. Selkis was the finest combatant in the Horde, and she was one of the few - possibly the only one- who had genuine, personal concern for Hordak. He kept people at a distance, and even she, the closest thing he had to a friend, was not privy to his secrets. She had learned long ago to not press or ask questions about anything besides the mission at hand, but that didn’t stop her from observing. Hordak suffered: of that much, she was certain. He’d come from another world, another reality, and every choice he made was weighed against his goal to return to Horde Prime. She believed he suffered in other ways as well - there were many times over the years she’d seen him move delicately despite no evidence of physical injury, or noted a flinch and grimace for no apparent reason. Going into the field was more dangerous for him than he would ever admit, and if Selkis would die before she let on that she knew this, it was because Hordak would strike her down himself if he suspected she thought he was weak. He did not understand the distinction between strength and force. It was why he had discounted Ishara for so long. If the shifts in the balance of power since Plumeria were any indication, he was beginning to change his views, but she wondered if he would ever apply the same standards to himself.

In any event, Hordak’s decision kept Selkis on the opposite front, and even though it wasn’t the choice she would make, she could not argue with the fact that if something went wrong for either of them, the Horde would still have a commander. It was therefore up to Huntara to keep Hordak safe. There was no doubt that she was capable: Selkis watched with a critical eye as the young woman routed her opponents, who were showing no quarter, in a matter of minutes to come staff-to-claw with Ishara. They looked at each other, but did not react at once; Huntara paused for the briefest of moments before she resumed her attack, and Ishara displayed a similar delay in reacting. Suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, Selkis remembered how Ishara had teased asking Huntara to the Princess Prom. It had clearly been a ploy to make her jealous, and she had never really considered there might be anything more to it either at the time or since, but she was thinking about it now, and didn’t enjoy it one bit. “Stop!”

Huntara and the other two she’d fought stood at attention, and Ishara relaxed, face flushed and eyes bright from the exertion. She smiled at Selkis, who was now feeling rather foolish about her flash of envy, and quickly shoved it aside for a genuine critique. “You hesitated,” said Selkis, looking at both the princess and the cadet in turn. “Do that in battle and you’ll get yourself killed. Go again.”

Huntara and the others nodded and resumed their positions, but before Selkis could give the order for them to begin, Captain Sargon and two other members of the royal guard entered the training ground and called for her attention. “Forgive the interruption, Force Captain Selkis,” Sargon apologized. “The king needs to speak with Princess Ishara at once.”

Selkis hated to break the momentum of the training exercise, but even if she dared refuse a direct order from the king, Ishara wasn’t one of her soldiers and was free to come and go as she pleased. Ishara nodded in acknowledgement of the request, and turned to her sparring partners. “Fight hard, Huntara,” she said to their leader.

Huntara clasped her fist to her chest and bowed her head. “By your command, Princess.”

Something that could have been called jealousy had it been given any time to manifest swirled inside Selkis, but it was extinguished when Ishara touched her claw to the force captain’s as she passed by, accompanied by a tender smile and the slightest of nods. Selkis felt the corners of her mouth twitch upward. Placated, she turned to her cadets. She excelled at many aspects of combat, and one of the first and foremost was improvisation.

“All right, you three,” she said to Huntara and her companions. “New plan.” Selkis repositioned into a fighting stance and raised her claws. “Get past me.”

--------

Ishara returned to the training grounds twenty minutes later. Selkis had only to glance at her to feel the full weight of her terror and realize at once that something was very, very wrong.

The princess was walking toward her as quickly she could when it looked like she might faint at any second. Selkis raised her claw to halt the attack from her cadets, and paused only to say “Huntara” and nod at her top fighter before she started toward Ishara. The sounds of sparring resumed behind her, and faded entirely as she reached for Ishara’s claws. “What is it? What’s happened?”

Ishara did not answer right away, instead pulling her away further from the others until there was no chance of being overhead. Even then, her lips worked around the words for a few moments before they finally came out in a choked splutter. “My father wants me to marry Hordak.”

A few minutes ago, Huntara had landed a hit right on Selkis’s stomach. Ishara’s words struck the same spot, and much harder. “He what?!?”

Ishara wrapped her claws around herself and gave a slight nod. She looked as if a movement any more pronounced might make her sick.

“He can’t be serious,” Selkis floundered, attempting to fill the awkward silence. She wondered if she might have misheard. Ishara, marry Hordak? The idea was so ridiculous it was almost laughable, except Ishara’s face made it very clear that this was no laughing matter at all. But what point would it serve? Selkis was not blind to the advantage a political marriage would give, but the Horde and the Fright Zone were practically one and the same. “But… why?” And just in case Ishara misinterpreted this as wondering why anyone would want to marry her specifically, the Force Captain quickly clarified, “I mean, what does he think a marriage between you and Hordak would accomplish? Not that I think it’s weird that you would get married. Anyone would be lucky to marry you.”

“He’s tired of losing standing with Hordak,” Ishara answered meekly. “He thinks that if we… if Hordak and I are… then Hordak would take him more seriously.” She looked at Selkis, large eyes shining with tears she was fighting so hard not to shed. “And I think he might be right. What’s going to happen to my kingdom when Hordak doesn’t need us anymore?”

“ Nothing is going to happen to the Fright Zone,” Selkis assured her, and touched her pincers to Ishara’s shoulders. “Hordak doesn’t care about Etheria. He wants to get back to Horde Prime, and when he does, Horror Hall will rule Etheria in Prime’s name. That’s been his goal from the beginning. It hasn’t changed.”

“It’s been almost seven years, and as far as we know, he isn’t any closer to getting back to Horde Prime than he was when he first crashed here!” The tears finally escaped, running down her cheeks in two glistening tracks. “People already respect the Horde more than they ever did my family. Look at you! You’re not a soldier of the Fright Zone. You’re a Force Captain. You’re one of his!”

Selkis could overlook the accusations about her allegiance - Ishara was clearly in distress and not thinking clearly - but another thought suddenly occurred to her, one that made her stomach churn. “You, uh... you don’t think of Hordak in ‘that way,’ do you?”

Ishara’s look of horror mixed with disgust was answer enough. “No, of course not!”

She was somewhat mollified by this reaction, but not entirely. There were several factors at play here, and all needed to be examined. “And… do you think he feels that way about y-?”

“Absolutely not,” the princess interrupted. “I don’t think he feels that way about anyone.” She took a few slow breaths to calm herself, and a pensive look replaced her distress. “I don’t think he can. As far as I can tell, he hasn’t even aged the whole time he’s been here. It’s… it’s like he’s more of a machine than a man.”

“What will you do if your father wants you to go through with it?”

Ishara stared at the ground for a moment, then lifted her chin and looked Selkis in the eyes. Her lip trembled. “My duty.”

“Ishara, no!”

“Well obviously that’s not my first choice, but what other one do we have? I’m a princess. You’re a force captain. It’s never been about what we want!”

“You can’t… we have to… we’ll talk to him,” stammered Selkis, desperately grasping at any straw she could reach. “If we can make him see that… that if…”

Even as she spoke the words, she knew an attempt to appeal to Hordak was futile. He would not, under any circumstances, yield to someone’s personal wishes. If a marriage would strengthen the position of the Horde, then a marriage he would make. Selkis did not believe it would, but she was also aware of her own bias in the situation. Were her feelings for Ishara clouding her judgment for what was best for the Horde? Was this what it really meant to be a leader - to be able to make decisions, no matter how distasteful, in the name of the greater good, and to be strong enough to see them through? When she woke up that morning, she thought she knew the answers to those questions, at least in the abstract sense. Now that she was being personally affected by the machinations of kings and conquerors, she wasn’t so sure.

“Excuse me, Princess Ishara? Force Captain Selkis?”

Sargon had returned, alone this time. His kindly face was wrought with concern. Selkis doubted Weha would have consulted Sargon on the matter the marriage, but given that the captain of the guard rarely stepped outside the king’s shadow, there was much he would have heard or surmised. “Lord Hordak has sent for you,” he continued when he had their attention. “Both of you.”

“Both of…?” Selkis repeated. That didn’t make sense. She could understand him wanting to speak to Ishara, but why both of them?

She shook her head to regain her focus, and by extension, her dignity. Whatever Hordak’s reasons, he would not have deigned to share them with Sargon, and she was not going to face her commander with the look of one being led to their execution. “Thank you, Captain,” she said. “We’ll be along at once.”

--------

Hordak was adding solvent to the flask suspended above a low-burning flame, drop by drop, when a chime alerted him to the presence of someone outside the door to his laboratory. He scowled at the interruption, though it was not unexpected, and turned the valve on his burette to halt the flow of liquid. It would not take much longer for the solution to be finished, and then he could get on with the test. “Enter.”

Princess Ishara and Force Captain Selkis stood outside, and after a brief hesitation in which they looked at each other, crossed the threshold side by side. Hordak held up a hand. “Wait outside, Force Captain,” he instructed. “I first need to speak with the princess alone.”

Selkis obeyed, and the door closed behind Ishara. Hordak studied her for a moment, and curiosity tugged at the edges of the frustration, impatience, and irritability that were his constant companions. He had never been alone with the princess before. He wondered how she would respond. The last few months had revealed depths of intelligence, dignity, and cunning he never expected from her, but he could also sense fear and doubt. The latter two had no place in their conversation today. They were running out of time, and decisions needed to be made.

“You wished to see me, Lord Hordak?” Ishara said. The slight tremble in her voice was squashed by the time she finished her sentence.

“Yes.” Hordak returned his attention to his lab table and began dripping solvent into the flask again. “I understand the king believes I no longer value his counsel as I once did.”

“That is my understanding as well, Lord Hordak.”

She was forthright in her admission, and did not attempt to make excuses or insult his intelligence by disagreeing. It was yet another example of the qualities that would make her a more acceptable ruler of the Fright Zone than her father when the time came for Ishara to succeed him. “He is right.”

Ishara’s brow furrowed in surprise. “He - what?”

“King Weha’s behavior has grown increasingly erratic,” said Hordak. “He has been making decisions that are motivated by whim instead of logic. This ongoing matter with Dryl, for instance. They are not strategically located, and they have no natural resources we cannot obtain from the Fright Zone, yet the king petitioned for weeks to abandon our plans for Devlan and move on the Crypto Castle instead. He even went so far as to order a unit of the Sting Squad to Horst Pass, only to fly into a rage at Commander Leyvan the next day when he saw her preparing to move out and demand where she was going when all their efforts were supposed to be directed at Devlan.”

The Sting Squad was not under Horde command; Hordak had only found out about this because of something Captain Memmon had let slip. It was not the most egregious of Weha’s foolish decisions, though, and it was time to put the latest one to rest once and for all. “Now, he has come to believe a marriage between you and I would strengthen the allegiance between the Horde and the Fright Zone.”

“Is that what you believe, Lord Hordak?”

Hordak turned the valve on the burette again to stop the flow of solvent. He looked at the flask closely, gave it a tap, and allowed three more drops to fall. “I am familiar with the concept of a marriage alliance. It is a primitive practice, but common among civilizations led by monarchies, and would not have become so if it did not have value.” He turned off the flame and pulled the flask away from the apparatus. “Tell me, Princess: what is your opinion of Force Captain Selkis?”

“What does she have to do with anything?” The question was immediate, unguarded, and betrayed her emotions. Ishara cleared her throat and added in her normal, level tone, “Lord Hordak.”

“Your father claims I no longer seek his counsel as I once did. I expect, in his anger, that he thinks this disregard extends to the entire royal family and court. It does not. I wish to seek your counsel, so I ask you: what is your opinion of Force Captain Selkis?” Hordak allowed a growl of impatience to enter his voice for good measure. “Do not make me repeat myself, Princess.”

“Force Captain Selkis is a clever and capable warrior,” Ishara said, having fully recovered her wits and decorum. “She’s followed your teachings to the best of her considerable ability from the very beginning. Her loyalty to the Horde is unmatched and unquestionable.”

“The Horde’s numbers are growing every day,” Hordak said. “We occupy more territory than I anticipated we would at this point. Once we take Devlan, it will be impossible for me to oversee the day-to-day operations as I once did and still address our long-term goals and improve our technology as I must. I need to formally appoint a second-in-command. Force Captain Selkis is the most logical choice. Do you agree?”

“I… do?” She sounded confused by this turn of events. Clearly, this was not the topic she expected to discuss. “I’m sure she will be pleased with your decision.”

He nodded in acceptance of her feedback. With the matter of choosing a second-in-command closed, they could return to the other issue. “Now, let us discuss this marriage alliance.”

“I beg your pardon, Lord Hordak, but shouldn’t you be discussing this with my father?”

“It has not been suggested that I marry him, Princess.”

“Well, no, but I thought...”

He ignored her puzzled tone and moved on. “The purpose of a marriage alliance is to ensure diplomatic relations between the two factions remain firmly established and aligned toward a common goal. It is also expected that an heir will be produced to one day inherit the mantle of leadership.”

Hordak stepped away from his work table and came alongside Ishara, though he looked off in the distance rather than at her. “As it stands, the Horde and the Fright Zone share the common goal of conquering Etheria. Your kingdom was already at war when I was stranded here. You have provided me with the resources I need in order to continue my mission of bringing the light of Horde Prime to the universe, and in return, I have turned the tide of your war. These needs bind us just as effectively as a marriage alliance could.”

“Lord Hordak?” Her question was slow, careful, almost hopeful. Perhaps she was finally beginning to comprehend.

“Then there is the matter of producing an heir.” Now, he looked at her. She looked down, unwilling or unable to meet his gaze straight-on. Hordak studied the princess for a moment. He knew she was considered beautiful among her kind, though he never understood why that was something that mattered when choosing a mate. He had never considered this possibility for himself - he was a clone, a tool of Prime, and simultaneously above and unworthy of such things as personal desires - but if the choice were given to him, he would choose someone who could look on him without fear, and whose fascination with the workings of the world matched his own. He had not found that person in the Fright Zone. He doubted whether they existed at all, whether in this universe or the next.

“That is entirely out of the question. Even if our biology is compatible, which I doubt, I have no intention or desire to pursue that objective with you, nor do you with me,” he said. “If your father thinks he can make me do something against my will, then he is sorely mistaken. There will be no marriage alliance between you and me, Princess. Is that clear?”

Ishara met his gaze, eyes wide with relief as she finally understood. “Yes, Lord Hordak. Very clear.”

He gave a perfunctory nod to acknowledge her agreement, then pressed a button on his work table. The door to his laboratory slid open. “Enter, Force Captain.”

Hordak turned away from Ishara and the advancing figure of Selkis to down the contents of the flask. He nearly choked on the vile taste, and he suddenly grew dizzy as black spots clouded his sight. He set the flask down on the table, leaning on it for support while he waited for the feeling to pass. The reaction was expected - his simulations had at least prepared him for that much - but it had been unclear exactly how long it would take. Hordak closed his eyes and took several deep breaths, and by the time Selkis arrived at Ishara’s side, his strength and vision were restored. Seven seconds. Too long. He could return to that later. First, he had one more test for Selkis.

“Lord Hordak,” she said, glancing down, then back up at him. “Our troops have shown excellent improvement over the last few days, and the armory is putting the final touches on their equipment as we speak. I believe the drop squad could be ready for a trial run as soon as tomo-”

Hordak held up a hand to silence her. “Sting me.”

She stared at him, unmoving, until she finally squeaked out, “Lord Hordak, you can’t be-”

Patience was a virtue Hordak had never possessed, and the little that remained had run out entirely. He brought his fist down on his work table, causing several glass tools to fall to the floor and shatter. “You have never disobeyed a direct order, Force Captain; do not start now!” he raged. “Sting me at once, and if you defy me again, I will have you strung up!”

She obeyed.

Hordak grunted and stumbled backward at the impact. One hand went to his chest; the other fumbled for the table and missed. He dropped to one knee, still clutching the spot where Selkis had stung him, and used his other hand to hold himself up off the floor. Ishara looked like she was about to move forward, but Selkis held out a claw to stop her. Hordak’s teeth were bared, and his breath came in short, rapid hissing, but he kept breathing, and he remained conscious. This was even more painful than his attacks - he felt as if he were burning from the inside out and that he would burst at any moment - but even as the intensity built to a nearly unbearable level, he could feel it start to wane. His breathing slowed, and soon, he was able to pull his hand away from his chest. Standing was less of a struggle than he expected. By the time he drew himself back up to his full height, he felt almost normal. A small smile of triumph tugged at the corners of his thin lips. He had done it.

“Lord Hordak?” Selkis ventured.

“Prepare the drop squad for their trial run,” Hordak ordered. “If they are successful, you may advance the timeline for the assault on Devlan at your discretion. As of now, you are officially my second-in-command.”

Selkis snapped to attention. “Yes, Lord Hordak. Thank you, Lord Hordak.”

He dismissed them with a wave of his hand, and they departed. As the door slid closed behind them, he let out a sigh. Now that matters were settled, he could turn his attention back to important things, like perfecting the antidote to the scorpion venom. Seven seconds was a faster absorption time than his original models had projected, but it was still a dangerously long time in the heat of battle, especially when he was not sure how long the effects would last. He might not even need it. Still, though, it was better to be prepared.

Hordak bent down to pick up the pieces of his broken equipment, and got back to work.

Chapter Text

Something was wrong.

Force Captain Selkis paced back and forth across the bow of her ship, unable to stand still as her uneasiness grew. The full might of the Horde had been assembled on the river and plains just south of Devlan for nearly two hours, and there had been hardly any stirring from the town. Every ten minutes or so, one of the ships fired a shot, but the attacks were stopped by the chains. Selkis considered moving the fleet closer to see if they could get shots over the barricade, but dismissed the idea almost as soon as it occurred to her; they had modeled this in their planning sessions, and if they fired from any closer than they were now, they would have to shoot at a steeper angle to clear the chains and would never reach the structures beyond. There had to be something they could do, though, something besides holding their position. Hordak hadn't explicitly instructed them to remain in place until the next phase of the plan, but they needed to know - one way or the other - what became of the drop squad. Had they taken the pass yet? If so, why wasn't Devlan on alert? And if not…

No, she told herself. Don't even think that. Hordak was a survivor. Even if something happened to the rest of his unit, Hordak would find a way to see the mission through. And someone would have contacted them, one way or another. Ishara was tracking all of them from the main control center back in the Fright Zone. If something was truly wrong, she would be the first to know, and Selkis would be the second. No news was good news.

And yet…

Selkis, having run out of deck, turned on her heels to resume pacing in the other direction, and nearly collided with one of her soldiers in the process. "Whoa, Mantenna! What did we say about personal space?"

"Nnnnnng, sorry, Force Captainnnnnn," the four-legged, bug-eyed insect man buzzed. "The crew is just wondering what we should dooooo."

"You have your orders. They haven't changed."

"Yes, Force Captainnnnn, but shouldn't the city be under attack from the Sting Squad by noooowwww?"

Leave it to Mantenna to voice the fears she was trying so hard to keep to herself. She had never particularly cared for him, and tried to avoid having him directly under her command whenever possible. Which reminded her: "Hey, aren't you stationed on Force Captain Octavia's boat?"

Before he could respond, Octavia herself hailed Selkis as she climbed over the rail on the side of the ship. "Force Captain Selkis! We haven't heard anything from either Hordak or the Fright Zone. What are your orders?"

The concern Selkis had been feeling for the status of the mission was quickly giving way to annoyance. "My orders are 'learn how to use the comms,'" she snapped. "You'll know what happens next because that's how I'll tell you." Blight, she was starting to sound like Hordak.

"The comms are dead," came Octavia's flat reply.

Selkis blinked several times, stunned. "What?" Recovering her wits, she turned to one of her uniformed troopers. "You! Look into it and see what the problem is."

The soldier acknowledged the order with a nod and "yes, Force Captain" before disappearing below deck. Selkis looked back at the chains, hoisted high and absorbing the shots from the Horde with ease. That would explain why they hadn't heard anything from Hordak… or Ishara. It might also mean they were on their own.

"Nnnnnng, our weaponnnnnns aren't doing much good, are theeeeyyyyy?" asked Mantenna.

"Shut up, Mantenna," Selkis snapped. He wasn't wrong, but he didn't have to say it so loudly.

A tentacle touched her upper arm. "Force Captain Selkis…" Octavia's voice was low. "If something's happened to Hordak…"

She didn't need to finish. Selkis knew the implications. Then the Horde is mine. Nothing would change for the mission at hand… and yet something just did. Hordak, Huntara, and the Sting Squad should have been at the chains by now. There were no signs of battle from Devlan. She would not - could not - believe that Hordak was dead, but he might be hurt, captured, or delayed. The only way to find out was to see the battle through, in whatever way they could.

"Uhhh, Force Captainnnnnnn…"

Mantenna's bug-eyes were extended out of his face, and his droning was tinged with something fearful, but Selkis ignored it. He was a coward, and she didn't have time for him. "Shut up, Mantenna." She turned to Octavia. "Change of plans. We need to redirect our fire. Once we can-"

The trooper she'd sent to check on the radio burst back onto the deck. "Force Captain Selkis!" he shouted. "There's nothing wrong with our equipment, but I can't reach Hordak, the other ships, or the Fright Zone!"

"Force Captainnnnn, you really ought to see thissszzzz."

"Shut up, Mantenna!" Selkis and Octavia shouted in unison.

Whatever he had seen, though, the Horde trooper had spotted as well. "Who's that on top of the tower?"

Selkis looked at the tower holding up the chains on the Devlan side, where a lone figure stood. They were too far away to see clearly, though she was certain it wasn't Hordak or Huntara. "Where is my…" she muttered, reaching into the folds of her uniform until her pincers closed around her spyglass. "Ah!" She pulled it out, extended it to its full length, and held it up to her eye. The figure was wearing the colors of Devlan, but Selkis was not fooled by the costume. She would have recognized them anywhere. 

She clenched her claws, causing her spyglass to snap into pieces. They had not even hit the deck before Selkis whirled around and began to shout orders. "Everyone to arms! Prepare for battle! Get all the boats to the shore right now!" She grabbed Octavia by the collar, pulled her close, and muttered, "We've got a princess problem."

On top of the tower stood Princess Maristela of Salineas. She raised her arms, and as she did, water shot up from all sides of the Horde boats and crashed over their railings. When the waters receded, an entire regiment of enemy soldiers stood in the wake.

They might not have comms, but they did have alarms, and Octavia had the wits to sound theirs as she dashed for the weapons racks. She tossed an irridulium spear to Selkis, who caught it in a pincer and immediately passed it on to Mantenna. The insectoid wasn't paying attention - as usual - and fumbled the handoff. Selkis ignored him, not really caring at this point if he lived or died, and went for the enemy soldiers bare-clawed. Two tridents were thrust toward her throat. She dropped to her knees, dodging their points by inches, and slid forward on the wet deck with her arms outstretched to either side. The attackers buckled under the strikes from her claws, and by the time she stood back up, she had permanently dispatched both of them: one with her tail, and the other with the trident she'd wrenched from his hands. She pulled the weapon out of the body, then hurled it at a soldier attempting to flank Octavia. "Take them out!" she cried. "Show no quarter!"

It was the opposite of normal Horde procedure, which was to take prisoners. Prisoners could be put to work, and many joined the Horde willingly after they saw what happened to the ones who did not. Furthermore, it was pointless to conquer if there was nothing left after the dust settled. Hordak explained once that unexceptional people wanted to be ruled by their betters, and it made no difference to the lowly whose banner they flew. This policy also meant that for all the fighting that had taken place ever since the Etherian Horde had come to power, there were many under her command who had never taken a life. Salineas would not hold back, though, and if it came to a choice between their people or hers, Selkis knew who she would pick. She trusted that would give her Horde troops the gumption they needed to do what was necessary.

She still hesitated to use lethal force in most cases, but Salineas was an exception. Selkis had faced them enough times to know that they were every bit as cruel and ruthless as they accused the Fright Zone of being, and Maristela was the worst of them. She'd not forgotten how Maristela went out of her way to humiliate Ishara at the Princess Prom, nor how her actions had - albeit indirectly - had led to Prince Reidar's death. There was no time to figure out what had gone wrong with the plan: Hordak was on his own now, and so was she. They would sort through the ashes later. Her only mission now was to get to the princess and wipe that smirk off her face, even if it meant she had to tear the tower down herself.

Two other soldiers closed in on Selkis in the moment she'd paused to consider her next actions. She dispatched them easily, stinging one and knocking out the second after dodging his feckless frontal assault. They hit the floor at the same time, joining the rest of the wounded and worse scattered across the deck of the ship. Most of the fallen wore the colors of Devlan, but only because they outnumbered the Horde three to one. If something didn't change, and quickly…

From what she could see, her other ships weren't faring much better. Billowing black smoke was rising from most. One had managed to reach the shore, but it was on the wrong side of the river; another was sinking, and the survivors were swimming toward whatever land or flotsam they could reach. Atop the tower, Maristela lifted her arms again, and the churning waters rose and splashed over the sides of the vessels still floating. One wave hit Selkis directly in the face with enough force to send her stumbling backward. Coughing, and struggling to regain her balance, she presented the perfect target for a soldier of Salineas to rush in and try to finish her off with their spear. Her pincers made quick work of the spear, and whether the soldier meant to tackle her or if they were simply unable to stop led to the same result: they went down, and for the first time since the battle began, Selkis did not have the upper hand. She was on her back with her tail underneath her, and her arms were splayed to the side from the impact. She could not immediately strike a fatal blow to the soldier from that position…. but they could.

Fortunately, Selkis still had one last advantage: she had been trained by Hordak, where her opponent had not. And when they hesitated, she did not.

She shoved the body off her and pushed herself to her feet. They needed a new plan. Briefly, she wished Ishara was there - the princess was good at ideas - but quickly dismissed the notion, as it would be far worse to have her so close to the danger. Think . Even if they could overpower the joint forces of Salineas and Devlan currently assaulting their fleet, all it would accomplish would be to put themselves in the exact same position they were when Maristela first appeared on top of the tower. The chains would still be up, and until they could move on the city, the Horde was exposed and vulnerable. If Hordak was still alive, he would not get there soon enough to turn the tide of battle. Someone had to fulfill his part of the mission.

Selkis looked up and down the deck for Octavia. Her fellow force captain had just put an enemy soldier into a choke hold, and looked up when the de facto Horde commander called her name. "Get our people off this boat!" instructed Selkis. "I'm going to take out the tower!"

If Octavia attempted to protest, Selkis didn't hear it; she was already moving toward the ship's control center. It was near the stern, and with most of the fighting concentrated at the bow, she was largely ignored. Anyone who chanced to get in her way was shoved aside and disregarded, whether they were friend or foe. In the distance, Octavia barked orders, and Horde soldiers began to leap into the water. If there was anyone who didn't hear her, surely they would figure it out once Selkis enacted her part of the plan.

She arrived at her destination, and shoved aside the bodies of the Horde captain with a trident in his gut and the two soldiers from Salineas he'd managed to take out before succumbing to his injuries. The control panel was much more complicated than she expected, and her knowledge of how to operate the craft was rudimentary, but that didn't matter. All she needed to do was accelerate and steer, and the wheel and throttle were easy enough to figure out.

Selkis shoved the throttle lever to its maximum position. All across the panel, lights began to flash, and an alarm sounded above her. She flipped switches to cut off power to any non-essential systems to focus on the engines, and the ship picked up speed. She looked around the room for something to lodge the steering wheel in place, and spotted the radio. Both Mantenna and the soldier she had sent to check on it earlier had claimed the comms were down, but perhaps they were mistaken. She needed to check for herself.

"This is Force Captain Selkis!" she said into the handset. "Come in, Fright Zone. Over."

Silence. She looked at the panel. It still had power, and as far as she could tell, was functioning normally. There was no explanation for why she couldn't reach the Fright Zone. "Come in, Fright Zone," she repeated. "Princess Ishara, Captain Sargon, anyone!"

She'd spoken to Ishara an hour ago. The princess assured them the comms would be monitored at all times. They had to be, because the units on the ground needed to move quickly once Hordak and the others took the pass. She quickly switched the radio to Hordak's private channel and input her code for access. Perhaps, with Hordak being much closer than the Fright Zone, something would go through. "Lord Hordak, it's Selkis. Salineas is here and we need a new plan. Over."

There was nothing, not even static, and she was out of time to try anything else. Her target was coming up fast. She jerked the trident out of the body of the fallen captain, broke its shaft halfway, and used the pieces to lodge the throttle into place. Before exiting the cabin, she wedged the final remnants of the trident below the throttle in order to keep the ship's speed at maximum levels. The panels were sparking, and smoke was beginning to rise from the engines. She wasn't concerned. They only needed to hold for about ten more seconds.

She stumbled out of the cabin, only to meet two more soldiers from Salineas on the other side. She didn't even bother to fight. She turned and ran for the rear of the ship, and with one final burst of strength, leapt off the stern into the churning river below.

Selkis had never been a strong swimmer. Few among the Scorpioni were; they were simply not made for it. As she struggled to fight her way to the surface, her thoughts went to her family, drowned in the tunnels below Arachnis nearly eight years earlier. Her lungs burned for air, and she kicked harder. It was strange, how she knew every movement brought her closer to the surface, and yet it seemed to be getting darker. The fire in her chest was almost unbearable, but at the same time, a sense of peace had settled over her. All she had to do was open her mouth, and she would see her little brother again.

I'm sorry, Ishara….

Something grabbed her by the upper part of her arm, though what it was, she could not say. Touch and time and pain meant nothing to her. The something must have dragged her out of the water, because the next things she remembered feeling were something hard under her back and the gentle caress of a breeze on her face. She barely registered a blow to her chest at first, but then they kept coming, and getting harder - or she was becoming more aware of them. Suddenly her eyes flew open, and an attempt to take a breath was met with a choke and splutter as her body attempted to disgorge the water in her lungs. It was agony, but she welcomed it, for as feeling came back to her, so did hope. She was alive, and as long as she was alive, she could fight.

A shadowy blur at the corner of her vision manifested into Octavia, kneeling by her side. “I thought we lost you!” her fellow force captain exclaimed. “Are you all right? Can you stand?”

“Give me a minute,” Selkis grunted. She got as far as sitting up before she had to stop and cough up more water. “Who else made it out?”

“I’m not sure,” Octavia admitted. “I gave the order, but I don’t know who heard. Most of our people jumped off when they figured out what you were doing. After that…”

Her jaw clenched at the implication Octavia left in the air. She needed to know if her stunt was worth the price. “Did it work?”

Octavia shifted to the side. "See for yourself."

The scene that came into focus was one of destruction and chaos. The broken Horde vessels littered the river's water and banks. Black smoke billowed upward from the flaming wreckage. Combatants exchanged blows anywhere they could find space. Suddenly, it was not Devlan that stood before her, but Arachnis: her home, burned and drowned in the crossfire of the squabbles of kings. Selkis winced and closed her eyes. When she opened them, she saw her ship - the one she expected to be her tomb - firmly lodged in the rubble of what had once been the Devlan-bank tower.

The chains had fallen. Devlan was exposed. They would need much more than Salineas to fend off the Horde now.

Her heart lifted at the sight, and her feet soon followed. Two figures rushed at them with tridents. She struck one with her tail almost lazily; Octavia made quick work of the other, seizing the trident from the one Selkis stunned before they even hit the ground with one set of her tentacles, parrying the thrust of her assailant, and grabbing their weapon on the follow-through of her attack with her second. Selkis spun around and tripped Octavia's target, and as they stumbled, Octavia drove the points of both weapons into their back. "We have to fall back," Octavia advised as she pulled the tridents out of the body. "With comms down, I don't know if Grizzlor will-"

Selkis held up a claw, and Octavia obediently stopped talking. A teal-haired figure was climbing the mountain of rubble from the tower, and at the sight of her, a decision was made. "This ends now," she growled. "I'm going after Maristela. Cover me."

"Wait, what? Selkis, you can't-" stammered Octavia.

"Cover me!" Selkis repeated, and took off toward the collapsed tower.

She half-ran, half-stumbled her way across the debris field. The Horde and Fright Zone were not gaining ground, but nor were they being pushed back. She knew that once she took out Maristela, the tide of battle would turn, and she willed her hurting body to push on. She successfully dodged several attempts to stop her progress, but nearly drowning only a few minutes ago was not without its effects. She was slow and sloppy, more like the scared teenager she was seven years ago instead of the battle-hardened force captain she had worked so hard to become. A mistake here was going to get her killed.

Selkis began to climb a pile of rubble in order to get her bearings and scout the fastest way to Maristela, but when she was three quarters of the way up, it crumbled under her weight and sent her tumbling into a ditch. By the time she stood up, half a dozen soldiers from the sea kingdom stood above her, tridents aimed. Frantically, she looked around for a way out, but found none: she was surrounded. She raised her claws and tensed her tail. Salineas had the advantage, but perhaps not by the margin they thought they did.

Before either side could attack, a blast sounded from somewhere in the distance, and the ground beneath half of her attackers gave way under a shower of dirt, metal, and rubble. Selkis took advantage of the distraction to finish off those who remained. As she scrambled out of the ditch, she spied her savior: Octavia, standing behind an energy cannon mounted to the wreckage of one of the Horde ships. The two force captains made eye contact with each other. Selkis nodded, then resumed the pursuit of her quarry. Strength, determination, and hope were coming back to her with every stride. She was not alone.

Her progress across the battlefield was much faster now that Octavia was in position. Most combatants on either side were engaged in their own skirmishes, and the few that troubled her were quickly eliminated by either Selkis herself or Octavia's covering fire. By the time she reached the bottom of the pile of rubble that had once been the tower, there was no one who stood between her and Maristela. The princess of Salineas had the high ground, but she was alone, with many more demands on her powers and attention than one single Horde soldier scaling the scree. One large boulder still separated them, but it was reduced to dust by a shot from Octavia's cannon. By the time the smoke cloud dissipated, Selkis was in range of sight and voice, and not far from strike.

"Maristela!" Selkis bellowed. Her cry drew Maristela's full attention, and the eyes of the two young women met for the first time since that fateful night in Plumeria. "We're done here. Surrender now, and no one else has to die."

Maristela raised her trident and took aim at Selkis. "It ends with you!"

She lunged. Selkis, who knew the princess wouldn't throw away her weapon, anticipated the move and easily dodged. Maristela struck again, then again, while Selkis parried the attacks with her claws. One particularly aggressive strike left an opening, in which Selkis tried to sting her, but Maristela recovered and knocked her tail away just before it landed. The move left the force captain slightly off-balance, and the princess took full advantage of her chance. She dropped to a knee and swung her trident in a low, sweeping motion. Selkis fell backward, but threw her arms over her head and transitioned the fall into a back handspring. She dashed forward after landing, claws extended. Maristela blocked it with the trident, which was exactly what Selkis wanted. She closed a claw around the trident's staff and snapped it in two. 

The princess looked briefly startled, then discarded the pronged portion of her broken trident, unwieldy without its complete shaft. The shortened staff was a formidable weapon in its own right, especially in the hands of a master, which Maristela clearly was. Salineas would not have dared to send her into battle if she was not a capable fighter. Selkis knew she was better, but her strength was flagging. She gave no ground as she fought back Maristela, but neither did she gain any. If it came to mere endurance, she was not sure she could emerge victorious.

"We have another unit approaching from the north," Selkis grunted in a moment of deadlock, when Maristela had managed to push one claw to the side with her staff and held the other back with her free hand. "They will finish anyone left."

"They're already dead," the princess snapped back. A cruel smile worked its way across her face. "And you know that, don't you?"

Selkis clenched her teeth, then let out a loud cry and slammed her head into Maristela's. Both young women stumbled back, dazed, then faced each other again. Before either could take the next step in their dance of death, a blast from some twenty-odd feet behind Selkis shook both of them. Selkis chanced a look over her shoulder, and saw several figures wearing Devlan's colors amidst the rubble sliding down the side of the mound. A glance back at the battlefield revealed the source as Octavia and her cannon. She couldn't fire directly at Maristela - at that range, the risk of hitting Selkis instead was too great - but she was at least doing her part to keep the fight between the two of them.

Maristela recovered from the interruption before Selkis did, but the force captain was emboldened by the shot. Her strikes were faster and stronger than before, and whatever advantage the princess had by attacking first was quickly lost. Once again, they were evenly matched. As each move was met and countered, an idea occurred to Selkis, and at the first opportunity, she intentionally left her right side unguarded after striking with her tail. Maristela fell for it, and drove the jagged point of her broken trident into the gap in Selkis's armor. She could not help crying out, but she knew to expect the blinding pain, and was able to fight through it long enough to achieve her end. In order to land the blow, Maristela had to both get within range of her claws and attack from below. All Selkis had to do to pin the princess on the ground between her pincers was fall forward.

Before she could execute the last part of her plan, Maristela's eyes opened wide, then glazed over. The princess of Salineas fell into Selkis's unwilling arms, unconscious, with blood flowing freely from a wound on the back of her head. Selkis looked up, then gasped when she saw the one responsible for ending the fight. "Lord Hordak?!? What- how- where- what happened?"

Hordak, as battered, bruised, and bleeding as his second-in-command, lowered the hand which had struck Maristela. Selkis could not be sure, since her vision was clouded with exhaustion and pain, but it looked very much like he was holding a severed stinger from a scorpion tail.

"Is it not obvious?" Hordak scowled and clenched his fists. Blood and venom dripped from the pointed object in his hand. "We were betrayed."