Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It's the piercing shock of an electric, full-body orgasm that pulls Dragan away from his haze and into a temporary state of ecstasy, where he finds himself unable to contain the delicate moan that escapes his parted lips. Slowly, pleasure ebbs away, until nothing but transient static remains. 

The garden grows quiescent; grass blades and shifting petals shudder against a subtle evening breeze, a pleasant coolness that causes the sheen of sweat against Dragan's skin to tingle. He shudders, too, tipping his head back as delicate blooms form across the sprawling field. They emerge like scarlet stars beneath passing clouds, shifting as the wind does. 

Dragan is loosely straddled above a motionless pródniy. A vast network of vines surrounds them both, many of which had wrapped themselves around the nameless, supine vessel, wound tight with the intent to suffocate. The ground shifts and trembles under Dragan as he's joined by another variety of crawling tendrils, eagerly sprouting from the soil in the dozens. As they emerge, twisting upward to hover in the space behind him, strange flowers form upon the elegant spirals, displaying razor-sharp cilia as they unfurl. They continue to grow at a frightening pace, until what once resembled eerie blooms shed their petals and morph into pairs of hinged lobes, their jaws wide-open and famished. 

Suddenly they lunge forward, latching onto exposed flesh and releasing the sharp, iron tang of human blood. Once his prey takes its final breath, many of the restraints relinquish their unyielding grip, revealing dark, twisted track-marks as they recede into the earth. The predaceous plants are all that remain—and unhindered now, they begin to consume in earnest.

He pulls his gaze away from the feeding and observes his garden, where the shadows of his children are barely visible as they peruse in the distance, bending down to pluck newly-born flowers. Dragan feels it distantly, like a nail being clipped; a subtle tug and release neither painful nor particularly satisfying. He’s much more intune to the flesh receding beneath those cilia, each rip and tear a trickle of honey coursing down his throat. 

Part of him wishes they would wait until he could remove himself from the vacant pródniy; the swell at the base of his cock is still lodged deep within Dragan, but these particular vines tend to have a mind of their own. Instead he settles into his posture, leaning back to observe the stars and absorb the stillness. Every post-euphoric extremity grows lax and weightless as wide fronds emerge to support him, and he nestles his neck effortlessly into the embrace of open palms.

He hears it in his bones—like he's spent a thousand lifetimes hearing those same words, over and over. 

“It's time to step up. For once in your pathetic life, Nikolai, it’s time to act like the pródniy you're supposed to be.” 

His brother acts like a pródniy. He carries all of the expected arrogance as he leans against the wall, refusing a seat in the vacant chair across from Kolya and keeping the higher ground. A pale emerald bottle swishes as Davýd takes yet another drawn-out swig of spiced liquor. His jaw clicks when he slams the bottle back down to the table, and glass catches the expanse of city lights beyond a floor-to-ceiling window, casting fragmented glows across its surface. The light floats everywhere— on the walls, across both siblings cast in half-shadows. 

“You can't avoid this any longer. Not when that creature killed our father.” Davýd grips the edge of the table, glowering above it, growing ever-more agitated as he urges Kolya—yet again—to exact revenge. Grief has made him furious. 

Kolya presses his fingers into the throbbing pulse of his temples. It pushes his hair into a wild clump, a rich strawberry blonde light enough to absorb every neon glow that filters across the dimmed room. Grief has made him furious, too, but that fury leaves him frozen.

“The hell is wrong with you, aren’t you angry?”

“I don't fight,” Kolya tells him again. “I’m hurt, too. Of course I am, but I’m not… cut out for that, not like dad was. Not like you are.” 

“Of course you are,” Davýd hisses, displaying lengthened canines and a frustrated sneer. “It’s in your blood. Remember that, blood? Family? It’s everything.”

Kolya’s hands fall limply against the table. He stares at his own large palms, observing the bulge of each forearm and the dark shadow of broad shoulders; every part of him is an abundance of physical strength. He wonders if his brother might need him. Kolya doesn’t have much besides family, and that thing had already taken their father. 

He tries another tactic, though the dropping of his shoulders betrays that he already knows the answer. “Can’t you just let it be? Let the rest of the Ohrana deal with it?”

An aggressive scrape of metal against pristine floors precedes his brother knocking the empty chair to the ground with a sharp clatter. “No. I’m going—right now. Either come with me, or don’t,” Davýd snaps, already turning his back on his brother and marching towards the apartment’s entryway. 

Kolya resigns himself, taps his fingers twice against the table, and shuts his eyes with a drawn-out sigh.

It’s late, but this city never sleeps. 

Smog diffuses arrays of neon lights, perpetually hiding the stars as Kolya follows Davýd’s determined steps, passing between throngs of meandering bodies. Most are inebriated, unfazed by the pródniy’s pushing and shoving. Kolya mutters apologies into the crowd, gentle in his endeavor to clear a path while keeping Davýd in his line of sight. 

Kolya’s apartment isn’t far from the Ohrana headquarters. The choice to live here was intentional—his father had less of an excuse not to visit him when he was this close. Kolya wonders, as he steps onto the first of a vast expanse of black stairs, if he should consider moving. He would go somewhere far away from the heart of the city. He’s never been fond of the noise; the hazy air and constant lights disorient him, despite being born here. He longs for flowers and rolling hills, fireflies and unfiltered sunlight. Clean air. The thought is appealing in a way that borders on hunger.

He receives a small taste of that quiet once he enters the lofty, archaic building. In the lobby looms a lonely black coffin, displayed amidst clusters of flickering candles and vibrant flowers. Deep red banners with the Ohrana's sigil mourn the remains of that afternoon’s funeral service—it feels like days have passed, yet it’s been only hours. They're both still wearing the suits. His brother gives the casket a wide berth, and webbed marble floors echo every hurried footfall as Davýd moves through intricate hallways of luxurious blackwood and pillars of pale, carved stone.  

The deeper they traverse, the less familiar Kolya becomes with his surroundings. Dust motes gather in the air, carrying biblichor as the two enter a vacant library, leather book spines and dark wood shelves interspersed with study nooks. The cozy alcoves are filled with soft light pouring from lamps bearing no bulbs, just an array of carefully-painted geometry emitting light from glass orbs. It’s a clever invention, something adjacent to magic, but the capital allows its usage in this building. People don't look fondly upon magic—or rather, they despise the natcheli who wield it. For the last 600 years, the Ohrana have been devoted to hunting those beings into extinction. They're close; only one natchel remains alive, and Kolya is following his brother on this forlorn night to kill it. He hears a buzzing of mechanical wings, and looks up to the rafters. A strange, glowing insect made of delicate metalwork flutters down towards him, passing by his head and leaving remnants of soft green light in its wake. 

Kolya wills himself not to get distracted and focuses on his brother, quickening his steps to keep pace. It isn’t challenging to catch up, given his larger frame. He’d presented as a particularly strong pródniy at an earlier age than most, and from that point on, had consistently held several inches over Davýd despite being younger.   

Davýd slams open the twin panels of a wooden door and marches into a vast room. It carries a similar presence to the library—the same biblichor and dusty, wooden arch-beams, but at the center is a large and otherworldly structure, supporting the subtle curve of a man’s hip where he stands leaning comfortably against its surface, leisurely bent at the waist to wonder at the papers strewn across a vast desk. Above him hovers a device rotating peacefully like a mobile, made of wooden discs that float without strings binding them together, displaying runes that the man ponders at. He taps one with his finger, and the rest spin languidly, occasionally lighting up and singing little dissonant melodies.

Alin is one of the Invocationists, recognizable less so by his clothing—nothing more than exposing, silk ivory loungewear, but more so by the runic patterns of jewelry adorning his deep-brown skin. Thin golden metal, tight against his biceps and along his calves, continues up his thighs and disappears beneath the lush fabric. The contradistiction is striking, as is his bare chest. He’s muscular in a way that borders on a pródniy’s expected build, yet his height betrays he’s nothing more than human. His hair, near-black and braided down to his jawline, features similar jewelry weaved into the ends of each braid. 

The structure itself is covered in ancient runes and equations, carved by generations of scholars. The intricate formation of fractals emits a subtle vibration into the air strangely reminiscent of breathing. It glows and beeps quietly, the lights pulsing in a consistent, slow pattern. One of the pipes hisses, emitting a cloud of steam as it carries rushing water up into the wire-littered rafters and back down again. 

Kolya watches it, transfixed. Up, then down again. Up and down. It’s a strange mixture of the capital’s most up-to-date technology, all sterile and precise, and something deeper—something wild and arcane. 

Davýd has already brushed past his brother’s tense shoulder, and he addresses the other man like a peacock fanning flashy feathers. Arrogant, too. “Good evening, Alin. Surprised to see you're awake, but it's a good thing you’re here.”

Alin chuckles, airy and unfazed. “I’m often up at this hour. It's nice, not being bothered while the rest of the world sleeps.” He takes a moment to finish jotting down his observations, Davýd shifting impatiently the entire time. Once satisfied, he turns to greet them. “Guess that isn't the case tonight, though. Is there something I can help you with?”

“We’re going after the natchel. My brother needs something to fight with.”

Alin shuts his eyes, fluttering lids betraying that he rolls them. “Bossy tonight, aren’t we?”

“What is this place? I’ve never seen anything like… that before,” Kolya wonders, much more entranced with the structure than the conversation. 

“And you are?” Alin pointedly ignores the question as he raises an eyebrow, straightening his posture with crossed arms. “It’s a bit rude to walk into someone else’s lab without introducing yourself, don’t you think?”

Barbs prickle beneath Kolya’s skin. He would describe the sensation as his hackles rising. “Yeah, sorry about that.” He feels his own spine constrict and his shoulders roll back, facing Alin confidently. “Kolya.”

“Enough chatting, hurry up,” Davýd snaps. 

Annoyance flashes behind Alin’s eyes, but he merely dips his head down. A pródniy’s words can carry persuasive power, and Davýd wasn’t holding back. “Of course.”

“Almost too easy sometimes, isn’t it?” Davýd preens, addressing his brother in a voice low enough that the Invocationist wouldn’t hear. 

Kolya ignores him, choosing to watch Alin instead. The first thing the Invocationist does is adjust a sliding ladder until it rests against the side of the glowing structure. He climbs up and locates a lever near the rafters, natural in appearance despite its synthetic nature, and engages it with an effortless tug. Another puff of fog escapes into the room as Alin slides down the ladder, landing on the wooden floors with a wide and awestruck grin. The structure instantly responds by glowing even brighter, and Kolya raises a palm to shield his eyes from it.   

Eventually the light dies down, and Kolya witnesses a steady trickle of an opalescent, silver fluid emerge from the walls of the structure like sweat from pores. It trails downward, pooling into a bowl-like reservoir. Transfixed, he approaches even closer, tentatively reaching his hand out to touch it. He wonders at its texture, seemingly thicker than water, yet thinner than paint.

“You shouldn't touch that,” Alin warns, gentle but firm. Kolya tenses and immediately draws his hand back to his side. “It’s got a reputation for driving people into madness. That’s why I use this,” the Invocationist says, sliding one of his hands into a decorated glove, which molds itself tight around his wrist. 

Alin flexes his fingers, and a wood-carved model of a hand mimics the motion precisely, shining runes bleeding pristine lines where each bone would reside, were it made from flesh. Then he curls every finger into the palm, leaving only the pointer extended. At its tip are long and whisp-like fibers resembling that of a paintbrush. 

“What…is it?” Kolya asks breathily, still staring at the silvery fluid. 

“That’s the catalyst for magic we can use. Think of it like fuel—it’s artificially created by this machine, but the effects are about as close as we could ever get to the real thing. It’s amazing what our scholars can do,” Alin muses, then shrugs. “No clue what it's actually made of, though. I just study how to apply it.”

“Right,” Kolya comments, still just as confused as he steps back, allowing Alin to take his place before the reservoir. 

“Priarod,” Alin says wistfully, swept into the confidence of his craft as he leads the brush-tipped finger. The mystical hand floats beside him as Alin coats it in silvery fluid and begins to paint patterns across the structure’s surface. “The vines form the outside of the wheel, and Rod’s 6-spokes evoke a rune like a flower—Priapus, of gardens and beehives.”

Kolya continues to scan what, to anyone else, looks like meaningless trenches of inscriptions. Alin drags the ink away from the sigil, slow and intentional, forming connections like equations. The whole structure is his canvas, and its inscriptions are guidelines, of which he chooses to use only some. He is meticulous, ensuring every brushstroke is connected. 

When the hand he controls pulls away to return to the desk, Alin removes his glove and the structure begins to shake. Tremors, barely detectable, shudder through the floorboards as Kolya looks down to the sigil the Invocationist had first formed. It’s glowing; the six spokes emit a vibrant red, and the vines ignite shortly after, wrapping from the edge of each tendril inward. Where they connect and form a sphere, the light bleeds into itself and swirls, like water around a drain. All the self-sustaining bulbs across the room extinguish themselves with an audible sigh, leaving only the lit sigil, crimson glow casting harsh shadows upon Kolya’s fascinated expression. 

“Sorry about that. Happens sometimes,” Alin hums, padding over to his desk to retrieve a silver ring and slide his finger inside it. He flicks his wrist, causing tendril-like lights to escape into the room, gathering in each bulb and washing their surroundings back into a soft glow. Then he gestures towards the structure, where a small red gemstone waits on display, surrounded by a twirling cloud of smoke. 

“Take it, then. It’s safe to touch,” Alin comments passively, returning his attention to his cluttered desk. 

Kolya tenderly plucks out the stone, surprised by how warm it feels. It's surprisingly heavy, despite being no wider than the pad of a finger. 

Davýd knocks on the wall to get the Invocationist’s attention. “We’re not done yet.”

“I don't make weapons. Talk to Kira,” Alin responds, dry and disinterested. 

Something akin to a growl stutters in the back of Davýd’s throat. “Weak-boned, your whole kind. I’ll be back, then.” He marches towards the exit with his chin held high. 

Kolya grimaces as the doors clatter shut, embarrassed by his brother’s behavior. Davýd acts like he’s not in the extreme minority when he makes those comments.

“I’m sorry about Davýd,” Kolya offers ruefully.

Alin shrugs. “It’s alright, I’m used to it. The spitting image of his father, that one.” Then he winces and peeks over his shoulder, apologetic. “I’m sorry, I… shouldn’t have said that.”

“No, you’re not wrong,” Kolya says, tossing the stone from one palm to the other. He knows his father was even worse than Davýd. Seeing that Alin still looks uncomfortable, he decides to change the subject. “Why don’t you make weapons?”

“That's a path I want nothing to do with. What happens when we start using them on ourselves?”

Kolya supposes he might understand, were he not in agreement with disposing of something so dangerous. Even if he doesn’t wish to fight, he wants his father’s death avenged; wants this to end, so he knows his brother will be safe. Too anxious to remain in silence, he encourages the Invocationist to speak further. “Why even work with this stuff at all, then?”

“'This stuff' is so much more than weapons, Kolya. See this, for example?” He gestures to the articulated hand, now perched immobile on his desk. “It’s steadier than a person’s; imagine the lives it could save, in the hands of a surgeon. I've even made prosthetics that predict motion."

At that, a large feline with intelligent eyes and paws more akin to a lizard hops down from a narrow windowsill, brushing past Alin’s calf with an affectionate nuzzle. It’s missing a leg, but in its place is a wood-carved prosthetic, painted with swirling silver runes and emitting a gentle green light between each separated joint. The limb moves effortlessly with the creature, no different than were it real. The grey-and-white furred feline sits down proudly beside Alin, and Kolya swears it narrows its eyes at him in a very pointed way, as if to say ‘see?’ As if it can understand. 

Alin continues, lofty and proud, “There's even a team here designing motors, self-powered, so transportation is faster and less pollutive. I could go on, there's just…so much.” 

“I see. What about the bug in the library, how will that help people?” Kolya wonders, half-joking. 

He chuckles, amused. “Oh, those are just pretty to look at. And Di really likes to chase them.”

Di chirrups, tail swishing as she wanders off, bounding up the ladder to lounge amidst the rafters. 

“Now, if you don’t mind, I was really focused before you barged in,” Alin says, not unkindly, before becoming engrossed in his work again. 

Kolya supposes that’s fair. He plops down onto the floor and stares up at Di. Di stares back at him. When her pupils contract into tiny slivers, Kolya grows a bit unsettled, and chooses to fuss with the stone in his hand instead, turning it between his fingers and admiring the light it emits. 

It isn’t long before Davýd—as the Invocationist had so aptly described—‘barges in’ again, following close behind Kira, a tall and imposing woman with a near-white pixie cut and sharp facial features. Kolya can immediately tell from her scent that she's a pródniy, too. He recognizes her from their father’s funeral. Kolya stands to greet them both, passively wondering at the oddity of three pródniy all in the same room. There’s less than a dozen in the entire capital, and it’s a large city. 

“C’mon, Alin. Get up, at least prepare the damn thing!” Kira commands, the coercive sting heavy in the room. There’s an emotionless undercurrent to her voice, causing Alin to tense in response. 

Kolya immediately perceives her as a threat; a common response to the presence of an unfamiliar pródniy, and one that he isn’t used to feeling. The instinctiveness causes his stomach to flip over. He breathes through the sensation, forcing himself back into a state of calm. 

Kira glances upward and glowers at Di. “And I wish you wouldn’t allow her in the lab. You know the fur gets our equipment dirty.” 

Alin chuckles casually as he stands from his desk. “Trust me, I’ve absolutely no control over where she goes.” 

The Invocationist pads over to the opposite end of the room, procures a key from his waist, and causes a section of the wall to flip with a satisfying click. Thin structures resembling black claws unfurl, revealing an interior maw that seems to descend deeper than the walls surrounding them. 

The hearth, despite its name, carries no fire as it’s revealed, though it does emit warmth. Kolya holds the stone out towards it, and an invisible force tugs it forward, ripping it from his hesitant grip until the little red gem is suspended weightless, framed with black wires and foreign lettering. The hearth’s teeth snap shut, and Kolya takes a half-step back, unsure what to expect. He feels power emanating towards him. 

Di leaps down from the rafters, landing unfazed despite the height of her fall. She bounds out of the lab with startling speed, skirting past Davýd, who crinkles his nose at her presence. 

Kira marches confidently to the hearth, holding out a hand out to Kolya. “Come here. Give me your palm.”

She’s using her persuasive speech again, and Kolya wonders as he offers his hand how much of his motions are consenting—not because she has any power over him, that trick doesn't work on another pródniy—but he’s truly questioning whether or not he wants to be here. It's accompanied by a deep sense of unease. Kira slices a thin blade across his palm, and he resists the urge to bare sharp canines at her as his hand is pressed against the hearth. 

Between the slivered cracks, Kolya can see lights shifting and flickering, little zaps of tangible energy pulsing into the open cut. He tries to pull his hand away, but it's stuck there. Before he can begin to truly panic that he's trapped against this machine, the lights recede, along with the invisible force tethering him to it. 

The hearth hisses open, and Alin glances over his shoulder to assuage his curiosity of what had formed. Cradled within the hearth is a long-bladed knife, metal black as obsidian with a golden hilt. Its sharp edge displays a vibrant scarlet, which lights up in greeting when Kolya reaches in to retrieve it. Touching it feels strangely right, like the blade knows it's his. 

“Aw, what a cute little knife,” Davýd says, a thinly-veiled and lilting taunt. 

Kolya bites his tongue. It’s a ridiculous thing for Davýd to tease him over, considering he doesn’t even want to be here. 

“More of a machete, really. Should prove useful against the vines,” Kira states approvingly. “You shouldn’t judge a tool by its appearance. The hearth presented me with a simple ring, and you’ve seen what it's capable of,” she reprimands Davýd harshly, and to Kolya’s surprise, he actually ducks his head down in shame. He's never seen Davýd do that before. 

Davýd shakes off the embarrassment and straightens his posture. “So. When can we leave?”

“Trust me, I won't keep you waiting for long. Your father was more than just a general to me, he was a close friend,” Kira vows, her posture rigid. She's striking in a manner that borders on terrifying, all lean but prominent muscle, and harsh angles at every protrusion of bone. Her eyes, dark and piercing, narrow in determination. “Go rest and get changed, both of you. I've already got an army ready to go come sunrise. Oh rana, stayot Ohrana.”

It’s obvious from the way Davýd twitches that he’d rather leave immediately, but he heels. Kira nods, tapping Kolya’s shoulder before she departs. It’s respectful, if not perhaps a bit patronizing. Davýd repeats the gesture, gripping his younger brother’s shoulder, warning him not to back down. Finally he leaves, and Kolya is left alone in the room that breathes, and the occasional scritch of lead against parchment.  

“Congrats. You're a soldier now,” Alin says dryly. 

Di takes her opportunity to slink back inside the lab. She sits down and wraps her tail over her legs, staring at Kolya, silently judgemental. 

With a sigh and a slump, Kolya slides down the side of the structure to the floor and runs his finger along the knife’s edge. It’s incredibly sharp, forming a paper-thin cut he fails to register until it blooms with the barest pool of crimson. Thankfully, Alin doesn’t seem to mind his presence, so he quietly lingers here, sifting through the haze of his thoughts. 

All he needs to do is ensure his last remaining kin stays alive. Then, when all is said and done, he’ll leave this city and find peace.

Chapter Text

There are empty sockets oozing black fluid where Davýd’s eyes once were. 

It’d all happened so fast; Kolya couldn't react quick enough. The blade in his hand is glowing, ready to unleash an attack at any moment, but he doesn't swing. It doesn't matter. It's too late now. 

He hates himself for allowing Davýd to fall—for not being able to stop the whipping vines from tangling themselves around his brother’s ankles, lifting him high into the air and slamming him to the ground in an unnatural, lethal display of force. Kolya keeps hearing the sound like it’s playing on a loop—the ominous shatter of the ventilator keeping Davýd alive, and the subsequent, nauseating pop as fractured cartilage collapsed into his sinuses. 

The pollen in this garden is toxic, and appears to multiply when exposed to cruor. Kolya watches in horror as the rot pouring out of his brother’s skull emits a sudden burst of obsidian particles; the sight causes bile to rise in his throat, threatening to spill into his ventilator. He instinctively tightens the mask around his jaw, gripping a fist over it to ensure nothing could get through. Forcing himself to look away, he shudders as he takes in his surroundings. 

All of his senses are consumed by ignited petals, swirling in what appears to be thousands, floating up and disintegrating before they can reach the stars. Somehow, through all of this, the stars are still visible. 

Thorned branches thrash everywhere in his peripherals, burning and emitting overlapping, disorienting screams. Agony and twisting embers; he wonders if this is where the souls of the damned are destined for, or if perhaps he’s already dead. It certainly feels like he should be. Vibrations still sporadically rattle the earth beneath him as blasts of fire rain down to the garden, born from Kira’s arrow. She’d become something far away the moment Davýd had rushed in, fighting toward the center of this hellscape and fueled by primal rage. Kira had made no effort to halt his advance. 

Kolya knows that he should have tried harder to stop his brother. Everything about this garden is a death trap; the thorns are poisonous, the vines vicious and unmerciful. Davýd wasn’t the only one to fall today—but he was the only one Kolya had been here to protect. 

And the natchel stole that from him. 

‘Remember that, blood? Family?’ 

Kolya recalls his brother's words, and he’s never felt such rage before. Like fires to foliage, it consumes him. 

‘It’s everything.’

He knows that he should flee. Yet, instead of running, he seeks vengeance. 

One moment the pródniy is moving, and the next his foot is caught by a thick, wandering tendril. The vine immediately coils into itself, scurrying away as Kolya loses his balance and tumbles to the ground. He doesn't even realize his ventilator has snapped in half until unfiltered air stings his lungs, laden with ash. 

His chest tightens. He gasps, and waits for the inevitable—for the pollen to overtake his lungs and rot him from the inside, but nothing happens. In his frozen state, all he registers is a dull ache from the fall. 

He remains on the ground for what feels like eons, heart pounding, disoriented and confused. He can’t fathom how he's still alive. When he draws himself slowly upright, embers tickle his skin, an effervescent reminder that he still exists in this hell-on-earth. It’s sort of like pinching himself, to make sure he’s awake. 

As Kolya pushes forward, into what he can only assume is the center of the garden, the burning plants become evermore dense. Vines occasionally creep towards him, more curious than aggressive—yet the moment he brandishes his knife, gripping the blade like his life depends on it, the tendrils retreat, revealing new pathways. 

He’s terrified that he may be trapped here in this maze; thorns keep catching against his limbs. They scratch. They scald him, screaming to a deafening degree. He shoves his palms against his ears, pressing into his scalp with so much force it feels like his head might explode, and when he screws his eyes shut— cavernous sockets. Black fluid.  

It’s all too much. 

He blinks roughly, trying to dispel the image. That's when he notices a particularly prominent cluster of thorns and tightly knitted vines, too dense to have naturally formed in such a way. 

Kolya reasons that they must be protecting something—and seeing as he’s lost all sense of self-preservation and forethought, he approaches the wall with nothing left to lose and no one left to fight for. 

The closer he gets, the stranger his surroundings. The smoke is clearing, and to some degree, the everpresent cries have become less overwhelming. It's only the occasional, echoing wail that causes his insides to jolt. When Kolya is within an arm’s length of the wall, he’s greeted by a sudden bloom of marigolds, emerging first from the soil around his feet, then slowly dappling the wall itself. In the silent spaces between screams, he swears they whisper to him. 

The blade in his hand is still charged, so he raises his arm and swings. Responding to its wielder's intention, the glowing edge emits a crimson arc that flies forward, cutting through the thicket and burning away layer after layer—but it’s not enough. The wall cries while fresh vines connect to each other and close the gash he’d formed; the jade-like green of new growth lingers upon the surface like scar tissue, taunting Kolya. He tries again, slashing over and over, but he’s unable to get through. 

One of the marigolds begins to grow taller, winding itself gently around Kolya’s ankle and brushing against his ash-coated skin. The sensation startles him, and he jerks his leg upward, tugging the bloom from the soil. It immediately dries out and wilts, falling limply to the ground. The rest of its brethren quiver slightly, but they don’t flee. 

A bizarre thought occurs when he turns over his shoulder, wondering at the way the garden had moved around him. The vines hadn’t hesitated to attack Davýd, but they’d left him alone—even moved out of his way. This time, when another flower trails against his ankle, he doesn’t try to pull away. Instead he faces the scarred wall once more, sheaths his blade, and takes a deep breath. 

“Let me through. Please.”

It’s crazy, but it works. 

The barrier starts to shake, and layer after foliaceous layer peels away until there’s a hole wide enough for Kolya to pass through. Flowers caress him one last time before receding into the soil, only to reappear in the clearing ahead of him, forming a vibrant, sunset-orange pathway. It ends before a massive low-lying bush, with thick branches covered in moss and multicolored blooms. Kolya’s never seen anything like it before—there must be a hundred different flowers, all merging together like a kaleidoscope. 

He pinches himself to make sure he's still awake. 

Alin plops his head down onto his forearms, gazing across his desk at a chalkboard littered in scratch-marked runes and redundant equations. At least, they feel redundant—he’s missing something. He’s sure of it. Then he jolts upright, with an excited smile and a eureka that causes his eyes to glitter. 

“That’s what I need!” he exclaims, breaking into a light jog as he crosses the lab to a vintage record-player. 

Di opens one eye curiously from where she lounges in the rafters, flicking her tail at the disruption. Alin peruses through a modest collection of vinyls, before tugging one out with a decisive hum. 

It’s a folksy beat, all upbeat plucks and peppy percussions. Alin settles back at his desk and taps his foot against the ground, mindlessly humming along with where he believes the melody is going. It’s wildly inaccurate. The Invocationist knows he couldn’t hold a tune to save his life, but he’s alone in here, and Di won’t object to his subpar serenading. At the very least, she’s used to it; Alin always thinks better when listening to something familiar.

He takes a moment to stretch, reaching his well-defined arms into the air with an exaggerated sigh. Then he cranes his neck to one side, and stressed cervical bones release with a satisfying pop. 

“Alright…let’s try this again, shall we?”

Di yawns and stands, easily balancing on the thin support beam. She flexes her spine and extends her scaly paws, sharp nails tapping one-by-one against the wood. Then she shakes out her thick coat, causing white hairs to flutter down to the floor.

“In theory,” Alin continues, sifting through his conundrum to the only audience in the room, “it should bind in the same way as your prosthetic. It’s just the material that’s different.” He chews on the inside of his cheek and gazes up at the floating, runic disks. He taps one—the same one he’d been disrupting, and listens to the same, predictable melody intertwine with the music flowing from the record player. 

Suddenly, Di leaps down from the ceiling and lands softly on Alin’s desk, directly on top of the notes he’d been scribbling away at. As she does, her tail stands upright and proud, brushing against one of the suspended runes and causing them to engage in a different sequence. It’s chaotic—and probably nonsense—but Alin lifts up his companion and tosses her down to the floor anyway, meticulously jotting down every tinkling rune that appears. 

She blinks slowly at him and sits down on her haunches, observing. 

Once the runes taper off and cease their glowing and singing, Alin tips his head to the side and narrows his eyes, confused by what he’s transcribed. It does look like nonsense, for the most part, but not all of it. “Reconstruction?”

He groans and leans into the back of his chair, arms falling limply to his side. Di takes the opportunity to approach his hand and bump her soft head against his knuckles. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Alin responds to her, before shrugging a blanket over his bare chest and leaving his desk, “back to the chalkboard, I suppose.”

Di pads over to the single window at the other side of the lab, hops up, and perches on the ledge. She gazes outside, vibrant sunshine causing her whiskers to glow. Alin watches her for a while, until a bird passes by and Di jumps up, batting against the glass and chirping in a manner that Alin can only presume she thinks sounds threatening. 

The Invocationist sets down his chalk and giggles at her. Then, his expression grows thoughtful. 

“Hollow bones…” he breathes, and then it clicks. 

Typically, Alin tries to avoid too much physical exertion—he doesn’t want to grow any more muscular than he naturally does—but he’s too excited to care as he disregards the ladder and instead leaps up the side of the structure, using the exposed brackets and metal wiring to scale its massive height. Once he reaches the lever, he grasps it firmly and hangs off the protrusion, his weight causing it to engage sharply with an audible thunk. 

He drops down to the ground with ease, wiping a delicate sheen of sweat from his forehead. While the reservoir slowly fills with fluid catalyst, he meanders over to a series of cabinets bearing countless curiosities. The Invocationist procures a small bone from a row of available materials and takes it back to his desk, a bit haphazardly shoving his papers away to create space. He puts on his glove, and feels a little tingle as his awareness expands to include the auxiliary hand, just as much a part of him now as every other extremity. 

“Oh, what would I do without you, huh?” Alin muses as he hovers the hand over to the structure, barely dipping the brush tips into silver paint to ensure he has an incredibly fine line to work with. 

Di eventually finds her way back to the rafters while Alin works, crafting the lines of his conduit onto calcium. Occasionally he stops to think, poking the little discs on the mobile for feedback, but the Invocationist is feeling much more confident, now. In his experience, even though there is an extensive amount of knowledge and mathematics applied when invoking, he finds the process to often be more instinctive than logical.    

Once finished, he smiles proudly. He retrieves a set of thin metal plates he’d stashed off to the side—the same project he’d been metaphorically tugging his hair out trying to solve. The plates appear almost like feathers, a pale gold on one side, and an iridescent sheen on the other. He fans out the stack like a deck of playing cards and makes adjustments to the runes he’d already crafted. The lines glow when he’s finished, and he’s assured by their presence as he stacks each piece back together. Then he cranes his head upward, easily locating Di where she lounges. 

“Hey, you. Care to help me test this out?” 

Di’s ear twitches and she perks up, peering down at the prototype on his desk. She considers for a long time, and the Invocationist waits patiently. He’d never force her, at least not physically—the last time he’d tried that, he wound up needing stitches. It’s not something he’s keen on repeating. 

“C’mon, it’ll be fun! I promise,” Alin encourages, waving his hand to beckon her. 

She narrows her eyes but concedes, dropping first to the floor, then jumping gracefully to Alin’s lap. He shifts his chair back to give her room as she steps on to the desk, leans close to his work to sniff it, then sits down, pointedly keeping her back turned to Alin. 

He chuckles fondly at her. “Still can’t watch? Trusishka.” 

The tip of her tail twitches, but she ignores him. 

Alin hums and picks up what resembles a tack, the barest little pinprick of a metal point protruding from a wooden handle designed to fit between his fingers. He swiftly pokes the skin on the scruff of her neck, knowing she’d rather it be quick. The tiny amount of blood that appears from the superficial puncture is instantly absorbed inside hollow metal, and he squeezes the handle so it stays put when he draws the needle out. Then he adds a drop to the painted runes, watching curiously as each line takes on a different hue. 

Di tenses and hisses, but quickly recovers. She waits, swishing her tail impatiently while Alin takes the set of metal feathers and places them on her back, right between her shoulder blades. The prototype first splits itself in half, then fans outward. Each piece unfurls and separates, held together by an ethereal glow; the plates widen, slowly forming an arcane-bound wingspan. When she looks over her shoulder to admire her new limbs, the slits of her pupils dilate into wide discs. She opens them, giving a tentative flap. 

“Pretty neat, right?” Alin scoops her up with a grin, and he’s exhilarated by how light she feels—he could, if he tried, likely lift her with just the tips of his fingers. She struggles against him, wiggling and threatening to dig her reptilian claws into his arm, so he curses under his breath and allows her to fall. 

Instead of dropping to the floor, Di extends her wings and glides across the lab. There’s a trail of subtle gold lights that follow the path of each lengthened flight feather, swirling through the air before disintegrating. 

“Yes!” Alin exclaims, filled with glee. His beaming smile lights up even further when she flaps and ascends even higher, then drops when Di does—it’s a graceful fall, but she clearly hadn’t been able to stay airborne. Once she lands, the metal feathers fold back once more, until they’re nothing more than two prominent protrusions on her back. At least the prototype is still bound to her and staying in place. 

The Invocationist clicks his tongue, disappointed. He reminds himself that failures are part of the process as he pads over to Di, who is currently furling and unfurling the wings, completely enraptured by the motion. 

“I know, but if I made the feathers big enough to hold you up, they’d be absolutely massive. I have to make use of interim spaces, you big loaf,” Alin explains as he bends down to put his hands under her front legs and lift her a bit, just to check. She’s right back to her usual weight. Alin frowns, and Di flattens her ears, grumbling low in her throat. 

As it turns out, the wings are still capable of allowing her to glide for a short distance. Alin leaves her to her new-found discovery—merrily hopping on to surfaces and floating back down—and returns to his desk to glare at the runes. 

Some time later, he gets up to retrieve more materials, humming along to his record. As he’s passing by the structure, he suddenly trips over a flurry of fur and scales. 

He stumbles and yelps, placing his hand against the structure to brace himself. One of the insects had found its way into the lab, and Di is fixated on catching it, completely oblivious as she pivots sharply under his foot, wings flapping furiously to propel herself faster in pursuit. One particular shove against the Invocationist’s ankle finds his knees hitting the floor.

Alin still has one hand in the protrusion he’d instinctively grabbed to lessen his fall. His heart skips its next pulse when he pulls away and his fingers come back wet.  

As he smears the catalyst across the pads of his fingers, admiring how the lab’s soft lighting interacts with its iridescent sheen, he finds that the fluid has a certain heat to it. He shakes his head to dispel the observation—it isn't warm, just potent, simmering with latent energy. Then, he's overcome by the overwhelming urge to taste it, barely managing to catch himself with his lips parted in preparation, fingers hovering just a hair's breadth away from where the tip of his tongue peeks out curiously. 

Alin pushes himself upright fast enough to elicit a short-lived dizzy spell, and dashes over to the lab’s sink, fumbling to engage the tap before scrubbing his skin beneath the scalding water. The catalyst easily washes away from his skin, and passively, he wonders why he’d never tried diluting it. It seems to readily dissolve into the water, causing the stream below his hands to glow with specks of bright blue before swirling down the drain. 

He knows it’s likely gone, but he continues to scrub, blunt fingernails scratching into his palms and the spaces between each finger. The motion, though redundant, is soothing some of the anxiety creeping up his spine. Behind him, he hears a series of dull thuds and ruffling parchment, and can only presume Di has managed to create a mess out of one of the bookshelves. 

“Dimitra!” he scolds, harsher than he’d intended—he knows this isn’t her fault, that he’s just clumsy—but he’s frightened. He turns off the tap and the lab grows eerily quiet, staring unseeingly past the drain. In a daze, he turns and flops down to the floor, hugging his knees to his chest.

Di grabs the blanket hanging off the back of the Invocationist’s chair in her teeth and drags it over to Alin, hopping across his shoulders and causing soft fabric to flutter over his bare torso. One of her defective feathers hits the back of his head and he winces, but grasps the blanket anyways and tugs it tighter around him. 

“Yeah…pretty stupid of me, huh?” Alin says with a wry chuckle. Di cocks her head to the side and stares at him curiously while he continues. “Do you think it’s true, what they say? Am I about to start going crazy?” 

Di blinks slowly at him, completely unfazed. 

“Right,” he responds, “can’t become something you already are… I’m sure it’ll be fine.” Alin says this out loud to assure himself, as if hearing it could make it true—he doesn’t feel off, not really. There’s a pale sort of tingling sensation beneath the surface of his skin, but it’s quiet, and seems to be going away. He clears his throat and gestures to Di. “Want me to take those off of you?”

Di hunches her spine and hisses. 

“Fine, but you can't wear them outside the lab. Kira’s gonna throw a fit if she sees.”

She narrows her eyes and pointedly saunters away, leaving the Invocationist to spiral in silence. As he watches her stalk the elusive insect, he hears the first of what would grow to become many instances of the same, alien voice in his head—mellifluous and masculine, detached and forlorn:

‘Have you had enough, yet?’

Kolya’s skin prickles as every fine hair stands on end. 

He’d begun to approach the imposing bush of prismatic blooms, until he saw movement in the gaps between petals. He can’t make out exactly what it is, but he can tell something is watching him. 

“Welcome home, Neven,” Kolya hears—translates, rather. 

The voice isn't just one, but many, overlapping tongues in languages he’d never heard and could never attempt to repeat. He shouldn't be able to understand, but somehow, deep down, he does. They echo in the air around him, from within the vibrant branches, trickling into his psyche. He struggles to pinpoint where the sound originated from. He wonders if he’s starting to hallucinate, or if the plants that scream are capable of speech, as well. 

Kolya doesn't entertain the thought, for the figure in the bush is now moving, slowly revealing himself in the light of distant fires and unobstructed moonglow. The pródniy stands firm, despite every instinct begging him to flee at the vision.

The natchel appears human, for the most part. Long black curls, which have been jostled by the wind but still remain in remarkable display, frame a strikingly-beautiful facial structure; sharp, as if carved by the Gods themselves. He has hands with long, lithe fingers, and subtly pointed nails. His skin is a radiant olive, glowing near-amber in the hellish lighting. 

He appears human, save for where he does not. There are clusters of wisp-like petals on the sides of his head, just above each ear—chrysanthemums, the exotic variety, thin and elegantly curled, colored in a gradient of white to crimsoned tips. Trailing from between prominent sacral dimples and peeking out through sheer fabric are larger petals, the same as the kind upon his skull and nearly as long as his limbs, forming the vision of an ethereal tail which hovers over the grass, like ribbons swishing in the breeze.

It's in the small things, too. It’s the way his neck is just a bit too long, almost indecipherably so, but it's the only way Kolya reasons the natchel manages to hold his head so high, and look so elegant perched upon the wide branch. His lean torso is elongated to an unnatural degree, sharp hip bones displaying patches of petals upon his skin—little dapples of white, reflective protrusions that shift when he moves. 

With arms long enough to carry himself on all fours, Dragan raises himself partially and slinks down to the grass, each motion fluid and graceful. Hesitant. He doesn't blink, and his dark eyes never leave Kolya. 

Dragan bears the weight of his elongated frame through an extra joint—an unnatural bend past where his ankles should be, allowing him to move in manner low to the ground, like a satyr. His feet are cloven hooves, sharp and black as midnight, with equally-obsidian fur that begins at his calves, growing evermore luxurious at his feet. Dragan begins an agonizingly slow, calculating circle around Kolya. He prowls, unspeaking amidst the screaming petals.  

Kolya is reminded again of the stories. All of the songs from bards, and reverent whispers passed through generations in the surrounding lands; that the natcheli are born from the Gods, existing far outside the bounds of humanity. And now, he finds himself face-to-face with one. It turns the pródniy’s veins frigid. 

“Neven?” Dragan practically whispers. His voice is clear and singular now, a soft warmth in their native tongue; Kolya can comprehend him easily. His gaze is locked onto Kolya like a lifeline, cautious and bated joy subtly flicking back and forth as he scans Kolya’s expression. 

The pródniy just stares. There's that word again, Neven. The name means nothing. He swallows and grips the sheath of his knife, trying to keep the motion out of Dragan’s sight. He winds up continuously pivoting, refusing to turn his back on the other. 

“You…don’t recognize me,” Dragan says, the warmth in his voice slowly ebbing away. He pauses mid-step with one hoof hovering over the ground, then shifts back slightly, his eyes widening in shock. The tentative hopefulness in his expression cracks; just a hairline fracture, but it splits fast. Realization hits him, and he bares his teeth, each one sharp and pointed, lowering himself deep into his four-legged posture. He’s just as frozen as Kolya. “To think—I called them liars. How could you?!” Dragan hisses, his words barely audible through the crackle of burning branches. 

He needs to speak or, preferably, attack—make use of the natchel’s lowered defenses, but he’s too frightened and confused to move. He forces himself to focus, and manages to unsheath his blade. Its edge glows subtly, with less fire than before, as if even the very weapon crafted to destroy this creature seems hesitant to do so. 

The petals on Dragan’s head flatten and his eyes narrow to stygian slivers, flickering once to the blade and returning to bore into Kolya with even more vitriol. “And you're one with those murderers?!” 

Kolya takes an instinctive step back, desperately trying to process through his growing panic. Dragan stands upright, and his body shifts until he’s barefoot, grass tickling his toes. What was once a creature standing a head taller than Kolya is now a man slightly shorter than him. The tail disappears, his proportions shift—all that remains are the petals on his head. Dragan’s fists are clenched at his sides, and Kolya can feel the tension radiating off of him in waves, sharp and bitter. 

The silence stretches and stretches until Kolya can’t bear it a moment longer. “Murderers?” he snarls, showing his canines. Having found his voice, he raises it, feeling his veins start to boil along with. “That’s rich, coming from you. Look at what you’ve done, everything you’ve destroyed!”

“What I’ve destroyed?! Oh, the Gods are cruel—of all the lives you could have returned to, look at what you’ve become!” 

It can be clearly seen, even tangibly felt as a strident vibration in the air the moment Dragan snaps. He laughs once, sharp and jarring, wrapping his arms around his torso and keeling backward, as if the outburst itself had force behind it. Vines emerge from the ground beneath him and form a circle, standing tall and tensed like cobras ready to strike. The natchel thanks Rodina for her instincts when Kolya raises his blade with a shout, and an arc of charged energy flies toward him, cutting through one of the vines. The tendrils cry out, and a burst of embers linger not far from Dragan’s cheek. He’s focused now. He needs to avoid that weapon. 

“You’re a monster,” Kolya states coldly. 

Hurt flashes in Dragan’s eyes, but he quickly recovers before their hue can shift. He dodges another incoming attack with ease, which hits the wall with a burst of violent energy. The natchel inhales sharply and winces, swallowing a pained whimper, then whips his head around and nimbly dances around the pródniy's lunging frame. The vines retaliate, causing Kolya to curse and shuffle away. When his blade destroys another, the screams from the garden multiply, releasing an unrelenting peal into the night. 

Kolya finds his footing and resists the urge to cover his ears. Instead, he widens his stance just in time to dodge an incoming cluster of vines, slicing through them before the curled ends can wrap around his chest. Dragan stutters and sways, screwing his eyes shut at the sensation. 

“That… hurts you?” Kolya realizes with a shocked breath. A satisfied smile begins to form across his face. 

“Of course!” Dragan finally cries out as adrenaline kicks in, and all of his pain funnels into rage. He’s had enough. When pitted against a mere mortal—even one with inhuman strength—the demigod knows he will emerge victorious. He just needs to keep that cursed blade from touching him.

“Good,” the pródniy growls, his knife’s charge growing into something volatile, right at the edge of exploding. Its wielder is no longer hesitant. “You murdered my family, you deserve to suffer.” 

The words cut Dragan deeply, tearing open a wound he’d tried desperately to heal. The natchel shifts form again, and his long limbs grant him the speed he needs to recover from his pause. He avoids Kolya’s attack and dashes to the other side of the clearing, relying on the vines to subdue his opponent. With every slice Kolya lands, the wisp-like petals of Dragan’s tail instinctively tuck themselves further between his legs. Even though it hurts, he can still speak. 

“What do you want me to say,” the natchel spits, “that I’m sorry? I’m not! In another life, you would have destroyed him, too.”

“The fuck are you going on about?!” Kolya exclaims, feeling the ground start to spin beneath him. 

The vines continue to reach for him in droves, screams drowning his sanity, until he can’t hold them off any longer. First, one clamps down around his forearm—the one holding the blade, and the force is enough to compress the tendon of his wrist until he drops it to the ground with a muted thud. Then before he can react, they encase his torso, down his thighs, constricting his limbs until he’s on his knees. The restraints clasp around him everywhere; wrapped around his forehead, contracting against his neck, and tugging him downward until his knees are creating divots in the soil. Kolya sweats, and his arms bulge as he tries desperately to move, but he’s trapped. There are thorns on many of the vines, digging into his skin and sending warm trickles of blood down his brow. He blinks roughly, trying to avoid getting any into his eyes, and he cries out when he’s contorted into a position his frame can hardly manage. 

Dragan grins at the sight and approaches Kolya until he’s barely a foot away, elegantly seating himself to view the other at eye-level.

“I could kill you in this state. So easily,” Dragan states, leaning in even closer. His eyes flash red for a brief moment, and the petals on his head splay outward and unfurl. 

“Then do it,” Kolya manages the response, baring his teeth but too exhausted to fight back any more. 

Dragan considers it—he truly does. He wants to, but sentiment sticks its adamant foot into the ground, refusing to bend. Instead, he shifts until he’s barely a breath away from the helpless pródniy. Kolya tries weakly to pull himself away, frightened at the other’s proximity, but the restraints keep him immobile. 

The natchel opens his palm between them, and a pale green flower blooms in his hand. He holds it right beneath Kolya’s nose, takes a long and intentional breath, releases it, and sends a trail of pollen twirling into the pródniy’s sinuses. 

Kolya is left with one last, potent observation before consciousness escapes him. Dragan’s breath smells like petrichor. 

Chapter Text

The fog is thick enough, come the first breaths of sunrise, that the grounds of Rodina appear almost like a snowfall. Enveloped in the same near-whiteness, they emit the same, blanketing silence. He finds himself just as speechless.

The ground beneath Dragan’s bare feet is coated in blackened ash; the air, laden with chilled moisture, sticks to his skin. With each slow, forlorn step he takes, the ground vibrates beneath him, a little quiver below ash and destruction that heralds new growth. And each time his soles depart from the earth, little green sprouts emerge from his footfalls, unfurling despite it all—despite the soot and debris, fanning outward to fill every expanse of scorched earth. These are the frameworks, upon which his garden will be rebuilt.

He inhales, and the garden draws energy from a vast expanse of nutrients—a network akin to neural pathways, well-below the earth’s boundary line—and he feels every inch of the wide-reaching veins. How it hurts. How it remains ever-ripe, and longing to heal. He exhales, and the foliage reforming shudders as it grows stronger still, swelling like the expansion of lungs and breathing right along with him.

This is the framework, upon which Rodina always returns.

The fog hinders how far his sight can reach; his surroundings are barely visible, and aggressively bright. The natchel slowly blinks, and when his vision returns, there is a pale, lilac sheen lingering over his irises, brilliant amidst the diffused sunlight. He observes the ultraviolet trails left behind by his children, tracking their recent movements—many have gathered in the distance, not far from where he currently stands. He blinks again, and the ultraviolet whisps disappear, his eyes returning to their normal hue. He changes his trajectory to approach them.

The outlines appear first. Figures on the ground hunched over, elbows on knees, eyes hidden beneath shaking palms. Some are standing, eerily silent, resting comforting hands upon their sibling’s shoulders, where they've formed a semicircle around a single, bloodied corpse. The closer Dragan approaches, the more heart-wrenching details come into view.

And his children cry. Of course, they do. Dragan almost wishes he could join them, and he feels the taut line of grief tugging inside his ribcage, tightening his throat; yet he doesn’t shed tears.

There's this saying, when suffering loss. ‘It never gets easier.’ Live long enough, and it does—or rather, Dragan muses, it's easier not to cry. The pain itself never lessens.

One of the men standing whispers into the breeze, offering a sombre prayer. “To Rodina return, Maria.”

A coolness makes itself known along the natchel's waterline, sharp and distinct. Perhaps he's still capable of getting close.

Dragan dips his head to the others, and says nothing as he lowers himself upon the soft carpet of clovers and moss below, tucking his knees up and wrapping an arm around them. He lifts an open palm above his fallen daughter, and decomposers crawl to the surface. Webbings of miniscule mycelium begin to form across what still remains of her, as dark vines emerge to conceal the sight from those present.

The surge of fertilizer triggers an efflorescence; all those mourning become surrounded by blooms of anemones, presenting in the dozens. It's a vast display of pale, blush-like pinks, muted blues, and silk-white petals, softly unfurling around obsidian pistils. They whisper, and breathe, and the others grow reverently silent, save for the sniffles of two young ones.

He plucks one of the flowers and holds it lovingly in his hands. Immortalizes it, each petal hardening into elegant crystals; cradles it, just for a heartbeat, before passing the bloom over to her lineage, two children no older than ten.

“Be with her, in this form. You will not be alone,” Dragan assures them, his voice soft and melodic. “Life carries on. Remember this.”

The youngest, a little pródniy boy, takes the anemone, drawing it close to his chest. There’s a never-ending river of tear tracks on his cheeks, and he seems to want to speak, yet his throat bobs on the words. Dragan reaches forward, wipes the most recent swell of tears, and pulls the child toward him, holding his trembling form. The chrysanthemum petals above his ears curl into themselves, drooping downward. He shuts his eyes and holds on tight.

He doesn’t know what other comfort to offer. How does one explain to a child that death is not truly the end? The young one’s sister seems to understand, wiping her tears as she moves to mingle with the new and vibrant blooms.

When the dark vines concealing the corpse recede, there is nothing but a verdant patch of fresh growth and flowers remaining. Eventually, his children depart, along with the majority of the fog. Only one remains, watching him with an unreadable expression.

“They’ve never made it this deep before,” Isak says, coming to stand beside Dragan.

Dragan shifts until he’s sitting cross-legged, and rests his weary chin in his palm. It’s always jarring, just how quiet Rodina is in the wake of destruction. The absence of birdsong and insects speaks volumes in its lonely silence.

“Not in your lifetime, no,” Dragan eventually answers.

“Did we lose anyone else?” he asks. Tentative, as if frightened to know.

Dragan takes a moment to attune to his garden, scanning every wide-spanning mile of terrain before responding. His relief is a welcome sensation. “Just Maria.”

“This time,” Isak adds quietly.

“...This time,” he echoes.

Isak nods, then redirects his attention to the distance. His eyes develop a fleeting purple sheen, before shifting back to hazel. “From the looks of it, most of us are resting. Though there’s a lot of commotion around the infirmary.”

Dragan’s jaw tightens at the reminder. “And I assume Nelye is inside.”

He huffs a little amused huff through his nose. “Mhm. Apparently, she’d been scratching so hard at the door, El had no choice but to let her in.”

This comes as no surprise to Dragan.

Isak wonders at the shadows, gauging the hours passed. “He’ll probably be waking up any minute now, if he hasn't already.”

“Right. I suppose I should greet him,” Dragan states.

“Really? I’m surprised you’re letting him live.” Isak raises an eyebrow.

“Don’t mistake this for mercy.” The natchel's budding irritation finally gets the better of him, urging him to stand. He turns to make way to the infirmary, pausing only to add coldly over his shoulder, “he’ll be useful as breeding stock, nothing more.”

Isak rolls his eyes and fails to suppress a chuckle. “How am I not surprised. He’s exactly your type, isn’t he?”

“I—” he sputters, bristling, “not for me.”

Isak hums. It didn't escape his notice, how Dragan’s eyes had shifted to a blush-like pink, just for a brief moment. “I give it a week.”

It certainly would have made things easier, had Dragan just killed the man. He supposes it’s never too late.

‘I wonder. If I knew what this place was, could I understand how to leave it?’

In the late hours of the evening, a delicate, carefully-measured drop of iridescent catalyst gathers at the tip of a pipette, before dripping down into a shallow petri dish. It immediately reacts to the presence of a thin layer of distilled water, erupting outward with constellations of brilliant, shimmering blue.

‘Unlikely. Understanding rarely changes anything but perspective. Walls are walls, regardless of material.’

Alin shifts his attention from the wondrous display, closes one eye, and tugs the corner of his bottom lip into his teeth, carefully observing through the eyepiece of a microscope.

‘Time, for example. It is not linear, yet we exist inside of it. Hopelessly blind to what we cannot see.’

He fusses with the focal lens, trying to get a better view of what he's seeing. The enigma doesn't last long, however, and all-to-soon the glow recedes, until nothing but crystalline water remains.

‘Eventually it stretches on, and it all becomes the same. Same lights, same tone. Same emptiness. The passage of time less like a passage, and more like a pool.’

He begins to jot vague notes down, trying and failing to make sense of what he's witnessing. It acts similar to bioluminescence when diluted—like it’s something alive, but not in a way he’s ever seen before. Such a curious, fleeting display.

‘Timelessness. If that feeling of linearcy is lost, would that turn time tangible? Something I could watch, and observe—’

He drops his pen to rub at his throbbing temples.

‘—ah, ‘watch.’’

“Oh, excellent. The voice has a sense of humor,” Alin says dryly, thoroughly exasperated.

This has been his reality for the last handful of days—granted, the periods of silence vastly outweigh the noise—but when this foreign, internal monologue does speak, it’s incessant. And despite every ounce of genuine effort on his part, he can’t seem to redirect or silence it.

“Uhm. Alin?”

The Invocationist startles—he hadn't even heard her come inside the lab. “Skata,” he gasps, “what are you doing awake right now?!”

The lab is technically Alin’s, though Sahar will occasionally let herself in when she needs his assistance on her own projects. He’s always welcomed her presence here, though she rarely arrives this late. Alin wonders what she’s stumped on tonight—or if, maybe, she just needs company. The woman has been through a lot, as of late.

She’s dressed up like she’s ready to go out, all cropped leathers, iridescent studs, and dark-lace tights. The glitter on her skin shimmers against the structure’s pulsing lights and scattered arcane bulbs. When Alin doesn't immediately respond, too focused on applying another drop of catalyst into the petri dish, she gestures her impatience, urging the man to speak.

“Who were you talking to?” she asks, quirking an eyebrow and dropping her sling-bag onto one of the few unoccupied surfaces of a nearby table.

He clears his throat and points up to the rafters. “Di, of course.”

She looks up, then crosses her arms and stares at Alin like he's grown an extra limb. “What—she’s not even up there!”

Alin finally pulls his attention away from his desk and checks where he’s currently pointing. His hand shifts to instead rub the back of his head. “Uhm. Right—I guess just myself?”

“Send your brain through the centrifuge, again?” she teases familiarly, then sits spread-legged on a stool before the table. She tugs out a compact mirror from her bag, preening at her reflection. “Or should you maybe be in bed?”

He clicks his tongue and mutters under his breath, “you’re one to talk.” Then, he cocks his head to the side, staring at the petri dish. “Centrifuge! I wonder if I can’t extract this again, once it’s been dissolved…”

Sahar peeks over the mirror, pausing with her fingers half-thread through her hair. She speaks around a glowing bobby-pin held between her lips. “What’s got you worked up? Don’t tell me you’re not prepped for tomorrow.”

“I’m not prepped for tomorrow!” Alin gasps, feigning panic.

She gapes, causing the bobby pin to fall to the floor. It stops emitting light the moment it hits the ground. “Dumbass? You always do this. I warned you not to put things off!”

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” he assures her with a playful grin, then yelps when Sahar bends forward to retrieve the hairpin and toss it aggressively in his direction. “Stop it, don’t screw up my data!”

“Then why the hell are you losing sleep over anything else?” she quips back, then winces mid-righting herself, clutching her chest. She stays hunched over, her eyes growing glossy, breaths suddenly quickening as if she’d ran a marathon in the span of seconds.

His levity instantly plummets, and he abandons his desk to check on her. Before he can reach out to touch her, she raises her arm and glares, warning him to back off.

“Don’t—I’m fine,” she insists, though her posture suggests otherwise. 

Alin chews the inside of his cheek, and abides her silent request, instead leaning his hip against the side of the table. He worries at one of the golden threads in his braids while Sahar collects herself. Come to think of it, she was supposed to still be in the hospital. When she looks a bit less like she’s preparing to bite his head off, he speaks. “I thought you were on bedrest? What—”

“There wasn’t any surgery. Doctors couldn’t find the clot,” she interrupts. Then her expression softens, and she physically brushes off his concern. “Stop changing the subject.”

‘Rather death, than suffocation.’

Alin blinks, mentally backtracking through their conversation. “Oh…right. Here, come see,” he urges her, leading them both back to his desk.

He flicks his wrist, dimming the lights so the twinkling luminance will be more prominent, and repeats the process once more—catalyst to water, watching his friend with a hopeful smile. ‘Pulmonary embolism,’ she’d informed him when she was diagnosed. It’s unlikely she will live past the month—a fate all-too common in this city. He hopes she will appreciate the sight of something beautiful, since he doesn't know how else to comfort her.

“It glows,” Sahar comments, resting a hand on her hip.

“It glows!” Alin grins.

“Neat,” she deadpans, seemingly unimpressed. “So, why are you messing around with the catalyst?”

He furrows his brows and frowns at her lackluster response. There was once a time she was just as excitable as himself. “I’m not, it's just…haven't you ever wondered what it's made of?”

“Nope. And I don't suppose I’ll ever find out,” she says with a shrug, casually returning to the stool she's claimed and fussing with her hair.

Sahar wraps half of her black strands into a loose bun, then fixes the bobby pin through the center, pinching the end of its light and tugging little wisps of glowing silver outward, attempting to form them. She scrunches her lips to one side when she struggles to keep hold, then looks at Alin with a pleading expression.

“Can you help me? It always comes out better when you do it.”

He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. “Ah, there it is. I knew there was a reason you came here.”

“Come on, humor me.”

And Alin readily does, stepping forward to masterfully weave the delicate lights around her hair. Occasionally, Sahar will retrieve another pin from her bag and pass it back to him, admiring the Invocationist’s handiwork in the mirror.

“So, you're going out tonight?” he asks, leaning close to form the finer details.

“No, I’m trying to impress my mattress,” she replies sarcastically.

“Ah, lucky mattress. You look stunning,” he chuckles, stepping back to appraise his work. She really does look amazing. Ethereal, almost, the silver glow casting across the back of her dark hair like a halo.

Sahar takes her time adding depth to the smoky shadows on her eyelids, and straightens one of the many tiny, purple gemstones dotting the apples of her cheeks like crystal freckles. Then, she shuts the mirror with a satisfying click and smiles at Alin, genuine and beaming.

“Thank you,” she says, standing up carefully. She tries to hide it, but Alin catches the little wince forming creases beside her eyes. “Any interest in joining?”

He shakes his head. Opens his mouth, considering; he wants to tell her to make healthy decisions, to ‘take it easy’—but then, remembers she's on borrowed time. Instead, he shuts his jaw and watches her sling the bag over her shoulder, rotating the leather choker around her neck so the clasp isn't visible.

He settles on merely informing her, “Nope, not risking the hangover.”

“Mm, well, have fun with your glow-water. I’m off to find someone to fuck my brains out,” she declares, already halfway to the door.

He barks a startled laugh. “Oh—spare me the details!”

“Got it, text you everything,” she jests, and before he has a chance to respond, she's gone, leaving the Invocationist alone with nothing but his own thoughts and the gentle, steady beeping of the structure.

‘Same lights, same tone.’

Well—mostly his own thoughts.

“Centrifuge…” he mumbles to himself, eagerly returning to scratch his curiosity.

There's bodies, so many bodies, flowing and mingling, grinding against one another in the pulsing lights of the club. It hits Sahar like snapshots—a burst of light, illuminating the erotic scene—then near-darkness, then sight once more. She moves along with the hypnotic bass sending shudders through the establishment’s sticky floor, passing by the others, allowing her arms to slide between the writhing bodies, caressing curvaceous hips and exposed skin.

The snapshots are beautiful—alluring, and she revels in the hands that touch her, too, but she doesn't stop to entertain them. She has her intentions set on one woman in particular.

Sahar reaches her. Taps her shoulder. Watches, hypnotized, as her head turns like a stop-motion, bleach-blonde pigtails decorated with pink tinsel that catches the lights, and her eyes—the sight takes Sahar’s breath away. The woman's pupils are dilated and no doubt drugged, but there's still the most resplendent slivers remaining of bright, sky-blue. This is a gothic club—’leather and lace’ the night’s theme, and while most others have leaned heavily into black leather and studs, she’s taken to the latter, covered in intricate, sheer lace, all bright pinks and pearl-like whites. Though the lace barely conceals her, Sarah realizes, as her confident gaze takes in the entirety of her near-naked form.

She's striking.

Sahar shifts confidently between her and the tattooed man grinding against her enticing waist, too entranced with the beauty to mind that the man is currently grinding against herself, now, letting his hands roam freely. She even welcomes the attention. Perhaps he can join them—later, when Sahar has this woman crying out and coming undone.

It's the heady mixture of augmented cocktails, and the knowledge that she may never get to experience this again, that encourages Sahar to reach her hand out towards her. She reaches her hands out, too, wrapping both arms loosely around Sahar's shoulders and rotating her hips, tantalizingly-slow and fluid. She leans in close, her breath hot against Sahar’s ear as she speaks, just loud enough to be heard over the energetic music.

“Hi. I’m Innogen,” she says, and her voice is as sultry and delicious as every curve on her body.

Sahar doesn't respond. She doesn't even really process; it's unlikely she'll remember her name.

Innogen giggles, and tickles the space between her shoulder-blades with long, perfectly-manicured nails. “Would you like to play?”

Yes. It’s exactly what she wants.

Fuck, the guy behind her is hard, panting against her neck, likely too far gone to speak if he wanted to. It's driving her crazy. Sahar shifts impossibly closer until her lips are grazing Innogen’s delicate neck, and she presses her tongue against her shining skin, reveling in the salt of her sweat and the intoxicating effect of the last, lingering traces of her floral perfume.

And this stunning creature—she shudders and moans, grasping Sahar’s waist and tugging her forward. Emboldened, Sahar lets her lips travel even lower, teasing, pressing her thigh between the woman's legs until she's melting under the pressure and sliding herself up and down Sahar’s thigh in time with the music. She’s got good rhythm, and she’s becoming slicker with each pass. Sahar slips her fingers below the slim lace covering Innogen’s breasts, and works her magic until the other’s soft moans turn absolutely filthy.

“Come back to my apartment with me, sweetheart. I want to see just how many times I can make you come,” Sahar offers with a coy smile.

It happens between passes of the strobing lights, the shift in her expression. Where there was once surprise, there's now an inarguable hunger. And her response makes Sahar want to drop to her knees in worship.

“Take me home, then.”

There’s lightning flashing outside. Light sporadically pours in through the wood-framed window on the shortest wall of Alin’s studio loft, illuminating the darkness with momentary fractures in time. It’s almost like strobe-lights, casting crisp shadows across his floor. One such silhouette is distinctly human-shaped, but he pays it no mind. It’s not like there’s anyone else in here.

Alin flicks his wrist, and gentle light forms in one of the bulbs, illuminating a pale-green lampshade. His room, while cluttered in books and temporarily-abandoned projects—he assures himself, every time, it’s just a temporary abandonment—has a minimalistic and modern style to it, save for the dark-wood arch beams and cosy, sloped ceiling. It’s a lot like his lab, in the way it blends such contradistinctive traits. Right above his lab, too; if he listens closely, past the neverending hum of the city, he can hear steady beeps beneath the floorboard, and the hypnotic, pulse-like hiss of traveling steam. It's like white-noise to him, predictable and comforting.

He strips down to nothing but his skin-tight jewelry, and the cold air trickling through the window tickles his ankles. The smog is particularly thick tonight, casting everything in a subtle haze made more prominent with each flash of lightning, and while he’s aware it’s unhealthy to breathe, he leaves the window open for Di. The free-spirited little solipsist will make her way in or out as she pleases, even if it means breaking through glass.

The Invocationist sighs, tossing himself limply onto his mattress with a soft plop. Di’s familiar chirrup chimes from the top of his bookshelf, and he crosses his arms above his head, looking up at her with an amused expression.

“You missed quite the interesting conversation with Sahar.”

She doesn’t seem to particularly care, her eyes still shut and restful, but the single ear-flick she offers betrays that she is, indeed, awake and listening. So, he continues.

“You know, I’m a little anxious about tomorrow.” It’s an understatement. “Or—today, I guess, if we're being technical. It’s a big day. You’ll be there, right? I want to show off your leg,” he says to her, though it's more of a tired mumble than proper speech.

Di responds with what he could only interpret as a sigh, and turns around so her back faces Alin—which, fair enough. It is the middle of the night, after all, with hardly any hours left until sunrise.

He rolls over, tugging a thick comforter with him to stave off the chill, and removes the silver ring from his finger, causing the bulb to flicker once before casting the room into darkness. In the corner of his loft, half-tucked away and displayed with one articulated arm raised, stands a life-sized, humanoid mannequin, made of the same polished wood and catalyst-painted runes as Di’s prosthetic.

He stares at it. The faceless mannequin, in an eerie sort of way, stares back. Alin smiles at the hand-carved wood as it's illuminated by a flash of lightning, assuring himself that this is it. That’s his ticket.

‘Nothing left to do but sleep.’

It’s the first time that alluring voice has said something actually relevant, and Alin can’t help but chuckle as he shuts his eyes.

‘White sand. As many grains as stars in the sky…white sand.’

The infirmary is a humble structure, not far from the Adriatic Sea. The clay used to form the low-lying, rounded building, is the same near-white tone of the sands upon the shoreline. Delicate vines trail up the sides of the infirmary, occasionally dipping inside through the arched windows. These vines are attuned to their healer’s needs, providing an ever-replenishing supply of any herb, bloom, or botanical she may require.

Dragan takes a moment to breathe, basking in the distant waves and subtle salinity to the air, before approaching a small crowd hovering near the infirmary door. Heads immediately turn, and the idle gossip and theories taper off to a respectful silence. Some even drop to their knees and bow, while others greet him reverently.

“Priarod,” offers a woman with a lowered head.

Isak merely stares at him with a knowing, mischievous glimmer in his eyes.

Dragan gestures for the others to relax in his presence, then dismisses them with a soft, but firm command. “Disperse. Go rest, and allow El to work in peace.”

Most abide, but a few still linger.

“Is it true…he’s one of the Ohrana?”

Dragan doesn't look to see who it was that spoke. Instead, he swallows the lump in his throat, carefully measuring his words. “Yes, it is true. I intend to speak with him. If he makes it out of this infirmary alive, I expect he’ll be treated no different than any other newcomer, or passing traveler. Understood?”

Isak snickers under his breath.

As the natchel throws metaphorical-daggers at his child’s irreverent attitude, he can sense the rest of the group’s unspoken hesitation. Of course they're scared—the Ohrana seek to destroy them. Why would they have any reason to believe this one wasn't hard-wired for violence?

Well. If Dragan catches any suspicion that Neven—whatever has become of him—intends to harm his community, he’ll just send the pródniy on to the next life. Rip his vile throat straight from his traitorous neck. Easy. Simple. Probably more than a bit cathartic, too.

The remaining onlookers know better than to argue, and soon, they nod in deference and disperse. Isak stays behind, however, leaning his back against the wall of the infirmary and crossing his arms with a half-grin creeping up his cheek.

“Stay out here—” Dragan begins, then raises his voice when Isak opens his mouth, “and in Rod’s name, shut up. Don't be a menace.”

He can see the way Isak bites the inside of his cheek to stop his devious grin from spreading further. “A week. Tops.”

The natchel tenses and bristles, his petals instinctively fanning out in warning.

Isak laughs merrily at the display, and takes his leave with a teasing wave before Dragan's fury can take root.

He shifts his attention back to the door, rubs a tired palm down his tired face, shuts his eyes, collects himself, and enters. There’s a dense curtain of blooming foliage just past the door’s rounded frame, and when he pushes it to the side, the sight threatens his knees to buckle.

He really should have killed him, when he had the chance.

When consciousness extends its hand to Kolya, his senses return in sluggish increments. Scent comes first, earthy and blooming, with a hint of distant salt. It’s reminiscent of the noxious, vaguely-floral perfumes the throngs of late-night party-goers often wear—except without the ensuing migraine. This is real. He takes a long, restorative breath, noting how light the air is.

There’s a softness present—a weight at his side and over his chest, and a repetitive, rhythmic thump, thump, thump. Whatever it is, it’s warm, and wholly comforting. Without thinking, he finds his fingers twitching, reaching towards his side and wrapping into that softness. Fur, he realizes. The sensation grounds him. He almost falls back asleep, but a quiet rustling catches his attention.

He opens his eyes, and stares up at an unfamiliar, white ceiling. It’s dim in here, but there’s a window behind his head, casting diffused light across a fascinating web of twisting vines. Some have thin, fern-like leaves, which flutter in the gentle breeze, trailing down towards where he lays, supine, upon a surface so soft he wants nothing more than to sink down into it. He feels a bit floaty, not unlike the cluster of tiny, pink petals that flutter by. One passes mere inches from his vacant expression, and he glances down to follow its trajectory.

Oh, there’s a canine. Some variety of medium-sized herding breed, with fluffy, brown fur and large, white patches across its stomach and neck, wrapping up to its nose. At the center of its forehead is a smaller, white splotch, vaguely shaped like a flower. The errant petal falls right upon that little dot, lingering there. The dog’s warm amber eyes gaze up at him, and Kolya swears he sees adoration there. Maybe even recognition.

Kolya’s never interacted with a dog before, so he doesn’t know if they are always this friendly, but it whines, and he shifts his hand upward to scratch behind a velvet-like ear. That thumping sound grows even faster, then a tiny little bark precedes the dog surging forward, laying its front legs across his chest and pressing its nose against his cheek. Kolya’s heart flutters when his face is suddenly assaulted by an eager tongue, laying down kiss after slobbery-kiss. He tugs his lips between his teeth to prevent any of them from touching his mouth, swallowing the joyful laughter that threatens to emerge.

Then, his blood goes cold.

“Nelye. Come here, girl.”

Kolya’s heart-rate skyrockets. Adrenaline triggers a sudden movement—enough to find him sitting upright, frantically shuffling away—until his back hits a wall and every muscle clenches and freezes.

There’s that monster. Just across the room, glaring at him. There’s another woman inside as well, sitting at a wooden desk and casually plucking one of the flowers from a vine above her head, breaking it down with pestle and mortar, but he can’t bring himself to focus on her.

Memories from the previous night come crashing back, full-force. He wants to run. Could he even fit himself out the window? Where would he go—where is he?

The canine—Nelye, as the natchel had called her—whines, and follows Kolya like she’s attached to his hip, leaning her entire weight against his body and staring right back at the one who’d summoned her.

“Come,” Dragan repeats, snapping his fingers at Nelye, but she doesn’t move. He rolls his eyes, and shifts his attention back to Kolya, meeting his unyielding gaze with just as much force.

“Strange! I've never seen her do that before,” the woman comments, turning in her seat to giggle at Nelye’s blatant disregard of orders. She's got a friendly, approachable sort of aura, with medium-brown skin and long braids that trail well-past her shoulders. She smiles at Kolya. He finds her demeanor a bit unsettling, considering the circumstances.

Which—what exactly are his circumstances?

Kolya's panicked thoughts are interrupted when the natchel addresses him directly.

“Two traitors,” he states disdainfully, then dismisses the woman without even glancing in her direction, his voice much kinder than his steely expression. “El, would you please step outside?”

She hums in assent, excusing herself with an amiable wave. The moment the door to the abode clicks shut, Dragan begins a slow and intimidating march toward Kolya, who finally snaps out of it, patting the side of his hip to find there is absolutely nothing there.

Fuck.

“Looking for your blade?” He stops just before Kolya, turning his chin up and—quite literally—looking down his nose at him. “Weapons aren't allowed here. Not for outsiders, and especially not for you.”

Kolya can't tell if the goosebumps forming on his skin are from the breeze, or sheer fright. He weighs his unarmed-options, and comes up blank. All he has is his pride, a window much-too small to fit through, and Nelye, who wags her tail joyfully when Kolya wraps a tense arm around her. And, he supposes, his speech.

The natchel is looking at him disdainfully, and Kolya swallows the nervous lump in his throat to form words—taps into something intuitive, the persuasive tone that he’s never allowed himself to use before. Right now, he doesn't give a shit about principles.

“Get away from me.” Kolya can barely recognize his own voice.

“Oh, scary,” he responds in this incredibly-grating, patronizing tone. “You’re in no position to make demands. I spared your life—you should be thanking me. On your knees, preferably.”

“...you drugged me,” Kolya accuses.

“I did.”

“That's fucked up.”

Dragan squats down to the pródniy's level and opens his palm. That same, green flower forms once more, and he leans forward, inching closer. Nelye wags her tail and licks his wrist, but he doesn't acknowledge her. “I’ll do it again, if you don't behave.”

Kolya's holding his breath, terrified at the notion of getting knocked unconscious again. Alone. In an unfamiliar room with a volatile monster. Even if it had been, arguably, the most restful slumber of his life.

The natchel grins at Kolya's silence, and every single one of his teeth are sharp and pointed. The two remain in a state of suspense, until Nelye starts to whine, and Kolya fears he might just pass out anyway.

“Better,” Dragan eventually decides, humming and closing his palm, the flower disappearing along with his pompous smile. “Now. Here is how this is going to work. You will not harm any of my people—or the fauna, not even the flora. And that little persuasion-trick?” His voice drops into a cold warning, “It won't work on me. And if you ever speak like that to another, here, I’ll have you begging for a clean death. Do you understand?”

It occurs to Kolya that the creature can likely smell his fear. He clenches his fists and wars with himself to tamp it down. “So I’m a prisoner, then?”

He tips his head to the side, expression unreadable. “I would never keep you prisoner,” he says, and there's an undercurrent of sadness in his voice that flips Kolya’s building hatred into fury. “Do you really think I’m that cruel?”

It's that line that sends him reeling. Without thinking, he’s on his feet—practically knocking Nelye over with the motion—shouting with every ounce of vitriol, “you’re a fucking murderer!”

Kolya lunges forward, and the natchel immediately rights himself and steps back, eyes flashing bright crimson as the vines along the walls and ceiling shift. Two thick ropes whip out and clasp around Kolya’s wrists, binding his forearms—he tugs against them anyway, straining his shoulders as he tries, desperately, to rip himself away. To snuff the arrogant laughter right out of this monster’s vile throat.

“And you are a lying, selfish, disgrace of a pródniy!” he snaps back, getting right in Kolya's face, just a breath away from where the restraints prevent him from reaching. “Don’t you dare accuse me of cruelty, after everything you’ve put me through. Now heel,” he orders, as if Kolya is some sort of trained animal.

His jaw clicks when he grinds his teeth at the notion.

The natchel’s eyes narrow, and the vines around Kolya’s wrists twist even tighter, eliciting a pained gasp the pródniy stiffles before it can form. Nelye, who had been standing between the two and anxiously glancing from one aggravated man to the other, growls low in her throat at Dragan before taking one of the restraining vines in her teeth, leaning her weight into her haunches and pulling with all of her might, attempting to free him.

It’s the sight of her visible distress that gives Kolya pause. He huffs a frustrated breath through his nostrils and, slowly, begrudgingly, lowers himself until he’s on his knees. Shuts his eyes. Grits his teeth. When the vines recede and Nelye returns to his side, burying her head in his lap, Kolya doesn’t move. He keeps his arms behind his back and his head downturned, waiting.

The natchel sighs, reaching down to firmly grasp Kolya’s hair, still dusty with residual soot. Heat pools below his scalp at the touch. With a surprisingly-gentle hand, Dragan lifts the pródniy’s head to appraise him. “Look at me, Neven.”

That name. Kolya does what he’s told—looks at him, and his heart starts to beat even faster.

“You’re really gone?” It comes out practically whispered, a last plea at withering hope.

“Are you murderous and crazed?!” Kolya snaps, confused, and frankly tired of being referred to by a title he’s never even heard before. “I’ve no clue what you’re talking about, or who you seem to think I am—that's not my name.”

“I see,” Dragan concedes dryly. He drops his hold on Kolya and steps back, straightening his posture. “And yet, everyone seems to remember who you are, despite yourself.”

Nelye paws at the pródniy’s hand, and Kolya loosens his posture so he can pet her. It’s strangely instinctive, his need to comfort her. Or maybe it’s the other way around. “You have me confused.”

“She doesn’t act that way with strangers,” he says, pointing at Nelye.

“Maybe I have a way with dogs?” Kolya offers in rebuttal, sifting his fingers through her fur and choosing to look at her, instead of the other. She feels safe. “I’ve never met one before, so I wouldn’t know.”

Dragan sighs, again. Kolya finds it to be unnecessarily loud—over-the-top dramatics. “It doesn’t matter. Do I have your word, that you’ll behave yourself?”

“Do I have a choice? If it’s ‘behave-or-be-killed’, I’m not suicidal.”

“Really? Your actions so far suggest otherwise,” Dragan muses, raising a prominent eyebrow.

Kolya tries to think of a response, but finds none. Nelye rolls on to her back and encourages Kolya to rub her belly, and upon her instant success, merrily basks in the attention.

“Why didn’t you kill me?” Kolya eventually wonders. He knows it’s a risky question to ask—he’s undoubtedly pushing his luck. He just wants to understand.

“Believe me, I considered it.” Dragan shrugs. “But, honestly? Your genes.”

Well, that wasn’t the answer he was expecting. He glances down at his trousers, still ripped from the thorns—passively, he wonders at the lack of visible injuries anywhere on his body—then looks back up at his self-proclaimed non-captor, visibly confused.

“Not your ‘jeans’, idiot.” He presses into his temples with those long, elegant fingers, clarifying absolutely nothing before continuing. “Besides. You might be useful—we know very little about the Ohrana, and how they acquire the weapons they use. I trust you’ll answer any questions Isak has in that regard. I consider it part of the ‘behave-or-be-killed’ deal.”

Kolya shuffles nervously. “I’ll…tell you what I can, but I honestly have no idea. I wasn’t even part of them, I just wanted to protect my brother.”

That was, apparently, the wrong answer. “Then of what use are you to me?” he snaps, rubbing at his forehead.

“I—supposedly, you want my pants?”

Dragan stops his agitated motion, and Kolya swears he witnesses the man’s lip twitch like he wants to laugh. “Enough with your damned trousers,” he says, exasperated.

“You brought it up.”

That seems to ruffle the feather-like petals currently tucked amidst his curls. Dragan changes the subject, slipping back into that cold, detached demeanor that instantly makes Kolya’s mind grow quiet. The pródniy reasons it must be fear. “Enough—we’re done here. You're free to stay, or go. You have my word that you will be treated amicably.”

Oh, he has the natchel’s word. Nothing to fear, then. Kolya clears his throat and forces a response to Dragan’s expectant pause. “...Thank you.”

Gratitude towards his family’s murderer tastes bitter on his tongue.

“It’s more than you deserve. Harm no one,” he warns, and before Kolya can attempt a retort—what would he even say—Dragan whistles a melodic whistle to Nelye, whose ears perk up at the sound.

She gives Kolya one last nuzzle and follows the natchel faithfully as he carries himself on lithe legs. The hanging vines at the door frame part on their own as he approaches, and when Dragan finally takes his leave, the room—open and airy though it is—feels all-too claustrophobic. The pródniy buries his aching forehead in his knees and attempts to process.

It isn’t long before the door clicks again, and Kolya tenses, preparing himself for the worst.

“Oh, you’re still alive!” El merrily chimes as she enters the infirmary once more, carrying a stack of neutral-toned fabrics and a single, maroon-dyed scarf, slung loosely across her shoulder. “He must like you—Nelye certainly does.”

Hardly the case, but Kolya chooses not to correct her. He watches her anxiously as she approaches, handing the clothing to him with a warm smile. The fabrics are soft beneath his fingertips, and he traces the hand-made stitching curiously, intrigued by the craftsmanship. They’re so different from the styles he’s accustomed to.

“There’s a bathhouse just up the road, past the tavern,” she explains, pointing beyond the door. Then, she offers him a colorful plate of nuts and berries, snagging one for herself as she passes it to the fazed newcomer.

He takes it gratefully; his stomach is growling. The moment the first ripe berry touches his lips, like magic, the lingering nausea that’d been present since the natchel’s arrival dissipates. He savors each bite, and El smiles even brighter in return.

“Welcome to Rodina.”

Chapter Text

The syringe’s needle is piercing, and its contents sting when Alin injects it into the soft tissue at the side of his hip, but he doesn't wince. He’s well-adapted to the sensation. It’s actually one of the few routines he’s never once neglected, even though he’s often forgetful. But this is much too important.

He stumbles when he tosses the used needle into his bathroom’s trashchute, having tried to save time by simultaneously tugging his trousers over his legs while engaging the chute. Efficiency is necessary when one tends to oversleep, and he's efficient enough—this time, at least—not to hit his head on the shower door.

Alin dabs a towel against his braids, careful to avoid snagging any fibers on the metal threads, and pads over to his bed, where his phone is currently face-to-face with death on his bedside table. He winces, internally chastising himself for forgetting to charge it. Easy fix, though. He clips a silver case around the device, and white runes light up, slowly pulsing. While the phone recharges, he swipes the screen to check his messages, and his eyes widen comically at the massive block of text.

“Woah—oh, wow. Good for her,” he muses with a fond chuckle, shakes his head, and shoves the phone into his pocket.

He gets dressed with the utmost efficiency, and makes a quick exit to allow himself time for coffee—down the catalyst-powered elevator, a brief turn through his lab, past the library where alit insects meander aimlessly from alcove to alcove, and onward—until he’s out on the streets.

It's quieter than usual, though there's still a neverending whir of vehicles from the network of stacked freeways—fossil-fueled, pollutive, noisy—and overlapping, distant basslines. One could throw a stone in this city and hit a club still teeming with indulgent patrons, at any hour of the day. From any altitude. The establishments at the top tend to be the most exclusive—though they aren't visible here, not from the ground. The haze swallows each skyscraper as it ascends, every building disappearing into monotonous mist.

It's the reprieve from the usual crowds that lends this early morning its sense of solitude. The Ohrana have recently returned from their mission, and the ones who made it home alive have taken temporary posts, keeping most of the city’s less-sober residents away from today's visitors.

Alin rubs his tired eyes and retrieves a mask from his breast pocket, unfurls it across his jaw, and sighs as the material glows and binds to the lower half of his face, filtering the drugs that linger in the atmosphere.

“Coffee…” he mutters to no one in particular, quickening his steps to acquire it. Today's an important day, and this is an important mission.

There's a brief line at the mobile cart when he arrives: a mechanic, dressed in loose-fitted, worn leather, and an Invocationist wrapped in a fascinating, pale-blue shift that exposes the runic jewelry travelling up her arms. She has an embroidered bag across her shoulder, which she shifts when she grabs her beverage, nearly knocking a catalyst-filled brush from its slot. Alin lunges forward to catch it before it falls, startling the woman, and he slides it back in place with a nervous chuckle. If she’d noticed he touched the brush-tip with his bare hands, she doesn’t comment.

“Good morning!” she chirps.

He forces a tired smile and rights himself, brushing his sleek jacket to dissuade any wrinkles forming. “Early morning.”

“Ready for today?” she asks, securing the pen with a leather clasp.

Alin tips his chin toward the cafe’s window. “I will be soon, yeah.” It comes out a bit snippish, but he softens the blow with a lopsided smile.

The corners of her eyes crinkle in amusement. “Any vice to get us through, right? I’ll catch you inside!”

He waves her off as she departs, then shifts his attention back to the mobile cart, where the mechanic has since left, and the cart’s owner is looking at him expectantly. She’s already got a steaming cup waiting for him on the metal counter.

“Zhivoy?” she greets him, as if he ever orders any other augment. He nods tiredly, and taps the back of his phone against the repayment device. In this instance, the cart actually owes a surplus of debt to him, ever since the Invocationist had gifted them a catalyst-powered steamer. They save on energy, and he gets his necessary fix. When they’re inevitably even once more, he’ll figure out another exchange.

“Thank you,” he says, pulling the mask down to his chin, and gratefully dragging the cup across the counter to his lips. Dark chocolate soothes his throat, accompanied by a strong splash of orange that, for the most part, masks zhivoy’s bitterness. As the first tingle of alertness hits him, he remembers he needs to eat, tugs his phone out again, and taps her screen. “Oh—eggs and pepper, too?”

“Mmhm,” she hums, and turns to engage a machine. It glows, emitting a series of clicks, and from its clear door emerges a dull yellow cube, which she quickly transfers to a wrapper. Alin takes it, clutches his drink, and moves away so the others in line can approach, searching for somewhere to sit unbothered.

The alley he chooses is a dead end encased by towering buildings. Thankfully, it's unoccupied. There’s a pleasant aroma trailing from an open window; arrays of spices, garlic, melted butter, and…is that fresh bread? Alin’s got a keen sense of smell, and real food—not the processed stuff the city often has to resort to—leaves a distinct imprint on his palate. It’s a rarity, and he basks in it, sitting down on a crate and pulling his mask off completely.

Another long sip finds him immediately attentive and awake. It’s a vibrant sort of wakefulness, leaving a subtle tingle of warmth against his skin. He cracks his neck and sets the cup down to pick at his cubed food, which crumbles as he places small morsels on his tongue. Absentmindedly brushing the crumbs off his lap, he wonders at the poster plastered upon the wall. He’d ignored it when he first came in—too tired to care—but when he actually looks, and reads the text displayed, he subconsciously scratches the side of his hip, where the injection site still faintly burns.

‘Breeding Incentive Programs:

‘Pródniy are critical to our city’s future.

As natural-born leaders, far surpassing human strength, they are the key to our survival. Yet these prized genetics are recessive, and their numbers are dwindling.

For any citizen whose child presents as a pródniy, we are offering guaranteed positions as providers, a lifetime's supply of augments, and security in elite-level housing.

‘Visit the Ohrana Headquarters for more information.’

“Imagine bringing a kid into this world, just to send it on a suicide mission,” Alin mutters bitterly to himself, and shakes the remaining crumbles of food off his lap, scattering it on the pavement. A small bird, taupe and grey, hops down from a narrow curb to peck greedily at the remains. It’s got an auxiliary, malformed beak protruding from its neck, which occasionally whacks against the ground, causing the bird to tilt its head in order to feed properly.

It's a fairly common adaption in the avian species here, and Alin’s often wondered: why an extra beak, placed in such an inconvenient spot? He supposes that even evolution itself makes strange choices when drugs are involved.

What he doesn’t expect is the polymelia. The bird caws—a strange, dissonant, broken caw, and unfurls its wings—six! Three sets of functioning, feathered limbs, flapping in some semblance of tandem, carrying it off and away, soon disappearing into the foggy skies.

Alin jolts when a sudden commotion peals from within the building—a clamor of pots and pans, enraged shouts, and then—there’s Di. Jumping out the window, her tail held high and proud, with a half-cut fillet of fish in her teeth. She bounds through the alleyway, carrying her prize far from the cook who leans his head out the window, shaking a dripping ladle and flushed with fury.

Ah. So that’s where she’s been this entire time.

“Cursed fucking cat!” the cook screams after her, then groans when she rounds the corner and disappears.

Alin blinks rapidly, and offers the man an apologetic shrug when he whips his head around to glower at the Invocationist.

“Can’t you keep it on a leash, like everybody else?!”

“Uh—she’s not a pet, sir. I can’t control what she does,” he attempts to explain, but the swindled man slams the window shut before he can finish, cutting off the source of that pleasant aroma. Alin clicks his tongue, hoping Di will be content with her prize, and won't return to harass them further.

He chugs the rest of his lukewarm beverage, shudders pleasantly as the zhivoy hits his system full-force, and gathers himself to head back into the slowly-forming crowd of visitors, with a floaty grin and a joyful gait.

The building he approaches and pauses to admire, once a grand townhall many centuries ago, is now a near-gutted, vastly-expanded event center. Were one to crack the outermost layer of the restored marble between each towering, ionic column denoting the building’s entrance, they would find beneath engraved in Old Cyrillic: ‘Hekateolis’.

He casually leans against one of the columns, and retrieves a translator from his pocket. It glows faintly once he places it inside his ear, and he can now hear, in his native tongue, the idle chatter of these esteemed guests from foreign lands as they pass by around him.

One such guest, a young woman with a pale complexion and incredibly-light eyes, furs slung across her arms and vibrant gemstones hanging from her neck, scans him from head to toe. She’s wearing one of the masks the city’s administered to all the visitors, but her coy smile is visible in the way her eyes crinkle in approval.

“How gorgeous, the fashion here,” she comments, and her companion nods and giggles before the two carry on their way.

Alin stands a bit straighter, preening. He’s fully aware of how stunning he looks. First impressions are important, after all—and these people? They are incredibly important. Their approval today matters more than anything.

Kolya runs his fingers through his hair, giving it a vigorous shake to dispel the lingering water, and adjusts his top as he steps out of the bathhouse. It’s a soft material that El gave him; breathable, with layers of warm grey and olive fabrics, all heathered and woven. The way it lies across his broad chest is akin to a shawl, squared and loose-fitted, with his arms and the side of his ribcage exposed to the refreshing, early-spring air.

And the air is refreshing; especially now, as unfiltered sunlight continues to cast away the morning’s fog. Kolya can breathe clearly. He’d sensed it from the moment he left the city, how much lighter his lungs had felt, but it's even more noticeable in the garden. He imagines he could be quite content here, were it not for the heartache and accompanying nausea. Instead, he finds himself on edge, obsessively checking every potential blind spot as he reaches out to push a large, fringed leaf out of his way, and enters a shaded grove filled with vibrant bushes and birdsong.

He pauses, unsure where he's going—then startles when a branch snaps and the leaves behind him rustle.

“Hello!” greets a man cheerfully, then he raises his hands in a placating gesture when Kolya instinctively bares his teeth. “Woah—okay, noted. Easily startled.”

“Why were you following me?” Nick responds, still bristling.

“Just didn't want you to get lost!” he says in a friendly, sing-song manner, “and good thing I did—this spot’s a dead end, unless you’re seeking a fist-fight with branches. C’mon, let me show you where you're staying.”

Kolya stands there while the man waves his arm and exits the grove. He considers ignoring him, but a splotch of orange below his feet catches his attention. Its marigolds again, popping out of the ground to form a path toward the stranger, who is patiently waiting in the sunshine, holding the massive palm leaf to the side.

Apparently Kolya takes directions from flowers, because he follows. The moment he steps out of the shade, the man drops the leaf and taps Kolya's shoulder. “My name's Isak, by the way. What's yours?”

“Kolya,” he manages to respond, reeling as he takes in his surroundings.

The garden and its residents are awakening as the day begins in earnest, bursting with life. There are blooms everywhere; low-lying flowers, distant fields of tall grass and colorful petals, and blossoming trees scattered across the landscape, actively growing taller right before his eyes. Friends sharing food upon thick branches that form natural benches along the path, and mothers trying to keep up with excitable children and equally-excitable dogs. People handing out fruits, setting up twine to hang laundry; younger generations helping their elders settle into comfortable places to bask in the sunlight and chat with their neighbors. And everyone that spots the anxious pródniy either hides, pointedly ignores, or freezes up and stares at him, be it with fear or curiosity.

This surprises Kolya—not their reactions, he’s just as disquieted and wary—but how many people are living here. No one had told him that the garden was a village.

Isak continues to chat idly with the newcomer—more accurately chatting to him as opposed to chatting with him, seeing as Kolya is speechless and not actually listening—until the two pass through the populated area, and the trees and flowers taper away to fields of crops and lush, rolling hills. Kolya perks up when he hears Nelye barking, and squints his eyes to spot her in a distant, fenced-in pasture, expertly herding a group of sheep. She and the flock are followed by a lanky man with a red, wool cap, who monitors the herding, occasionally whistling when an errant sheep detaches from the others.

“Good morning!” Isak calls out once they're within earshot, waving his arm eagerly.

The man in the red hat stops and waves back, though he’s a lot less excitable. Nelye’s head pokes up from where she’d been nipping gently at a sheep’s heel, and she immediately shirks her duties to bound full-speed toward Kolya.

“HEY! Come back!” the man hollers at Nelye, then drops his arms to his side with an exaggerated expression when she ignores him. He makes a valiant attempt at chasing after the sheep on his own—with a clunky gait, he’s definitely not a skilled runner—but he’s failing miserably.

“You’re doing great!” Isak shouts.

The man in the field offers nothing more than a crude gesture in response.

Nelye jumps over the fence and practically throws herself at Kolya, whining excitedly and licking his hands. She calms down a bit when he pets her, eventually sitting down and leaning against his legs, tail thumping against the fencepost.

“So. Did you catch all that?” Isak says, stopping to sit on the fence and smile at Nelye doting on the newcomer.

He shoves his hands into his pockets and scrapes his foot against the compacted dirt. “Y-yeah.”

“Are you lying to my face?” Isak raises an eyebrow with a teasing, half-grin.

“...Yeah. Sorry,” Kolya admits, his cheeks flushed. When Nelye whines insistently, he removes his hands from his pockets to soothe her.

“No need to apologize! It’s a lot to take in, I know.” He chuckles, then procures from his pocket a little glass bottle filled with dark, reddish-brown liquid. “But I need your full attention for a second, okay? El asked me to give this to you. You'll have to forgive her for forgetting earlier—she’s been really overwhelmed since the attack.”

Kolya tenses. It suddenly makes sense why Isak’s been acting so freakishly friendly towards him—he’d been trying to lower his guard before poisoning him. The pródniy plays his next moves carefully. “What…is it?”

“It’s just a suppressant. It’ll mask your pheromones, but more importantly it'll prevent you from going into rut,” he says, calm and conversational. He pointedly shoves the vial toward Kolya’s hand, who takes it hesitantly. “And we can't have that, so drink up!”

Kolya clears his throat. “I've actually never had one before, though…a rut, that is. So I don't think I need it.”

“Oh, cool! Weird and impressive, even—but listen, even if you've never had one before, you’ve never been around a natchel in heat.” He drops his amicable tone and stares at Kolya, dead-serious. “Trust me. It's a requirement for any pródniy staying in Rodina, and for good reason. You’d be a danger to yourself and everyone else here if you don't take it.”

‘Behave, or be killed,’ Kolya recalls with a shiver. He braces himself, pops off the vial’s cork, and grimaces at the overwhelmingly-bitter taste that assaults him. Definitely poison.

“Thanks.” He pats Kolya's shoulder approvingly, pocketing the empty vial when the pródniy hands it back.

Kolya hums, offering Isak a tight-lipped smile, his eyes watering at the astringent sting prickling below his tongue. Isak smiles in return, then shifts his attention to the antics in the pasture.

“You missed one!” Isak hollers, then laughs boisterously when the man quips back with a string of profanities.

The moment Isak isn’t looking, Kolya turns to the side and silently spits the concoction into the grass.

“That’s Tao, by the way! When he’s not wrangling sheep, he’s putting on amateur plays for the kids,” he explains. “Basically, he’s a fan of theatrics. You should see the costumes El makes for him, it's absolutely ridiculous!”

“Mhm,” Kolya hums, disinterested. His entire mouth is numb, and his expression warped in distaste.

“Sorry, I know it’s bitter. Necessary evil and all that,” Isak says sympathetically, then leans over the fence and continues to giggle at Tao.

The pródniy shifts his weight awkwardly, then gasps when Nelye starts to snuffle in the grass, wagging her tail as she licks up the suspicious substance. He bends down and grabs her, tugging her away. “Shit—don’t eat that!”

Nelye barks and runs a tight circle around him, before plopping to the ground and rolling on to her back. She wags her tail even harder when Kolya squats down to scratch her stomach.

“Oh no—what’d she get into?”

“...Sheep shit, I think,” Kolya says.

“Gross.” Isak laughs and crinkles his nose. “Well, we should let her get back to work. The garden made a home for you, want to come see? We’re going to be neighbors!”

He stands up straight and furrows his eyebrows in confusion. “Sorry—’made a home’?”

“Of course! Rodina makes a safe haven for everyone, even temporary visitors. Come on, I think you’ll like it,” he says, pushing himself away from the fence and heading back to the path with an excited skip in his step.

“Uebok!” Tao curses, tripping over his feet as he attempts to tackle one of the sheep. It bleats boastfully, trotting away from his grasp and wagging its fluffy tail.

“You should…uh,” Kolya says to Nelye, tipping his head toward the field, “probably go help him, huh?”

To his surprise, she actually listens, bumping her nose against his arm before running back to the flock and proceeding to make the task of herding look effortless, compared to Tao’s lackluster performance.

The second Kolya realizes he’s smiling, he forces it away—there’s no use growing attached. Isak calls out, urging him to “catch up!”, and Kolya drags his feet trudging after him.

There’s a confident grin dominating Alin’s cheeks, bright spotlights overhead, and a near-black, aubergine jacket tight across his chest, embellished with tiny golden rhinestones that form intricate, geometric patterns; at the shoulder they are densely concentrated, but sparser at his waist. Before him is a podium, a set of reference cards, and a crowd of what must be a hundred eyes from nations far and wide, all trained upon him expectantly.

‘It’s a strange sort of death, to forget.’

And that voice in his head. He adjusts his lapel, the gilded stones glinting against the spotlight, clears his throat, and continues his speech.

“It’s such an honor to welcome every one of you, to something very special. It is my belief, my hope, that after today we will witness the beginning of a new era. A new renaissance in art and science—I would go so far as to say the next step in our evolution,” Alin says with a wide, excited sweep of his hand, “we have harnessed magic. Created it with our own hands, and the sheer ingenuity of scholars past. I won’t bore you with the history—it is here, now.”

‘Remember it …’

Alin focuses desperately on his reference cards. “The effects are real, and applicable. For our city, which has spent generations living in the shadow of surrounding nations, the time has come we share this with the world. It’s our hope today to form lasting coalitions, and above all else, to better humanity as a whole. Human and pródniy alike,” he continues confidently, with a swell of hope blooming in his chest, “all of us—”

‘...White sand—’

“White sand—” Alin catches himself—fumbles for a beat. The spotlights are suddenly hot enough to burn. “...blacks, and every shade inbetween.”

He swallows the nervous laughter in his throat, brushing his hand across the back of his neck. In the front row of the crowd, he spots a man of near-obsidian complexion raising an eyebrow, amused.

“The point is, we all walked very different paths to gather here today. Yet here we are, together as one. It's beautiful to see. Welcome, everyone—let us show you what we can offer, and how we will put magic into the hands of man,” Alin finishes, dipping his head down in gratitude. He smiles when multicolored sparks erupt around the stage’s perimeter, illuminating the front row of esteemed visitors expressing excitement and glee, and waves to the applauding crowds as he departs.

They're receptive. This is huge.

When he slips behind the curtains, Sahar is nearby, knelt down to refresh the painted runes on the dancer’s mannequins with a catalyst-filled brush, the tight gloves on her hands protecting her from any potential spillage. She’s covering her mouth, despite the fact that she’s wearing a mask, as if the extra layer could hide her laughter. As for the dancer herself, she’s leaning casually against one of the dark marble pillars, idly fussing with her hair. Both women are giving him a strange, amused look.

“Did you really just announce to all of those people that you don’t see skin color?” Sahar teases.

He shushes her forcefully, then can’t help but laugh at himself. “Look—look, it just was a weird tangle-tongue, alright? I panicked!”

Sahar snorts, offering absolutely nothing to soothe his embarrassment. 

“Surprised you’re not hungover,” Alin redirects the conversation, kneeling down to examine her linework. He wants to bump her shoulder playfully, but unfortunately, the steadiness of her hand is somewhat important right now.

“That’s the power of youth on my side,” she says dryly, and Alin winces. Because she is young. Because it's unfair.

‘Gods, I beg. Rather death, than suffocation.’

Sahar clicks the cap over her brush and places it into her bag, then rubs her palms and slaps her knees, satisfied. “Well then, shall we begin this show of ours?”

“Finally,” the dancer comments. Then, she slides a ring onto her finger and ignites. It’s the best way Alin can describe it. She inhales dreamily as parts of her outfit light up a powerful, silver glow, and the pair of mannequins begin to emit the same hue where the runic lines form articulation points. Connecting. Engaging. She approaches the curtains and awaits the current speaker’s closing thoughts, tapping her foot impatiently. The mannequins mimic the motion.

Alin stands, and smiles down at Sahar. He’s so glad she’ll be able to see this. “Want to come out and watch?”

He offers a hand to assist her in getting up, and to his surprise, she actually takes it. “Wouldn’t miss it, I—”

Thank zhivoy for his reflexes, for he manages to catch her as she stumbles. She leans against his chest for a moment, recovering from her dizzy spell, then rips herself away to tug off her mask and cough violently into her hand. It’s a wet sound, and Alin doesn’t need any more light back here to know that there’s blood on her hand. The way she cups her palm together and hides both hands behind her back confirms it.

“Are you…” He reaches a hand out to her.

‘Yet, and still. Death is not an option.’

“I’m fine, Alin,” Sahar insists, then leaves in the opposite direction when the curtains part, and the spotlights are snuffed out to allow the dancer's lights to paint the stage’s dark canvas. “Just go, I’ll be out soon,” she says, and then she’s gone.

‘And I have come to realize this, over time. It is a curse.’

It isn’t fair. None of it is. He rubs between his eyebrows to soothe the furrows forming there, and escapes into the crowd’s front row, finding room beside the same dark-skinned man who’d found humor in his prior tangle-tongue.

Alin offers the man a polite smile, hoping the other can’t detect his nervousness, then turns his attention to the stage.

Dark-blue tights cling to the dancer's sylphlike form, patterned with silver moons and constellations of stars that emit light and leave trails as she moves. She’s followed perfectly in-step—perfectly in-line, by a pair of humanoid mannequins; empty vessels of painted runes and pearl-like ceramic. The same soft, sheer fabric on her willowy legs covers her arms, just as form-fitting. Where the dancer shows skin, it's dusted in silver glitter, which catches the lights slowly dimming—cascading down the columns, until the only lingering luminance are thin slivers of vibrant blue along the creases of columns and stagefloor.

The dancer raises her arms, with pointed nails aglow at each tip, and she’s perfectly mimicked by the mannequins behind her. When she lowers her arms, the rest follow, lagging like a visual echo in sets of three; six limbs emerge from her slender shoulders as if attached to one unit.

“Amazing…” Alin whispers, awestruck by the image. The man beside him hums in agreement.

She lifts one foot slowly, and steps forward. The subtle light shifts to follow her footfalls, and as music begins to swell, Alin’s cheeks lift at the sight of her talent and coordination. Extending one’s awareness to not one, but two complete vessels, is a challenging feat. To make it an artform is sheer magic to witness.

Part of why Alin chose her to perform this dance, aside from her skill and artistry, is her seemingly-inherent ability to shift her aura to ebb and flow as the music changes. He watches in fascination as musical tones shift, and the silver emissions trailing across the stage change from silver to pink, and from pink, to green, to gold; like a form of synesthesia, a deeper intuition on display for all to see.

As the performance carries on, the audience silent and enraptured, Kira watches from the uppermost balcony. Just as quiet, just as still. Unfazed by the spectacle, her attention is keenly focused on the mannequins. The tendrils of light reflecting off the stage and dancing amidst the crowd, even reaching out to circle around her—they mean nothing. She leans over the railing, tapping her nail against the smooth surface.

Yet, still, she’s intrigued.

The moment the performance is over and the lights come back on, she follows the golden trails attached to each bulb to locate Alin with his hand raised in the air to control them, and marches down the stairs to the ground floor, pushing her way through the eager chatter of aristocrats and emissaries.

The Invocationist lingers after his surroundings are awash with warm lights, a permanent smile on his face. The man beside him shifts a little closer, and Alin is suddenly incredibly aware of the other’s proximity. As it turns out, elation and embarrassment feel quite similar—same racing pulse. Though that last point may just be the zhivoy. Alin keeps his eyes focused on the stage, watching the mannequins as they follow their wielder to retreat behind the curtain.

“Your artists are truly masters of their craft,” the man says, and Alin finds himself intrigued at the cadence of his foreign tongue as it mingles with the translator into his ear. It’s low and melodic, the vowels clear and pleasant to listen to. “Tell me. When you dim the lights…however you do so, where do they go? They appear to return from your hand.”

“Mm?” Alin hums, tugging his attention away from merely listening to that sound. He turns to face the other, and he’s met with a stunning vision, now that it’s bright enough to see him.

The man is well-groomed; wealthy, if the deep blue and silver silks across his figure are as finely-threaded as they look. Alin finds himself wanting to touch them. He’s taller than Alin, with a broad jaw, expressive eyes, a series of silver hoops piercing his right earlobe, and a fully-shaved scalp, shining with a healthy glow. Alin finds himself wanting to touch that, too.

Right, focus—and ideally try to find a way to explain in simple terms. “Oh. It doesn’t really ‘go’ anywhere. The bulbs are self-powered, and ready to ignite at any moment. There’s latent energy tying the bulbs to this, here,” he explains, lifting his hand to point at one of the many rings stacked on each finger. “The lights you saw emitting from it, aren't the light itself—they’re just pathways.”

He takes Alin’s hand, gently raising it to wonder at the jewelry. Alin’s palm tingles at the contact. “Fascinating. So your magic comes from this ring?”

“Ah, not—not exactly. The ring just allows me to perceive them. It’s…uhm,” he trails off, losing the rest of his explanation on his tongue when the man lifts his hand even closer to his lips, and places a soft kiss on Alin’s knuckle.

“Forgive me, I should have introduced myself first. You may call me Kijani,” he says, lowering Alin’s hand but still holding it.

The lights in the room start to glow a bit brighter—subtly, but Alin feels it. He’s never seen them do that before. “Alin. You can try it yourself…if you want. Controlling the lights.”

“I would love that,” Kijani says, his silk-like tone dropping even lower.

Oh, somebody save him. Di, preferably—where is she?

Alin’s wish is, unfortunately, granted. He tenses the moment he picks up on Kira’s approaching scent, and carefully reins in his expression. Kijani is completely unaffected, and turns to greet her with an extended hand and a regal smile, releasing Alin’s own fingers in the process.

She places her hand in his, and he kisses the back of her palm, too. Alin deflates a little when he realizes that this must be a cultural thing—just something customary. “Thank you kindly, your highness. I appreciate you making the journey,” she greets him respectfully.

So he’s a king. It's a strange concept to Alin, and one which causes him to worry whether or not he’d behaved around the man appropriately.

“We are no strangers to travel, I assure you,” Kijani replies. “I look forward to seeing all your city has to offer.”

Kira nods. “And there’s much to see. Would you like an escort? I see you’ve already met Alin.”

Alin blinks.

The king crosses his arms. “And you offer him to me. Is he yours to command in such a way?”

“Oh, nothing of the sort.” She physically swats away the notion, then gestures between the two. “I imagined you might be most comfortable with him, is all.”

The king chuckles at that. “Most certainly. He and I have something in common.”

Alin glances at the king, confused. Kijani meets his questioning look for a brief moment, his eyes glittering with amusement, and Alin swallows to prevent himself from laughing when the king effortlessly masks his expression and faces Kira again.

“Right.” Then, Kira clears her throat and addresses Alin directly—firm. Pompous. “Alin. Come find me later, the moment you’re available. I need to speak with you.”

Her last sentence was a harsh, persuasive order, and Alin grits his teeth at the tone. He lowers his head into the expected, obedient posture. “Understood.”

“Good. Take care of our guest,” she orders in the same inarguable tone, and takes her leave, not before adding, “And well done so far, today.”

As if he needs her approval. He keeps his head down, but he’s well-aware he’s glaring at her as she disappears into the crowd.

“She speaks to you in a golden tongue,” Kijani notes, presumably referring to the pródniy’s persuasive tone. “Where I come from, it is considered rude to use such speech.”

“Yeah—kinda the same here, too. So there's one thing we have in common.”

“Well, according to her, we have much in common,” the king says, and Alin doesn’t need the translator to pick up on his joking tone. The man grins and shifts his weight to one foot, resting a hand on his hip and raising both eyebrows expectantly.

The Invocationist covers his mouth to muffle the less-than-attractive snort that escapes him. “Ha! You’ll have to forgive me, but I know absolutely nothing about your customs. Born and raised here in the city,” he grins, and all of the lingering tension in his shoulders dissipates when Kijani laughs in return. It's a beautiful sound. “Sorry in advance if I act foolishly.”

“I assure you, I feel just as lost here,” Kijani replies, and his expression is sincere and honest…oh. He’s nervous.

Alin risks it. He places his hand on Kijani’s shoulder and steps forward, leaning on him ever-so-slightly. The silk he wears is indeed delightful against his skin—so much nicer than the loungewear he himself owns. “Hey…don’t worry. Stay with me, and I promise, you won't get lost.”

“I was under the impression you had no choice,” Kijani teases, visibly soothed.

Kind of the king to remind him of that—how he’s expected to act. “If given the choice, I’d still be happy to accompany you. C’mon, I’ll find us a warm drink! Show you how the lights work, and so much more.” He smiles, lets his fingers trail down Kijani’s arm, then leads him outside, where the city’s specialized mechanics are demonstrating—for the first time in public—vehicles powered by nothing more than catalysts and runes.

“Behold!” Alin exclaims, wholly grinning, as he lifts Di up high before the small crowd of visiting medical specialists. He knows he's probably being a little ridiculous, but things are going well, and he's giddy with it. He’s also on his third cup of augmented coffee.

Di dangles there in the air, unamused, her ears flattened and her tail twitching impatiently.

“Her prosthetic is my proudest design, as well as my first large-scale, completed project. For six years, it's served her well.” At this point, Di decides she's had enough, and wiggles her hefty body until Alin begrudgingly drops her to the floor. Immediately, Di lays down and merely lounges. “All she needs is the occasional refresh on the catalyst, and it's hers! As soon as one of these prosthetics binds to its user, it's recognized by the nervous system exactly the same as any other limb. Let me show you,” Alin beams even brighter—he’s waited for this. For so long, he’s waited for this. He bounds forward, then spins around to face Di, bends at the waist, and beckons her to walk over.

Simply stated, she doesn't give a shit.

“Dimitra, please,” he insists under his breath.

Kijani, from where he sits nearby with one leg elegantly crossed over the other, crinkles his eyes in amusement. When the two glance at each other, Alin can't help but giggle with him. Then, his attention shoots back to Di.

“Just so everyone here is aware, she does this on purpose.” Alin stands upright, and confidently pulls a small, hinged box from his pocket. “I came prepared, though. Watch,” he says, opening the container to release one of the delicate, metal insects he’d been clever enough to bring with him.

It flies out, the green glow that trails behind it causes Di’s pupils to light up, and the once-sedentary feline erupts in a burst of energy. She’s graceful in her pursuit—showing off, Alin is certain—the glow of her wooden limb mingling with the insect’s hypnotic trails.

There are now people taking photographs of Di—though they may be blurry, Alin muses, seeing as she’s moving like an overdose of zhivoy and refusing to stop for anyone—and asking him questions. Alin sits down cross-legged on the floor, right in the midst of the small crowd, and answers them all with vigor.

“Has it been tested on people?” inquires an emissary with hooded eyes and vibrant clothing.

“Not on someone with a part missing, no. But, it functions the same as the dancer’s mannequins—if she can do it, I believe anyone is capable,” Alin responds.

There’s a woman in the crowd, upper-middle aged, who steps closer to speak with him. Alin notices immediately, the way one arm seems stiffer than the other. She removes a glove on her right hand to show its composition, likely silicone and a lightweight polymer. “These prosthetics you’ve crafted…would I be able to use my hand again?”

“Yes, full range of motion.”

“I was once a talented painter… I miss it immensely.” She smiles, the thinnest veil of tears in her eyes. “How can I acquire one?”

“Stay here through the end of the week, and I’ll craft it for you. We can discuss trades later—I’m sure the clinics here are in need of something,” he vows, and a rush of glee accompanies her eager nod.

Di finally ceases running and hops into the Invocationist’s lap, curling up into a ball and emitting a series of low, reptilian clicks from deep within her chest. He blinks, surprised—she’s rarely this willingly-affectionate, nor has she ever purred in front of other people—then realizes with a heartwarming smile that she must sense it, too. He rests his hand over her back and strokes her soft fur.

Things are going to change, and he is going to make sure of it.

Chapter Text

The early hours of dusk mute the sky in pale pink, and gradually, many of the flowers lining the footpath begin to glow, gifting soft lights that guide Kolya’s way. He’s seen a few other people, but most are resting in their homes, or out socializing in the tavern. There’d been a symphony of merry laughter as he passed by that lively establishment in a daze, but he’d carried on his way. It wasn’t just that he felt out of place—frightened and foreign—he needed solitude.

He'd spent most of the day in tears, in an abode supposedly his, promptly shutting himself indoors and panicking the moment Isak had shown him in, and at some point, Nelye had scratched at the door. She’d stayed with him until his initial fright subsided, and all the grief he’d been unable to process hit him in one devastating blow.

And she’s still here with him now, walking faithfully alongside Kolya and licking his wrist whenever the pródniy has to stop to regain control over his erratic breaths. He’s done crying—at least physically—and now that there’s nothing left, he’s exhausted. Dehydrated and defeated. But he keeps walking; keeps fighting against this soul-deep ache.

Maybe closure will help.

When the sound of a bubbling stream trickles into his senses, Nelye whines and gently grabs his palm between her teeth, urging him towards it. She wags her tail beside the stream, barks once, and leans down to lap up the water.

“Sometimes, I wonder…it's like you understand everything I’m saying,” Kolya says to her, and she wags her tail even harder, rearing back on her hind legs to hop into the shallow stream, pointedly splashing him.

He laughs, shakes his head at the absurdity, and sits down beside the stream, cupping the crystal-clear waters and bringing it to his parched lips. Nelye watches him drink, with an expression Kolya swears is a smile.

Further down the stream, there's a young child playing in the water. He stops and waves at Kolya, who hesitantly waves back, just a subtle flick of his wrist.

Nelye barks at the child, he giggles back, and the stream…It starts glowing. The child’s chirp-like chitters echo in the downstream ravine, and when a chorus of disembodied, youthful laughter begins to whisper from the lights in the coursing waters, Kolya drops his hand in shock. It’s faint, but he hears it.

“Fuck…I just drank that,” he says, eyeing the water with trepidation.

Nelye barks to snag his attention, and takes another drink from the stream, staring at Kolya and wagging her tail. As if to say, ‘look, it's safe!’

Kolya rubs his eyes, noting that they're significantly-less dry now, and brushes the grass off his knees when he stands, carrying on his way. He just doesn't know where he's going; the garden looks nothing like he remembers it when he’d lost his brother, all coated in soot and violent flames.

Figuring it won't hurt to try, he asks Nelye. “Do you know where my brother is? Or…where he fell, I guess?”

Nelye stops trotting along, and Kolya pauses, too. She blinks, and the pródniy actually laughs at the sheer absurdity when she opens her previously-brown eyes, and they're glowing a lilac-purple.

This place is the very embodiment of fevered dreams. Were he not convinced he lacked the intelligence to come up with something so bizarre in his own head, he’d assume he was imagining things.

She wags her tail at his outburst, then keenly focuses, scanning her surroundings. Once she’s honed in one direction, she nudges Kolya’s hip, happily turning on her heel and leading him uphill.

Kolya follows her closely, batting away errant branches and vines, and flowers that glow and emit puffs of glittering pollen, until they’re in a quiet clearing. It’s growing darker by the minute, just at the precipice of true nightfall, but the light of the moon and what sun still clings to the sky illuminates a distant, shadowed figure, knelt on the ground and eerily still.

Nelye wags her tail and barks, the glow in her eyes slowly fading. The figure shifts, and from its head appear two distant, distinct pinpoints of violet, flickering only briefly before extinguishing.

“Nelye! Come here, girl!” The figure—Isak, he recognizes his voice—calls out, and she bumps her forehead on Kolya’s hip before dashing off through the clearing, kicking up puffs of pollen from glowing blooms, shining just as bright as the fireflies peacefully hovering near the grass.

And, here’s the thing: Kolya is frightened. He is, and yet…he’s also awestruck. It’s beautiful. Otherworldly. He finds himself moving through the clearing as if in a dreamstate—which, he may even be dreaming, it’s entirely plausible—trailing his fingers through the grass, completely enraptured by his surroundings.

He pauses some distance away from Isak, who’s watching him curiously, petting Nelye while she sniffs the corpse in front him. His brother’s corpse.

“Hey. I’m glad to see you out—”

Kolya cuts him off. “What are you doing to him?!”

“I haven’t done a thing,” Isak says, unfazed. “I’ve been trying to piece together why Rodina won’t dispose of this particular body. Do you…did you know him?”

He glares, scanning the other’s posture, searching for any signs of dishonesty, but coming up blank. “Know him? That’s my brother—leave him alone.”

Isak hums. Chews his cheek; looks at the corpse, then back at Kolya, before his expression softens in understanding. “I see…there's one mystery solved, then.”

“I’m serious. Get away from him,” Kolya bristles, accentuating each syllable harshly.

Isak concedes, and takes his leave, while Kolya warily watches him over his shoulder. Once he’s sure Isak’s out of the field, he slumps down to the ground, and finally allows himself to acknowledge what still remains of his last kin.

Through one vacant socket of Davýd’s eyes, a single rose has blossomed, the faintest tinges of dark purple and blood-like red tainting each stygian petal. The vast majority of the flesh on his cheeks is decayed, either from the prior rot, or the clusters of colorful fungi, emerging from his skin in the dozens. It exposes his teeth and pieces of his mandible—shockingly white, as if all the tarnishment of blood and cruor had been drained from his vessel.

And that’s just his head. Kolya can't bring himself to scan the rest of him; though, covered in moss and debris, there’s not much to see.

Sensing his disquietude, Nelye lays down beside Kolya, passively watching the fireflies meandering above her, and nipping playfully when one shines close to her face.

“I’ll never forgive him for this,” Kolya whispers, choking back tears.

He can’t stop looking at that rose, blurred through the water in his vision; there’s something about it. Like a tether. He reaches out to touch it, and a subtle breeze passes through the clearing, colder than the typical offering of springtime.

‘For once in your pathetic life, Nikolai, act like the pródniy you're supposed to be.’

Kolya startles—promptly removes his hand from bloom and whips his head to the side. The sound of Davýd’s voice is so clear, he genuinely expects to see his brother standing right beside him. Yet, as it carries on, the only soul is Nelye, who appears completely oblivious to what he’s hearing. All she does is whine and rest her head on his lap when he grips her for comfort.

‘Step up. Stop living like a coward.’

“I’m sorry,” he says.

‘Disgrace,’ the apparition says.

“I know. I just wanted to protect you, and I failed. I know.” He keels forward, elbows digging into mossy soil, and cradles his head, wrists pressed against his eardrums, grasping at the base of his scalp, clinging to the soft hairs there—silkier than normal, the oils in the bathhouse had done something potentially, literally, magical—“I know.”

‘Of course you failed—’

His worldview warps. With no deity left to guide souls to an afterlife, death is supposed to be permanent; yet, here he lies shaking, with the very vision of death before him, surrounded by the ghost still lingering.

‘It’s all you’ve ever done, and all you’ll ever do.’

The sheer overwhelm finds him laughing—softly, under his breath, because he can’t bring himself to drown Davýd’s belittling because he deserves to hear this.

“I’ll make it right,” he insists. “I can—wherever I went wrong, I’ll fix it.”

In the distance, floats a melody. A young girl, singing a haunting tune; something innately familiar to Kolya, like hearing a lullaby from one’s childhood. It's a melodic language, unlike anything he's ever heard, except…

The fine hairs on his arms raise, and he wraps his arms around his knees to deter this full-body chill.

“Oh we come, we come from one seed. And once returned, the soul is freed. Blessed is thee, born from She. The vessel, the womb, eternity.”

Logically, he knows he shouldn't be able to understand. Instinctively, he understands every word.

The melody repeats and grows louder, until the grass rustles beside him and Nelye perks up, wagging her tail.

“Are you okay?”

Kolya chuckles and pushes himself back up to his knees, forcing himself to acknowledge her. She can’t be more than ten years old. Her expression is worn, yet worried, and in her hands is a blue anemone with a crystal-like sheen, held like something precious.

“I…” He’s not about to tell a child he’s far from ‘okay’. Wiping his tears, he sits up straighter. “...I’m alright.”

She tips her head to the side, unconvinced. “Can you hear him?”

“What—how did you know?” Kolya stutters.

“You were covering your ears. Which doesn’t work, by the way, so you looked really silly doing it,” she says.

He blinks, jaw opening and shutting as he tries to find the words. “Is that… like, a normal thing, here?”

“No, not everyone’s a speaker. But some are. I can hear them, too.”

He furrows his brows and glances at Davýd’s corpse, whose whispers still taunt him.

“I’m Luka, by the way. And no, I can't hear him. Souls choose who they talk to, and that one? I wouldn't want to hear,” Luka says, sitting herself on the ground a respectful distance away and pointing at the black rose in Davýd's skull. “Those flowers only grow from someone filled with hatred.”

He chuckles wryly. “He was…troubled, yeah.”

‘Fuck you. At least I cared enough to try and avenge him—what are you doing? Talking shit about me to a kid—’

“Do you think that makes it okay?” she asks, but it's not patronizing. It’s as if she's genuinely trying to understand.

“...No. It doesn't,” Kolya concedes with a sigh. “But he didn't deserve to die.”

Luka grows quiet, staring at the flower in her hands, little micro-expressions shifting like she's listening to something. When she speaks, it's a thoughtful whisper.

“I don't think we get to decide that, who deserves death. You know…my mom told me to come here. He’s the one who took away her mortal body,” she explains, stroking the stem of the anemone, so eerily calm about it.

Kolya’s stomach twists and drops, gutted. The recent memory is hazy, but he remembers, nevertheless—remembers cutting through the vines reaching for Davýd, desperately trying to protect him from poisoned thorns as his enraged brother sliced through the abdomen of a woman, who quickly fell. It wasn't long after that the vines had managed to grab him.

He tries and fails not to recall what'd followed. 

“I’m sorry.” Kolya’s shoulders slump. Not only is he guilt-ridden over allowing this little girl’s mother to perish—he should have stopped Davýd, kept him away—but unfortunately, he can relate to her. He’d lost his own mother around the same age. “To lose your mom so young, it's—”

“I didn't lose her. She's here,” Luka interrupts, gesturing to the flower. “And here,” she continues, pointing out across the fields with a wide, sweeping motion. “Yes, I miss her hugs and that's really painful, and my brother doesn't understand yet—maybe because he doesn't hear them like we can—but she's not gone. I’m not alone.”

Kolya's speechless.

“And you're not either, unless you want to be,” she adds softly, and Nelye barks her agreement.

As Kolya wonders at her words, a firefly lands on the center of the rose; it still glows, yet the little pinpoint of green is slowly fading. Kolya can sense more than feel the faintest tremor in the ground, of something ready to emerge, waiting just below the surface. He holds his breath and waits, too.

‘Peace begins with forgiveness,’ a different voice says, and tears well in Kolya's eyes when he realizes it's Luka’s mother. The way the child's listening so intently, it has to be.

“I understand.” With a soft smile, Luka places her hand beside the corpse. “I forgive you.”

Silently, Kolya repeats the sentiment.

Davýd’s voice dissipates along with the following breeze, and vines emerge to wrap his corpse, sprouting strange, glowing mycelium. It isn’t long until what remains of Davýd is gone—down to the very last bone—and all that's left in his place is the same solitary, wilted rose amidst a patch of new growth.

The music in this club is languid and hypnotic; loud enough to ensure a certain veil of privacy in close conversations, but not so overbearing as to impede. Swooshes of inset, deep-purple lights line the ceiling and the floorboards, casting a cooled, ethereal glow upon the mingling bodies and reflecting off the polished, plum-leather couches.

Upon one spacious couch, tucked away from the denser portion of the crowd, Alin and Kijani sit comfortably on the plush surface. Despite the couch’s surplus of room, they are right beside each other, close enough that the king can merely extend his fingers to brush them against Alin's thigh.

In this moment, the king does just that, and his touch lingers as he continues to gaze at Alin. As for the Invocationist himself, he’s looking out the massive, floor-to-celing windows, at a stunning view of the city. They're in one of the highest floors of one of the tallest buildings, with barely anything to obscure how far the eye can see. It's a never-ending field of haze and flashing neons; of shifting colors that collect in his dark eyes, and cause the gemstones on the black collar around his neck to glimmer.

“Tell me. How does this place maintain order without law? Surely you must have enforcement, in some form?” Kijani asks, deeply engrossed. He’s asked many questions today—never unkindly, though. One such question had been spoken sultrily into Alin’s ear, earlier that evening: “Will you show me how this place earned its reputation as ‘city of hedons’?”

He’d been more than happy to oblige.

Alin shrugs. “We don't. The people make their own arrests, here—impart their own judgement. When it's bad enough, the Ohrana will step in, but for the most part, their interests lie outside the city’s borders.”

“And do you find that to be successful?”

“What, allowing citizens to self-govern?”

The king nods, lays his arm across the back of the couch, and leans in a bit closer. As a tender passes by, he gestures to retrieve a champagne flute from her balanced tray, but never breaks his attention away from Alin.

The Invocationist thinks for a moment, hums under his breath, and accepts a drink as well. “It works. It’s a lot less violent and chaotic here than you might think.”

“Augments?” the tender asks Alin, brushing her hand over a set of vials strapped tightly around the small of her waist.

“Zhivoy,” Alin says. Once she’s poured one of the vials into the champagne in his hand, the carbonation fizzles and takes on an orange-like tint. She presses her thumb hard against his collar, eliciting a muted snap. Alin doesn't react in the slightest—even leans into the touch to assist her, and she pulls her hand away to carry on her rounds, revealing another gemstone added to the array decorating his neck. The Invocationist takes a sip, savoring, then continues. “For the most part, people are too high in some form or another to try and cause harm. And, we look out for our own.”

The king’s pupils dilate every-so-slightly as a patron passes by, wafting a strong, floral perfume. He’s completely enraptured by Alin’s words, however, not turning his gaze away even for a moment. “One would assume mass violence. Chaos and disorder.”

“One would assume wrong,” he corrects, gentle but firm. “People are just…trying to survive,” Alin trails off, an audible crack in his voice.

The king pauses. “You know someone who is ill.”

“I’ve known a lot,” Alin responds. “But, yeah. This one… I consider a close friend.”

“I am so sorry,” Kijani soothes, raising his hand to hover near Alin’s jaw, palm open as if to cup his face, but he hesitates, soon dropping his hand again to rest in the other's lap.

Alin watches his hand fall, then rests his own above the king’s. Soon, their fingers are wound together. “It’s alright. I imagine I’m used to it by now.”

Kijani squeezes his hand, then follows Alin’s gaze back out the window once more. Above the sprawling view of skyscrapers is the sky, or rather, where Alin knows the sky to be. There, blocking the view of the stars beyond, looms a blood-red maw that stretches through the atmosphere like an open wound. Invisible from the ground, but impossible to ignore this high up. It emits a pulsatile, crimson light; it's subtle, and barely manages to alter the neon tones of the murky atmosphere, but it’s prominent. Alin has always thought it looked similar to the inside of the hearth, though he’s unsure if there’s any correlation there.

“I have heard many stories, but never thought it truly so…visible,” Kijani eventually says. “The curse of Hekateolis.”

He fusses with one of the threads on his outfit—he’s since changed, and now wears a translucent black, sleeveless top, with golden threadwork along the seams—then stops himself when it threatens to unravel. “It’s strange to hear that word spoken. It’s actually lost to our vernacular…I've only ever seen it written in old texts.”

Kijani pauses, considering. “A way to distance yourself from the Gods?”

“Maybe.” He’s never thought about it that way before, but it makes sense. After all, Hekate abandoned them—all the Gods did, a long time ago.

“Alin,” he says his name softly, like a plea. The king doesn’t hesitate this time to cup Alin’s jaw, turning his head to face him. “It would destroy me to leave you here, knowing you may find the same fate.”

His heart sinks. He knows where this might be going. “I’m healthy, though. So, you don’t have to worry about me.”

“And I am grateful for that, yet...remind me again, the life expectancy.”

Alin draws half of his champagne down his throat, clinging to the rush that hits his nerves. He could recite these statistics in his sleep. “Fifty-six for pródniy. Forty for everyone else, assuming they survive through infancy.”

“I cannot have that for you. Not for someone so radiant,” Kijani says, voice thick with remorse. He shifts his hand to slide his fingers through Alin’s braids. “Please. When I must leave tomorrow, come home with me. I keep my lovers well.”

“No,” he says firmly, then softly adds, “I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

“Even if you aren’t interested in such… physical arrangements, I will still provide for you. Anything you could ever want—”

“I never said I wasn't interested in physical arrangements,” Alin interrupts, placing a finger over the man’s lower lip and allowing it to linger there. “But this is my home. And what I’m doing…I couldn’t just leave.”

“There must be something I can offer,” he tries again, caressing Alin’s cheekbone.

“Your people are travellers. Spread word.” The Invocationist leans into the touch, tips his head to the side to rest his lips on the man’s palm, and looks at him with earnest, pleading eyes. “Help us.”

He’s wounded, and clearly struggling to accept. Alin interrupts him again before the man has a chance to try and dissuade him.

“We have tonight, right? Let that be enough,” Alin begs, and his lip tilts into a shy smile when the other shuts his eyes, conceding with a sorrowful sigh. The king’s jawline is smooth, almost velvet-like beneath his fingers.

“Mm,” a tiny moan chimes in his throat, and Alin feels a swell of pride knowing that he caused it. “It may be enough, if I can have you.”

“I promise, you will,” he replies easily, for this is what Alin has been taught to believe: that favors given are favors owed. Social exchange. “But first—do you want something stronger?” He gestures with his chin to Kijani’s drink.

“I seek only the finest, such as yourself.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” he teases, pulling his hand away to soothe the charged atmosphere building between them. Not yet. “Alright. Eyforyia, then. It’s a psychedelic that's…well, it's hard to find, but I know my way around this place.”

Kijani’s eyebrows raise, intrigued. “Do you come here often?”

“Not as much as I used to—I’ve been too busy,” Alin chuckles, brushing the gemstones on his collar. “Many of these are from interest.”

“So you have experience, then. Tell me, where does one find this ‘eyforiya’?” he asks intently.

“Watch this,” Alin says, and he leans forward to touch his drink, grinning at his companion.

He circles his finger around the rim of the glass, and its contents light up golden, emitting a rich, strident tone. The note crescendos, and the rest of the club grows quiet, save for the music. It's only a brief pause; the other patrons, too distracted in their own pleasures, soon shift their attention away. All except for one, whose head had immediately popped up from where she sat straddled over a patron’s lap. In the low lighting, all that can be seen of her is her glowing septum piercing, which grows brighter when she stands, approaching Alin with a measured, practiced sway in each stride.

“Been a long time since I’ve heard that sound, dear.” There's a spattering of golden freckles finely-dusted across her cheeks, and her wide, sedated eyes seem to pierce right through him. A black leather leash is wrapped around her arm, its metal snap hook glinting in the city’s pulsing lights. She carries herself with the sort of confidence of someone whose every need is met, and always will be. Yet, forever demanding more.

‘More.’

The woman—Danaë, Alin could never forget the name of this establishment’s provider—bends down to greet him, tracing her thumb over the Invocationist's collar and counting the stones displayed there. “I’m happy to see you. There's been a lot of talk, you know, about the magic you've introduced today. Some are frightened by it,” she says, her voice smooth and hypnotic.

“Are you?” Alin asks, though he already knows the answer. He just likes to hear her say it.

“Not at all. What you’re doing is nothing but brilliance, my darling. You’re wonderful,” she replies, and he warms at the praise. “Now, tell me why you called.”

“Ah—you've caught me. It wasn't just to say hi,” Alin admits, offering her a shy smile. “I’ve brought a guest from outside the city. He’s never experienced eyforiya.”

“A guest?” Danaë hums curiously, having previously ignored Kijani. When she gets a good look at him, her expression grows hungry. Kijani is looking at her in much the same way.

Alin can't blame him. Like any other provider, Danaë has undergone extensive surgery to look as appealing as she does; and the way she's dressed, with her ample breasts on full display and every curve accessible to touch—he’s staring, too. It’d be rude not to.

“Hello, darkness,” she purrs, moving to straddle the king. He loosens his posture beneath her, holding the curve of her waist while she touches him greedily. “Aren't you gorgeous.”

Either Kijani’s translator was unable to pick up on her words, or the man is simply speechless.

The provider leans back slightly, deliberately shifting her hips with the motion. Kijani’s breath hitches, and his silks are unable to hide his growing arousal. “What a beautiful sight. Can he understand what I say?”

“Yes, but you won’t be able to understand him. Unless you want this?” Alin offers, beginning to take the translator out of his ear, but tucks it back in when she shakes her head.

“Mmm, that’s alright. You won’t need your words, love. Just relax,” she croons.

The provider stretches her arm out, without breaking eye contact with Kijani, hovering the bracelet on her wrist over a protrusion in the back of the couch. It clicks open, revealing a sleek tray which slowly rises, and a metallic, lidded bowl with a shallow divot at the base. Below that divot, flames flicker to life, and she retrieves a bag of dried, blue flower petals from beneath her slim skirt, tucked between the crease of her hip and the strap of her thong.

“This is eyforiya,” she tells him. “One can determine from the color how potent it'll be, and this batch was particularly vibrant.”

The second she places the shriveled petals into the heated bowl, the plume of smoke it emits causes more than one head to turn in the crowd, hypnotized by the aroma. They’re looking at Kijani and the provider with envy, but no one dares approach to try and partake. She replaces the lid, loosely holds the end of a thin hose between her fingers, and takes a long draw of milk-white smoke, allowing the drug to circle in her mouth. The occasional tendril slowly drifts out, away from her parted lips into the space between her and Kijani. She leans forward, and pointedly directs the smoke to the king’s face, her eyes glowing a bright, pale-blue. His eyes light up, too, the moment he breathes it in, and he takes an eager drag of his own when she passes him the hose.

The Invocationist watches as the two begin to grind against each other, sharing this offering, fascinated by the way their eyes glow and their limbs grow lax and fluid. Fine hairs rising; the soft sheen of sweat emerging over their skin. Pupils dilating. Kijani’s unfettered moan that the provider catches with her lips, passing another trail of eyforiya into his system. His entire body shudders in return, and Alin can’t help himself—he’s getting hard. He whimpers at the sight.

‘It’s happening again. That inescapable heat, burning beneath the surface.’

The provider turns her head to acknowledge him, the barest hint of surprise in her expression. Like she’d forgotten he was there. “Sweet pet, it's alright. I won't leave you wanting.”

In one fluid motion, Danaë reaches for him, with the same lithe arm holding the leash. He lifts his head to give her access to the little metal loop at the end of his collar, and the snap hook connects him to her with a contractual click. Before she draws her hand away, she extends her thumb, hovering it over his lips.

“Open, darling.”

‘And I am a slave to it.’

Because he trusts her—and because he has no choice, not until she releases him—Alin opens his mouth, and she presses a bitter tablet beneath his tongue that promptly dissolves. It floods his senses, sends a jolt of pleasure down his spine, and immediately quiets the thoughts in his head.

‘Gods, let me come undone. Please.’

He dips his head down, and succumbs to it.

In one of the many back rooms, in one of the many hedonistic dens of former Hekateolis, six arms move as if attached to one unit.

Alin’s own are restrained, his wrists bound with red leather and tugged upward, fingers laced together in surrender. Danaë’s olive-tinted arms appear from behind him to stroke his abdomen, the jut of his hip, trailing down to caress where his jewelry makes contact with his skin, and Alin shudders, able to distinctly feel her touch through the fine metal. She kisses the juncture of his neck and shoulder—possessively, with teeth, pressing her nails in to form crescent-moon indents, the swell of her breasts firm against Alin's shoulders. The final pair, richly stygian and soft as satin, wraps around to connect the three as one. His gentle hand traces the undervein of Alin’s cock with a feather-light touch, which throbs and swells at the sensation.

Alin whines and tips his head back, arching into the stimulation. He lifts one foot slowly, steps forward to anchor himself—and hopefully urge Kijani to touch him harder, to wrap his fingers around him there, where he needs it—and the provider capitalizes on his shift in gravity, unclipping Alin’s arms from the bar above them and applying pressure to the back of his thighs, causing him to drop down to his knees. His hands, still wrapped at the wrists, fall to his lap, waiting and obedient.

‘There is reprieve from nothing when you are bound. Not from hunger, nor desire—that incessant burning trying to grasp at something, feed on something—anything.’

“Step in front of him,” she says to Kijani, and while the king moves, she stays behind Alin and bends down, trailing her warm hands from the base of Alin’s scalp and forward, one hand grasping roughly at his braids and craning his neck up, the other supporting the sharp line of his jaw. She presses two fingers between his lips, and saliva pools below his tongue as Alin opens his mouth for her.

When Kijani comes into view, he salivates even harder at the sight of his erect cock just inches from his face, the king’s hand wrapped around it, stroking himself languidly.

Danaë pries Alin’s jaw open further, and he whimpers at the stretch. “Ask him for what you want, darling. Use your words.”

‘It hurts. The lack.’

“Want—want your cock,” he stutters, his voice warped by her fingers, fighting the urge to rut against his own hands to relieve some of the pressure building.

Kijani gasps, dragging his dripping cockhead along Alin’s bottom lip. “Look at you,” he whispers, reverent. “So beautiful, down on your knees.”

He sticks his tongue out further to beckon the king, and the moment his cock slides past his lips, both men moan in relief.

‘I grasp on to recollections—deeper. More.’

“Stay still,” the provider instructs Kijani, tightening her grip on Alin. He shudders at the pleasant prickling sensation on his scalp, and the weight of the king’s cock as it slowly sinks into his mouth. “Let me guide him.”

Alin goes limp in her hold, until she’s fully supporting his head, and closes his eyes. There's something deeply pleasant about relinquishing control; it imparts a euphoria more potent than the drugs coursing through his veins. He’s working hard under her firm guidance to please him—swirling his tongue when she pulls his head back, and sucking desperately when she pushes him forward.

One harsh shove finds Kijani’s cock hitting the back of his throat hard, and he chokes, gagging on it. Kijani pulls back slightly at the sound, but the provider promptly pushes Alin forward again.

“No, he can take it,” she assures him, then smacks Alin’s cheek to accentuate her point. “Can’t you, pet?”

Alin hums around Kijani’s cock, swallowing thickly to soothe his instinct to gag again. He can feel against his tongue, the way the vibration of his throat causes the other’s undervein to throb, releasing a spurt of precum. She keeps him there for a long moment, then begins a rapid pace—shallow, but deep thrusts into his throat—and he surrenders to it, with tear-tracks on his cheeks, trusting her, knowing she understands his limits. That she’ll find it. Push him just past it, then release him.

‘All I can think about—obsessive, enveloping in heat.’

Kijani’s legs are starting to shake when Alin hits his limit, his vision blurring from the lack of air. Danaë pulls Alin away roughly, and the Invocationist gasps, mouth still agape as he draws in each ragged breath. There’s a glistening string of saliva still hanging between him and Kijani’s cock, which eventually snaps when Alin coughs, his throat stinging.

She releases her hold, and he slumps down at the sudden loss of support. Kijani reaches down to catch him, and Alin looks up at him adoringly, his expression dazed and thoroughly wrecked. The king strokes his cheek and runs his fingers through his hair, soothing him. “So good, Alin. Oh, you did so good.”

Alin smiles, and a bead of precum drips down his shaft when it throbs, invigorated by the praise. He’s dangerously close, if Kijani keeps talking to him like this, keeps touching him this softly—

The provider sits down on the silk-covered, maroon mattress behind her, and tugs Alin’s leash roughly until the back of his head hits the mattress, just below her lap. Between her spread legs. He cranes his head back, gazing at her expectantly.

She hums in approval and reaches for a silver case on the nightstand, opening it to retrieve a tightly-rolled paper, and another tablet.

“Open, darling,” she says, and sets the tablet below his tongue when he obeys. The rush eases the worst of his building pressure, allowing him to center himself and focus.

Alin waits patiently while she ignites the paper, and the scent of eyforiya floods the small room. She passes it to Kijani, who partakes happily, and finds his high so overwhelming that he needs to join her on the mattress, kissing her shoulder, sucking on her neck.

‘The slide of skin against skin. Lips, grazing the collarbone, the tip of a shoulder. Trailing down the sides of the rib cage, dipping beneath gaps in bones, to…to become fluid, rushing through the spinal column.’

The rest is a haze for Alin, but he soon finds himself crawling up the mattress on his knees, wrists still bound, approaching Danaë, who’s facing away from the comfortably-supine king, straddling him, riding his cock while he guides her hips, her legs spread and dripping pussy on full display. Her head is tipped back in ecstasy, one hand eagerly rubbing her clit, the other still grasped around the end of Alin’s leash.

She senses him; leans forward to help him loop his arms around her shoulders, and once he's in position, she leans back again, tucking one flexible leg around his elbow so she's folded beneath him. Unable to thrust down on Kijani from this angle, she and the sedated king begin to undulate their hips, hypnotic and fluid.

Alin shifts even closer until he's flush against her, readily falling into their rhythm, and he moans when he finally gets to feel her—sliding against her soft lips, spreading her slick across his shaft. She's fluttering, her walls clenching and releasing, her body begging him to penetrate her.

‘Sinking even deeper. And deeper still—into veins.’

“Need you,” Alin manages to stutter through his whimpers and moans, dragging his teeth across her collarbone in the way he knows she likes; runs his tongue along her skin, relishing in her sweat, and the sounds she makes while lost in pleasure. “Please, Danaë, let—ah, let me—”

He’s cut off, immediately reduced to nothing but gasps and moans when she reaches between them to adjust him, and on his next slide, he penetrates her. She's so tight, and Kijani’s thick cock—he can feel every inch of him, every motion of his shallow thrusts, through the thin barrier of flesh separating them. He has to pause when he bottoms out, grinding against her, afraid to fuck into her enticing heat because he might lose himself; come undone too soon.

Kijani keens and arches his back, reaching his hands around to grab Alin’s ass, encouraging him to move.

Alin catches his breath, pulls out almost entirely, adjusts his position to find the best leverage, then snaps his hips forward.

“Yes!” the provider cries out, her eyes rolling back in ecstasy. Spurred by her reaction, Alin does it again—and again and again, hitting just the right spot—until her legs are shaking and she's gasping, “Yes, baby, just like that. Faster, I’m so close—ah!”

She clenches, and clamps down on his cock, pulsing beautifully as she reaches her peak, ejaculating clear fluid onto Alin’s thighs and across the silk mattress. Kijani moans, caressing her, mumbling incoherent encouragements as Alin fucks her through it, so close himself, but knowing he can draw another orgasm from her if he's good, if he can hold back—

‘Or, if nothing else, just touch. Skin upon skin, or scale, or fur.’

For some reason, it’s that which throws him careening over the edge. He’s shaking, his entire body alight with waves of electric pleasure as he unloads stream after stream of hot cum, deep inside her tight pussy. He comes so intensely, it’s dizzying; whites out his vision. He grows limp, panting and speechless, his head dropping between her soft breasts. Kijani continues to fuck her, and Alin has to pull out when the sensation becomes too much, shifting his head to suckle gratefully on her tit.

She drags him away by his braids while he’s still recovering, and his dizziness grows evermore disorienting when he’s flipped over, his back hitting the plush mattress. Then flipped again on his stomach, one half of his face pressed into the silk sheets, his bound wrists stretched above him and clipped to the headboard.

“Fuck him. I want to watch,” she orders Kijani.

The king moans his agreement.

Alin whimpers when a jolt of excitement and pleasure shoots down his spine, and he lifts his hips as much as his tired body is capable of.

‘I can still remember what it feels like—penetration.’

Alin lays there, the sharp curve in his spine accentuating his waist, his every nerve buzzing with anticipation as the provider passes Kijani a bottle of lubrication. He parts Alin’s asscheeks, lets out a low, approving hum at the sight of his exposed hole, and takes his time prepping him with his fingers. He’s unyielding, and while his goal is clear and focused, he’s still gentle about it. Alin moans at the sensation—Kijani is good at this, how lucky are the lovers he keeps—and bucks his hips back even further, pliant, and so, so ready.

“Look at you, so eager. Soon, lover,” he soothes, rubbing circles upon the Invocationist's hip, just above where his jewelry tapers off in an elegant swirl. “I’ll take care of you. I wanted you like this, from the moment I saw you.”

Alin can't speak. He tries, but all he can do is gasp when Danaë hands Kijani the leash, insisting “He’s ready, he can take it,” and then the Invocationist is lost to the feeling of being stretched open—the sweet burn, the weight of Kijani’s hips when he bottoms out—the way his wide, steady palms keep Alin secure while the rest of him is limp and weightless.

Kijani pauses to close his eyes and breathe, humming his approval. “You're so incredibly tight, sweet thing,” he slurs, then shudders when Danaë offers him another dose of eyforiya. He bends at the waist, his chest flush against Alin's back, who sighs happily at the warmth, reaching one arm toward where the Invocationist's wrists are restrained. He's unable to reach. “Please, can we untie him?”

“Hmm?” she hums, tipping her head to the side as she blows out a thick trail of smoke. Her glowing eyes narrow when she realizes what he's asking for, based on his gestures alone, and she ponders this for a moment. “Alright. You’ve been good tonight, I’ll let you have this.”

The moment his arms are released, Alin shifts them behind his back and crosses his wrists, expecting the king to tie him up again in this position. Instead, Kijani rights himself with an experimental, tiny thrust that causes both men to moan, trails his fingers down Alin’s arm, and…holds his hand.

Alin’s never experienced this before—not here, not with someone’s cock this deep inside of him.

‘I will settle for any touch. Anything.’

Tears well, and he squeezes Kijani’s hand, wordlessly begging to be taken. To let loose, and not let go.

And so, the king fucks him. It’s slow at first— languid, long strokes—and every pass of his cockhead over Alin's prostate sends waves of pleasure rolling through his body.

“Faster, darkness,” Danaë says breathily, and Alin cranes his neck to witness her watching them; the sheer lust in her eyes as she touches herself. “I want you to punish him for finishing too soon.”

Kijani drops his hand, and Alin whimpers at the loss, his arms falling limply to his sides. Whatever sorrow he’d felt is quickly swept away by blinding pleasure when the king picks up his pace, hitting that sensitive bundle of nerves inside of him over and over.

“Faster,” she insists.

‘More’, that voice insists.

Alin cries out, his limp cock convulsing once, and his whole body shakes as he comes again.

Kijani moans, awestruck, but he doesn't relent, prolonging the Invocationist's orgasm by continuing to fuck into him mercilessly. It's almost too much—

‘It’s not enough.’

Alin’s sinking, his hands desperately seeking purchase—but it's as if nothing he can grasp onto is enough. Pressure builds once more in his core, and Kijani’s thrusts grow more forceful.

‘Gods, I have to feel it—more. More.’

“Ah—more!” Alin gasps.

The king runs his hand possessively down the toned muscles of Alin’s back; grasps on to his hips, fingers digging into flesh, groaning low in his throat, “Can you take more?”

'More. More, more—’

He’s not sure that he can, and yet.

It's almost masochistic, the way that ‘yes, yes, yes’ tumbles from his lips, aligning with the beat of Kijani’s punishing pace.

“Put your hands behind your back.”

Alin obeys and, without breaking his rhythm, the king tightens the leash and bends forward, slipping two fingers beneath Alin’s collar. In an impressive display of strength, he lifts him—one hand fisted through his braids, the other tugging on his collar—until Alin is hovering over the mattress, the leather digging into his neck. And despite how instinctive the urge to move his arms to support himself and relieve the pressure, he keeps them obediently behind his back, gasping silently, canting his hips back to chase the next wave threatening to burst.

Kijani releases his collar, and while he can breathe now, his entire weight is being held up by his hair, and that sharp pain sends an even sharper pleasure down his spine.

His eyes tip back into his skull, and he comes again with a broken moan.

“Look at you, you were made for this,” Kijani says sweetly, slowly lowering Alin.

‘It’s what I was made for. Please.’

Instead of landing on the mattress, his panting lips fall right upon Danaë’s slick folds; she must have positioned herself below him, when the king lifted him up. While Kijani continues to pound into him, he shuts his eyes and sticks his tongue out, laving attention over her clit. She wraps her thighs tight around his skull, tilting her hips to rut against the heat of his tongue, and Alin moves limply to the tempo they both set for him, sliding past her entrance as each thrust moves his frame, where he can taste the remains of his cum still dripping out of her pussy. He rests one hand over her breast, determined to pleasure her.

‘The heat keeps rising, relentless.’

Time slips away from him in this state. He’s exhausted. Drifting. Barely registering when Danaë clamps down on him tighter, shaking and crying out and coming undone.

She relinquishes her vice-like grip on his jaw, allowing her thighs to part to the side. As she shifts away and removes herself, Alin opens his heavy lids to the blurry vision of Kijani behind him, the king moaning deeply as he chases his pleasure.

‘Just let this end. Release me.’

The king’s thrusts become uncoordinated and stuttering, and soon he pulls out to stroke himself once, twice—then groans loudly and paints Alin’s back with thick splatters of cum, powerful enough for one spurt to hit the Invocationist's neck. Kijani slumps down, breathing heavily, and stretches his arms across the silken sheets, luxuriating in the sensation.

Alin can't move. Part of him wants to shift closer to Kijani—seeking what, he’s uncertain—while the rest of him is just silently begging Danaë to release him.

And she does, unclasping the leash and setting it down on the table. As she undoes his collar, she bends down to appraise him, running the back of her nails down his cheekbone. “Are you still with me, darling?”

His head lolls when she tugs the collar away, and he forces himself to reply with a soft hum. Kijani is tracing patterns along his back, but he hardly registers the sensation.

“Good. You did so well tonight, sweet pet. I left a token for you,” she says, then climbs over Alin to straddle Kijani, igniting another dose of eyforiya for them to share.

He pushes himself on to his elbows. There on the nightstand is his collar, every stone now removed, and a flat, gold coin only redeemable in this establishment.

“Alin,” Kijani murmurs through the cloud of smoke between his lips. He's so sedated the words are barely understandable, but Alin manages to comprehend. “Reconsider my offer, please. I could…I would treat you so well.”

Alin slowly sits upright. He doesn't turn around to look at the king; it’s all automatic, practiced behavior that finds him on his feet, dressing himself to the best of his ability. “M’sorry. Goodnight, Kijani.”

As Alin trudges out of the room, he tries to take the translator out of his ear, but finds it isn't there. It must have fallen out at some point, in the throes of paying off his debt, and yet…

Fear and confusion sends a shiver through him, enough to form goosebumps on his skin. He’d understood every word Kijani had spoken.

That shouldn't be possible.

He swallows, touches the back of his neck, then collects himself enough to pass through the crowd—it’s busier now, it must be—and approaches the bar, returning his empty collar and the token Danaë left him with.

'What I would not give to just…disintegrate.’

The tender takes his collar and token, hanging the former on the wall behind her, amidst others with each patron’s unique barcode displayed beneath. “Cashing this in now, or later?”

Alin sinks down onto a barstool, wincing at the ache. “Zhivoy. But dose it small-y, please,” he mumbles tiredly, leaning his arm against the bar’s cool surface and resting his forehead there. “Small-like…thank you.”

Just enough to get home.

Chapter Text

‘Could I count the years, by how long I have suffered this alone?’

Alin slumps down to the floor of his shower, bracing one hand against the wall. He’s always liked the water; always found comfort in the way it feels against his skin. The welcomed cold rains upon him from a massive showerhead, and the sensation is like static—but it’s grounding him, slowly pulling him out of his post-submissive haze and washing away the sweat and fluids clung to him.

‘An empty womb. This wretched desperation—’

He presses his forehead against the tiles, screwing his eyes shut.

‘Over and over, I pulse around nothing. Give me release—something, anything.’

“Please,” he whimpers. “Please, be quiet, please.”

‘Please.’

Alin curls into himself, hating the way he’s getting aroused by this. It’s disorienting, and nauseating, and—

‘Please. Penetrate, ah—breed me,’ the voice moans.

It only takes one stroke until he’s gasping and shaking, the feeble amount of cum he manages to release mixing with the water and swirling down the drain. And that voice just keeps…begging. Frantically pleading for something he doesn’t understand, and can’t give.

‘It paints a whole new meaning to the word ‘depravity’, does it not?’ Sarcastic. Broken. Self-hatred.

He’s trying desperately to tune it out, when he’s interrupted by a sound much-too real and jarring.

“Alin!” It’s Kira’s voice, on the intercom beside the elevator, piercing his eardrums. She’s yelling loud enough for him to hear her through the floorboards, as well. “Come down here, I know you’re home.”

This is the cost of convenience, for living right above where he works. He wants to ignore her, but she’s using that voice, and he can’t simply pretend he was asleep. She will have heard the water running.

And so, the Invocationist drags his weary limbs out of the safe haven of his shower, wraps a long, plush robe around his figure—he doesn’t want to be exposed, not right now, not like this—and tiredly takes the lift down to his lab.

When he enters, it’s completely dark, save for the blinking lights. Just enough to pick out the shadow of Kira where she stands beside the structure, leaning against its massive surface.

“Sit down, please. I won’t keep you long.”

At least she’s dropped the persuasive tone. Alin sighs, flicks his wrist to turn the lights on—dimly, his head couldn't take any more—and pads over to his desk.

‘Gods, I am begging—it hurts, please, please—’

Kira crinkles her nose when he sits down. “You reek.”

He pokes the mobile, then crosses his arms tight around his chest, his spine curled. “Yeah? You told me to escort, I escorted—what do you want?”

“You should take caution flirting with outsiders,” she says sagely. “He may not be trustworthy.”

‘Scalds, to a wretched degree. Let me come—’

He spends too long visibly disquieted, because her expression grows deadly.

“Look at me.”

He struggles to do so.

“What’s wrong—did that man hurt you?” she demands, the underlying threat of retaliation tangible in the air. “Did he force himself on you?”

‘Just at the edge, just out of reach. Please.’

She narrows her eyes. “Oh, he will regret—”

“It wasn't like that—Kira, please. I’m exhausted, just get to the point,” he quips back, pressing his fingers into his temples.

A prolonged pause, then she pushes again, persuading. “You swear he didn't harm you?”

“I swear,” Alin says, and though that voice continues on incessantly, he’s determined to focus. The pattern is predictable, after all. Just desperate, repetitious pleas.

“Good.” Her posture relaxes. “Now, tell me about the mannequins.”

“What about them?” he mumbles.

She taps her nails against the structure, then pushes herself away from it. As she approaches Alin, he struggles to mask the way he tenses; barely manages to remember not to bare his teeth. “Everything. How do they function? What are they made of?”

“Why do you care?” he grits out. “Unless you’re suddenly interested in the arts, I don’t see why—”

“Because I am tired of sending my men in there to die!” she snaps back. “And if there is any way those vessels can be used, I need to know.”

He bristles, clenching his fists below the desk. How dare she?! “I don’t make weapons, you know this—”

“Just answer me,” Kira persuades.

“Okay—fine, but listen, even if I were to craft something that could survive the garden, you’d still need to send people in. They can’t function without a master, and the range is too narrow.”

She crosses her arms and chews on her cheek. “Can you extend it?”

“I…uhm, maybe? But it’d just make them less accurate—even with something as simple as the lights, I can’t sense them from far away. And, a complete vessel takes extensive training to master,” he rambles, desperately trying to dissuade her.

“So they need input…something to control them,” she muses, then looks up when one of the insects flies by. She whips her arm out to catch it, and pinches it between her fingers, with too much force for something so delicate. “What about these? They keep flying, even when you're nowhere near.”

“Yes, but their trajectory is randomized—it’s not predictable, so it's not applicable.”

Kira tilts her head to the side, then releases the insect to meander through the lab, tracking its movement. “If it were random, as you say, it’d be bumping into things. Yet it flies so smoothly.”

Alin actually perks up a bit—this is a topic he’ll happily discuss. “When I first built them, they did. But, given time, they’ve mapped their surroundings. Now, when one senses it's heading towards an obstacle, it switches paths. It adapts.”

“So it’s making decisions?”

He shakes his head. “No, just omitting the wrong ones. It's why they stop flying when you box them—no valid path, no output.”

“Hmm. And here I thought them pointless,” she muses, and Alin glares at the comment. “Yet…”

His stomach flips at her shift in tone—her pointed posture, the way she seems preparing to use her powers against him.

“Don't,” he warns. “You know my stance. I will not make weapons for you.”

“A coward’s stance.” Kira narrows her eyes, sighs, then pulls a portable projector out of her pocket. “I need to show you something. Maybe if you understand what we're fighting against, you’ll finally change your mind.”

He watches warily as she sets it on the floor, then steps to the side so as not to block his view.

A transparent, floating screen flickers to life. The low-resolution, grainy image displays a recording from the battlefield, colored in monochromatic crimson as Kira's flames burn rampant through a field of thrashing vines. And there in the center, towering above it all—

“Priarod,” Alin chokes out, frozen in terror. Sweat gathers on his forehead, and his pulse pounds.

The demigod is massive, looming over the soldiers attempting to flee from his grasp. In this lighting, no finer details of the natchel are visible; all that can be seen is the silhouette, and six glowing, red eyes, furiously tracking every assailant as they dash screaming through the garden. There are six lengthened arms attached to Priarod’s elongated torso, spines along his body, and wisp-like petals, fluttering in the hectic breeze the fires emit. The two most prominent petals, unaffected by the winds, emerge from the shoulders of his bottom-most arms, wrapping upward to form a complete circle over the crest of his horned head.

The six-spoked wheel of Rod. Alin’s invoked that sigil too many times not to recognize its image.

The natchel bends down—lifts a screaming man, and with all three sets of arms, grasps the Ohrana’s head and every struggling limb. He tears the body apart like it's nothing.

Alin stands up briskly, desperately wanting to flee, then drops to the ground when the demigod is hit with a projectile and raises himself on his hind legs, crying out to the skies as blood and broken limbs rain down around him, whipping his vine-like tail in a violent arc across the field, crushing the camera and cutting off the display. It's an ancient language that the natchel screams—distorted and enraged—but the Invocationist can understand.

“Get out, it hurts! How much more—”

And that frightens him more than anything else he's witnessing.

Then, the video repeats—and repeats and repeats—a neverending, nightmarish loop, that he can't bring himself to look away from, despite the bile in his throat.

“I need you to figure this out. I’ve lost too many people, and I refuse to let anyone else die,” Kira insists, turning off the display and stepping forward to loom over Alin, who’s got both hands over his mouth, trembling, trying not to throw up. “Remember Nikolai, and his brave older brother? Dead. A whole generation of fertile pródniy, wiped out by that monster.”

His heart aches—not for the older brother, he was a brute. But Kolya had seemed hesitant.

“I still won't do it,” he says, wavering.

Kira crouches down. Lowers her voice. With a persuasive sting, she blatantly disregards one of this city's greatest taboos: the use of persuasion against another's expressed morals. “You will create weapons for me. Manless soldiers, to finally end this.”

“...You can't—you can't do that,” he stutters.

“Yet, I did. You left me no other choice—and you will tell no one,” she commands coldly. “Now confirm.”

Silence stretches between them, and Alin faces an impossible choice. And there's no way out that doesn't end poorly for him.

“Understood.” His head drops heavy between his shoulders.

“Good. I believe in you.” Kira stands up straight, offering her hand. “And someday, I know you'll thank me for this. You'll be a hero, Alin. The one to finally free us from this curse.”

He ignores her assistance, choosing to stay on the floor.

Kira opens her mouth like she wants to speak; hesitates, then draws her hand away. She steps out of the lab, shuts the door, and casts the room in solitude.

The Invocationist looks up to the rafters, hoping. But Di isn't there. Instead, he wonders at the structure.

‘Just one touch.’

Alin does something crazy. He slides the ladder over with a frantic shove, then climbs up and roughly engages the lever.

‘Ah, I suppose pain is something. I’m close, please, I—’

He hops down to the floor, and presses his hand into the reservoir of silver, iridescent fluid—thicker than water, thinner than paint—letting it collect in his palm as it drips down from the structure’s surface. Just to feel something. The catalyst in contact with his hand glows faintly, that strange, bioluminescent blue, and the incessant, pleading rambling in his head ceases—moans.

‘Finally—yes.’

The powerful, pleasant tingle that courses beneath Alin's skin causes him to groan, low in his throat. It feels right.

‘...Thank you.’

At long last, it's silent.

A steady hum of crickets drifts in through the open window of El’s infirmary, and soft candlelight warms the pale walls. It's a comfort Dragan clings to, as the side of his ribcage is pierced. He gasps, fisting the sheets, and clusters of white petals unwillingly emerge over the slim cut. They disappear as quickly as they’d come, leaving behind flawless, olive skin.

El pulls the scalpel away, sets it down on the mattress, and frowns at him. “If you keep healing, I won't be able to help you.”

She hadn't meant it unkindly, nor had she delivered it as such, but his petals still flutter in annoyance.

“I can't control it,” he snaps back under his breath.

She runs her hand across his shoulder and keeps it there, then moves until she's kneeling on the ground in front of him. “Yes, you can. I know you can.”

A vine twists over the corner of the mattress, and Dragan clutches it with bone-white knuckles. The movement sends a searing pain through the side of his chest, and he hisses at the sensation.

She winces. “I can get something to help with—”

“Just get it out.” Then softer, he adds, “Please.”

El trails her hand down his arm, and gently touches the side of his ribs. “Right here?”

Through a shallow, aching breath, he nods.

“Okay. Let's try this again,” she soothes.

Dragan grits his teeth, and focuses on the crickets; shifts his psyche away from himself, and down into the network of his garden. In this state, his expression grows eerily peaceful.

The scalpel cuts through him again, and El pauses, ensuring he won't try to heal. Once assured, she palpates the fascia around his ribcage, and can feel the shard of shrapnel trapped within. With a steady, determined hand, she pushes the sharp edge in further.

As a descendant of the Gods, Dragan does not bleed like mortals. Silver, iridescent ichor—tactilely the same as blood—pours out of the incision, running in rivulets down his chest.

The next part drags Dragan out of his disassociative state. El pries open the cut, and leans in close as vines wrap around the natchel's chest, holding the incision open. These are Rodina’s instincts; as for Dragan, he’s fighting against his own instinct to heal, choking back a cry and clenching his fists when El makes use of her free hands to reach inside with precise tools, sifting through the pool of ichor.

It’s deeper than she’d realized. “Breathe, Dragan. I’m almost done.”

He struggles to do so.

The second she gets a solid hold on the sliver of shrapnel and tugs it out, the vines assisting her recede, and a large cluster of petals erupts over his skin to seal the wound shut. Dragan gasps—both from the rush of pain and the subsequent relief—and El shoves the cursed metal into a bag, seals it tight, and stores it a safe distance away.

She returns to his side, where he's already sitting upright, fully healed, and wraps her arms around him. “Is it all gone?”

Dragan takes a deep breath, enough to push his diaphragm to its limit, then nods. He basks in the quiet and her comforting touch, before pulling away with a sincere “Thank you.”

She crosses one leg over the other, watching him thoughtfully as he shrugs a shawl over his shoulders. “I wish you’d come to me sooner. How were you walking around, all day, in that much pain?”

There are vines growing through the cracks in the floor, and they shift uncomfortably under Dragan’s distant gaze. “El…keep this between us, please.”

She hums and concedes, gesturing to the bag. “Okay. I will have to show Isak, though. If we’re lucky…between this, and that soldier’s knife, maybe we can figure out what exactly they're fighting with. How to protect you.”

Dragan tenses. “We’ll see. But the soldier himself is useless.”

“I have to ask,” El begins, her posture open and earnest. “What happened during the attack? Coming out of hiding, it’s—”

“I couldn't do nothing—and allow them any deeper into Rodina?!” he cuts her off, defensive.

“Still, you shifted,” she carries on, unfazed. “Dragan. You are stronger in that state, but you're also a bigger target.”

He glances down at his ribcage. “...I know.”

“Then, why? It’s unlike you to be reckless…what happened?” she worries.

“Nothing.” The growing, prickling sensation under his skin becomes unbearable. He stands abruptly, glaring at the exit. “I made a mistake. That’s all.”

“You can talk to me,” she tries, offering an open palm to his turned back.

Except he can't—not about this. “I know…it won't happen again.”

With that, he takes his leave, breathing deep the air of Rodina. As he exhales, his shoulders uncoil. It’d been cloying inside the infirmary; the scent of flora and fertile soil are a welcome reprieve from the incense of spilled ichor.

Inside, El sighs, gathering the silver-stained sheets. She sets them in a woven basket beside the door, burying them beneath the other linens so that no one might discover—that on this evening, an immortal being bled.

Chapter Text

A swath of low-hanging vines part to make way for Dragan as he slinks down to the soil below the multi-blossomed tree—the heart at the center of his garden, his home. His palms make contact with the mossy ground first, followed by one hoof, then two. As he rights himself, the rain-soaked ground has a slight give to it. Raindrops patter softly against foliage, and petrichor permeates the air.

All across the bounds of Rodina, he wills the leaves to grow wider for any creature seeking shelter. The natchel himself has no intention of avoiding the rain. Rather, he exalts in it, the oxygen within each drop seeping through his skin and making each breath fuller.

There was once a time Dragan could pray to Perun for the rain—or, were the God busy, rely on other demigods who could summon it—but these days, he has nothing but the odds of nature to keep his roots from withering. Sometimes, the droughts are extensive; every rainfall is a blessing.

On this mellow, muted morning, he should be happy. Instead, the petals of his tail drag wearily behind him as he trudges into the outskirts of town, following the ultraviolet trails of Isak to find him perched on a trunk, facing the far distance with lilac eyes and a thoughtful expression. The massive palm above his head protects him from the rainfall, but Dragan chooses to crouch on his haunches outside of the shelter, following Isak’s gaze.

It isn’t challenging to spot what he’s tracking.

“Dare I even ask where that mudak has gone off to?” the natchel comments bitterly.

Isak chuckles. “Good morning to you, too.”

One of his tail-petals whisks over the wet grass, disturbing the delicate droplets of moisture.

“That ‘mudak’ has a name, you know.”

“Don't care,” he says dryly.

Isak lifts his eyebrows, but says nothing.

“...Do you actually think she would leave?” Dragan worries, as Nelye’s trails continue to circle anxiously at Rodina’s border, then disappear, only to reappear and repeat the same erratic pattern.

“For a stranger? Nah—this is her home. Even if she is unusually attached to that one,” his son soothes, settling into his posture and leaning back on his palms. A frog hops through the tall grass near his feet, and it snags his attention, eyes shifting to hazel once more as he smiles at the amphibian delighting in the rain. “For some reason, though, I get the sense you’re more concerned about him leaving.”

Dragan’s expression remains unreadable, but a single petal on his head twitches of its own accord. “I don’t care where he goes.”

“If you say so,” Isak hums, and the natchel glares. Why is everyone so dead-set on questioning him since the attack? “...Luka liked him.”

Dragan stays silent.

“She said he’s a speaker,” he adds. “It's a bit odd, don’t you think?”

Something pinches in his ribcage, and he shifts to try and dispel the sensation. “Rare, yes, for an outsider to communicate with lingering souls. But I’ve seen it before.”

Isak simply stares at him before shrugging one shoulder. “If you say so.”

“You’re beginning to sound redundant,” he states dryly.

“And you’re beginning to sound concerned,” Isak quips back merrily. “So, what do you want to do?”

Dragan straightens his spine, lilac eyes set on Rodina’s edge. It occurs to him—albeit passively—that Neven would struggle to survive in the wilds without any knowledge of his previous lives, but he brushes it off in fear of Nelye when her trails disappear again. “Go. Find her.”

Isak stands buoyantly, as if he’d anticipated the command. “On it. One breeding-stock-retrieval, coming up.”

“Again.” Dragan shuts his eyes and sighs. “I do not care. If he wants to leave, let him starve out there.”

The man offers nothing more than a pointed “mmhm,” before heading towards his home to retrieve his mount and track down Nelye.

Once he’s alone, Dragan grows lax and succumbs to the weight in his shoulders, curling his tail around his figure, head dropping to rest on loosely-crossed arms.

“So he’s a speaker,” the natchel whispers to no one. “So much of him has changed.”

From the soil right between his hooves, a little sprout rises. He smiles sadly at the delicate leaves—that vibrant, youthful green—and trails his fingers lovingly across the new growth. It doesn’t grow any taller than the height of his pinky.

“Hi.” He almost chokes on the greeting. “I wonder…will you speak to him, as well? It wouldn't matter, though. He doesn't remember.”

Water trails down Dragan’s cheeks. He blinks to dispel the raindrops forming in his lashes, anxiously checks once more on Nelye, then leaves to talk to Luka.

‘...has to be a limit. Are you searching for it?’

“You look like shit,” Sahar deadpans through Alin’s dramatic groan, pointedly shoving his shoulder for the seventh time this morning and plopping what he hopes is an augmented coffee down on his desk with a clunk.

“How sweet of you, sahar,” the Invocationist grumbles, stating her name with a pointed lilt, meaning ‘sugar’. “Ow… thank you.”

He winces; he can hear everything right now, and swears it's all been amplified. Sahar's giving him a strange look. A little unreadable, mostly annoyed.

He manages to lift his head from the comfort of cluttered notes and old mahogany—which, on second thought, is not comfortable at all—cricking his neck to the side and tugging at the base of his skull. As if pulling the fascia apart could actually alleviate anything.

The sudden motion sends Di unceremoniously hopping from his lap, where she’d tucked herself inside the front of his robes—now inappropriately-undone given the present company, thanks to her—and skirting across the floor, weaving between nearly a dozen legs to flee into the library.

Alin's tempted to follow her. It's unusually loud in here, and he's woefully unprepared to be around people. He clutches the coffee, desperate for the rush of zhivoy he trusts she's added for him.

“Sure. Any vice to get us through,” Sahar says, eyeing the way he downs nearly the whole cup in one prolonged series of swigs. “Honestly—how you’ve been able to sleep through all this is beyond my scope of study.”

Pipelines hiss as they contain a burst of energy, and there’s an uptick in the pitched beeps he’s come to associate with the lever being tugged. Sure enough, there’s a wide-eyed and energetic woman at the top of the ladder, and another at its base, collecting catalyst to…well, he’s not entirely sure what for yet, but he’s unsurprised they’re here. After yesterday’s success, there would be demand. It's what he’d hoped for.

‘Truly…have you had enough, yet?’

Alin raises a hand to protect his eyes from the subsequent swell of light across the structure’s surface. “What’s going on?”

“Engineers are starting work on new vehicles,” she explains, directing his attention to a pair of engineers chatting over a prototyped engine. The model, intricate and see-through, is formed by trails of glowing blue, each component silently twisting and twirling on its own. A well-tenured Invocationist watches on, offering feedback. “Optimistic-blonde up there's been collecting all morning. You know, after yesterday, I think people are more interested in the fashion than anything else. She’s a bold designer—bit of an ego, but she’s earned it.”

He blinks groggily. “You don't know her name?”

“Well, she's new. There's no point memorizing it.”

‘Rather death than this…is it punishment? Himeros—’

The pleasure of the stimulants beginning to trickle into his senses are cruelly interrupted by a sharp pain in his forehead. He hisses through his teeth, rubbing his head.

‘Is pleasure sinful, now?’

“And you.” Sahar forcefully points at his forehead. He goes crosseyed monitoring her finger, ensuring she doesn’t stab his eye out. “You are heading upstairs and putting actual clothes on.” She drops her hand and crosses her arms. “Seriously. Kira keeps asking for you, and I don't think I can send her away again so you can continue…napping? Did you actually sleep down here?”

Before Alin can quip back with something clever—not that he's awake enough yet for clever thoughts—Sahar is called over by a colleague, and she leaves Alin with a firm gesture toward the elevator.

The pipes hiss fiercely when the lever is engaged again.

‘Again. It may end this.’

Again, that piercing pain in his forehead—something more acute than the migraines he’s accustomed to. He wraps his arms across his chest, staring at the structure and absentmindedly picking underneath his nail. Flakes of dried catalyst flutter to the floor, and he clenches his fist to deter himself from fussing further.

‘There must be a limit. Find it. It’s enough.’

“Enough,” Alin absentmindedly echoes.

‘—enough—’

Unease agitates his core, and he reacts to it by raising his voice. “Enough!”

The lab grows deathly quiet, and the optimistic-blonde atop the ladder freezes with her hand readied on the lever. She shifts uncomfortably when she notices Alin’s attention is focused solely on her, then lowers her hand.

“Me?” she mutters meekly.

‘Close. Again…’

The voice is more distant than Alin is accustomed to. Like something, or someone, whispering underwater.

He straightens his spine and keeps his voice firm, not knowing why, but strangely sure he's right about this. “You’re taking too much, too quickly. Let it rest.”

“You heard him. Let it rest,” Kira’s persuasion drawls from across the lab, where she’s leaning against one of the bookshelves, one leg crossed casually over the other.

Alin's attention jerks over to her. Somehow, he hadn’t noticed her presence—scattered, so scattered—but he keeps his expression steady. It’s effective enough, yet Sahar still furrows her brows at him.

“It speaks to an admirable work ethic, finding rest at one’s station,” the pródniy continues, approaching him with steady steps. “But proper rest breeds clarity.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, humming once to acknowledge her.

“Go change,” she says, shockingly soft. “I do apologize for coopting your space so suddenly.”

‘What cruel relief.’

Warily, Alin looks at the structure for a beat. It hisses and beeps back at him. Then, he collects himself, and leaves the busy lab for his loft.

The night catches up to him the moment he’s standing beside his bed, one hand slipped below the shoulder of his robe. And so he stands there, motionless—

‘How does one stop anticipating?’

Anxious.

Which is ridiculous. He’s never been one to feel shyness in nudity, and there’s no one here. But there’s something beneath his skin. A numbness—akin to when his leg falls asleep, unnoticed until it prickles and aches—and it’s taking over every inch of him.

A bird thwacks against his window, and he snaps out of it, his senses trickling back. The air coursing across the floorboards carries the distant scent of wet concrete and sharp acidity, spurring him to motion.

He opens the window wider to offer safety for any other creature, and carries the momentum to strip, dress himself in the comfiest hoodie he has, and splash water on his face. As the water passes across his fingers, rinsing the remains of the catalyst still clung in the creases of knuckles and nailbeds, it doesn't react. No glow.

“Not fresh enough, maybe?” Alin muses to himself, then shakes his head, curses under his breath for being reckless enough to touch it again—purposefully, what was he thinking—and heads back down.

“‘Bit better?” Sahar chimes the moment the elevator doors open, having waited for him by the exit.

He huffs through his nose. “Hardly.”

“Yeah, wow—you really went crazy last night, didn't you. You’re too old for that,” she teases. “Another coffee?”

May as well take her up on it, seeing as she can accrue all the debt she wants in these limited days. It’s a dark thought he regrets the moment it forms, but he shuts his eyes and nods. “Thank you. Stick to the dining hall, though…rain’s coming.”

Sahar leans against his shoulder for a moment, in a gentle, grounding sort of way, before departing.

How desperately he doesn’t want to lose her. And he finds himself wondering, for the first time in earnest: is it really too late for her? Were the last remaining trace of the Gods destroyed, and the true, divine magic which powers this curse destroyed along with…could she recover?

‘Death. Rather death.’

He reaches up and snatches one of the insects meandering above him, grasping it in his palm. Every intention is focused on his desk, but Kira catches his shoulder before he can reach it.

“That outsider wishes to see you. Should I tell him to leave?”

The Invocationist sighs. “No…it's fine. Send him in.”

“Very well. Don't let him inside the lab, though—remember what I told you. He may not be trustworthy.”

“I’ll wait out here,” he concedes as he trudges over to one of the library’s many alcoves.

He finds Di lounging on one of the inset windowsills, flicking her tail and staring idly out the window, where the first drops of rain patter against the pane. There’s room enough for both of them, and he settles beside her, both legs up and leaning the side of his forehead against the cold glass.

Without the crowds, this city’s nothing but a skeleton.

Divots of concrete collect thin layers of water and reflect the flashing lights in a sparkling, albeit lonely display. The occasional person will dash down the street and disrupt the prismatic puddles, wrapped securely in polyurethane to protect themselves from the burning rain, but none linger.

It’s eerie. Alin often forgets just how much of the city’s noise penetrates the walls of this building, until the hum is gone.

Di’s soft tail brushes against his ankle. He lays one arm limply over his knee, resting his cheek there while she stares up at him, emitting a series of clicks. Something about her expression seems contemplative.

Or maybe she’s just bored. It’s hard to tell sometimes.

“What am I supposed to do?” he says to her in a near-whisper, though he’s not worried that anyone else is listening. Between his heightened senses and the quiet of the rain, he would know if someone was near—would hear their breaths from across the room. “I should ignore her, right? Or sabotage this, somehow. It goes against everything I’ve been taught.”

A very subtle head-tilt is all the response he’s given.

“But then she’d know,” he admits, fear underneath his breath. “She’ll know exactly what I am, and I can't let that happen. Especially now, with these ‘breeding programs’ in place, I—”

With a demanding chirp, she bats at his hand—or more precisely, the little autonomous vessel held inside.

He hadn’t realized he was still clutching it. There are crescent-moons indenting his palm when he unfurls his fingers, releasing the hum of metal wings and jewel-green glow into the alcove.

It flies awkwardly, warped from how he’d gripped it, but Di bounds after regardless. She effortlessly bats her prey out of the air near the end of the bookshelf, entertaining herself by flicking the felled vessel across the floor with her paws, tail held high and victorious.

Seems she was just bored, after all.

Alin turns to gaze out the window again, though his tired eyes struggle to focus. Sure enough, he hears the man’s breaths before his approaching footsteps.

“Good morning, little one,” Kijani greets fondly, respectful of the quiet atmosphere. He begins bending down to pet her, but Di hisses—brief, but harsh enough to get the point across—and he pulls his hand back, chuckling at her while she hops from shelf to shelf until she’s atop the bookcase, peeking past the overhang with sliver-thin pupils.

“Don’t take it personally. She dislikes everyone,” Alin says flatly, still staring out the window. “A devout egalitarian.”

“That school of thought places us all as equals,” Kijani muses, then pauses. “...Yet, she seems to favor you. So tell me, what sets you above the rest?”

“Hmm. I keep her entertained.” He shifts, then, turning his head to face the king. His skull’s still too heavy to lift from his arm, however. “Why’d you come back?”

“My love,” —Alin tenses at that, his posture curling slightly— “I could not leave without seeing you again.”

Kijani approaches the weary Invocationist, and with a tender expression, slowly sits down on the windowsill beside him. When the king takes his hand and traces circles over each knuckle, Alin’s cheeks warm and he twitches below his core, recalling the last time he’d held his hand like this.

“At the very least, I had to ensure you are alright. Are you?” he asks, leaning in closer and ducking his head down to catch Alin’s sightline.

He shuts his eyes.

“Are you?” Kijani tries again, softer this time.

A huff escapes his nose. “Of course. Why wouldn't I be?”

“You experienced something intense.” He frowns ruefully. “Forgive me. I should have urged you to stay. I regret that you were alone, after—”

Alin laughs once, cutting the other off. He bites his tongue to stop himself from responding no, he hadn't been alone—it never feels like he is anymore—and finally lifts his head to offer Kijani an assuring smile.

It comes off more like a grimace.

“I never stick around. It's fine—look,” Alin threads their fingers together when the man’s brows tighten in worry. “It was sweet of you to check on me, but I’m fine. Just tired.”

The lights of Kijani’s translator pulse as it transcribes each word. He crosses one leg and shifts further into the windowsill, gazing deep into Alin's eyes; shifting from one to the other as if searching for something.

At this point, the Invocationist is burning under the perception, but he doesn't look away. Maybe he's searching for something, too.

Eventually, Kijani settles on one eye in particular, and his lips form a soft, awestruck smile. “Ah. How had I not noticed this?”

“...What?”

“Your eye,” he explains, and Alin tips his head to the side. The king catches it, brushing the pad of his thumb across his cheekbone. “That little fleck of silver. It’s gorgeous.”

His brows furrow. Kijani must be imagining things—a lingering effect from eyforiya, perhaps—because there's nothing there. He knows there’s nothing there. Nothing but dark brown.

Kijani tucks one of the braids framing his face behind his ear. The Invocationist assumes it's an act of affection, but Kijani’s expression grows curious, as he releases their hands to shift his hair away from the opposite ear, as well.

“What an enigma,” he says fondly, cupping Alin’s jaw. “You never cease to surprise me.”

It takes a moment for him to understand—but when he does, Alin’s heart skips its next pulse. The translator. Or in this instance, his lack of one. He opens his mouth to speak, yet nothing but a shocked crackle forms in his throat.

“Hush. If you hold secrets, they are safe in my presence,” he soothes, leaning even closer and tipping Alin’s chin up. “I would always keep you safe.”

Their lips are only a breath away from each other; Alin would barely have to move to bridge the gap. But he's frozen. He pulls away slightly, lowering his head before their lips can brush.

“Alin—”

“Please. Don't,” he breathes, “...don't make this harder than it has to be.”

The silence that forms is heavy enough, taut enough, that he could pluck it like a string. The note emitted would be piercing.

Kijani finally drops the invisible dagger hovering above them, and it's just as sharp as he’d anticipated. “Have you given any thought to—”

“I’m not leaving. I won’t.” Alin shifts back slightly on the windowsill, pulling his legs to his chest like stacked bricks. This wall is impenetrable. Even if, behind it all, he hides a flicker of hesitation.

“No, this curse will take you. I cannot—”

“Kijani.” Power rises in his throat. He swallows it back down, nauseated at the urge. “The magic that I work with,” he says, softer this time, as bumps rise on his skin at the mere memory of touching that ethereal, silver fluid, “I could never leave it. It's where my heart lives. So please, don't ask me again.”

For a beat, Alin fears the king might continue to push. But he concedes, closing his eyes and bowing his head. “Then I will hold dear the time we shared. If the day ever comes when you leave this city, come find me.”

“...Sure.” There's nothing behind it; no promise, no tint of hope.

‘I suppose it is over, then. For now.’

With the expression of one carrying the weight of words left unspoken, the king departs.

Steam thickens the air in Alin's bathroom. The shower had helped—a proper, uninterrupted shower. The zhivoy had helped even more, and while the water dripping from his skin evaporates beneath the set of heated, red-light bulbs above him, he hopes it'll be enough to keep his scattered thoughts in order.

Any vice to get him through. There's too much he needs to get done today.

Nearly dry now, he wraps a towel around his shoulders to hold the warmth in a little longer, and swaps the heated lights for the typical white ones with a flick of his wrist. He wants to dim them, his head still aching, but he needs to know for sure.

‘That little fleck of silver,’ Kijani had told him.

He isn't expecting to see anything unusual, but he still hesitates at the mirror, his palm hovering over the hazy glass. With a deep sigh that fogs the glass even further, he swipes his hand, revealing a small patch of clear reflection.

At first, he notices nothing but the tired lines under his eyes. He frowns at that.

Then, his frown deepens. There is one thing that strikes him as odd: his pupils. They're a bit too wide, given the bright light and the fact that zhivoy typically constricts them further. It's strange enough to make him lean further over the sink until he's inches away from the mirror.

He wipes away the thin layer of condensation reforming, and sees it.

“What…” He rubs the glass again and shifts even closer.

Like a hairline fracture in his iris, the barest line of silver emerges from the edge of his pupil, bifurcating before fading seamlessly into the deep browns of his eye. It's incredibly small; likely indiscernible, had he not gotten so close. Enough to make him wonder if it had always been there, and somehow, he hadn't noticed.

Before he steps away from the mirror, for a flash of a second, he swears an iridescent sheen passes through the unusual fissure. Like something alive and moving.

Despite the excess of warmth still surrounding him, Alin shivers.

At the first scent of incoming rain, Kolya had ducked under the widest foliage he could find. It hadn’t taken long for him to see that the rain here would not burn. Nelye hadn’t avoided it; she’d pranced in it, delighting in every drop. And so, he’d continued onward, fascinated by the sensation of harmless rainfall—but more importantly, intent on getting out of this place.

He’d known the moment he passed beyond the garden’s reach. Obvious visual cues aside—the vines no longer shifting, the marigolds no longer sprouting near his path—there had been a distinct shift in the air. A tingle that, up until now, he’d assumed was fear. Yet now that he’s freed from it, he’s uncertain. Because he’s still fucking terrified, but that tingle is gone.

He blinks the rain away from his vision. It’s coming down as an aggressive mist now, more of a nuisance than a refreshing downpour.

“Just go home!” he shouts at Nelye over the wind, which carries his plea in the opposite direction. He’s convinced she hears him, but chooses not to listen.

The pródniy has no clue what’s causing her to act this way, but every time she tries to follow him outside of the garden, she ducks her tail between her legs and panics, eyes flicking rapidly across the surrounding terrain. And every time, Kolya orders her to go back—and she eventually does, yet when the pródniy carries on, she crosses back over and the cycle repeats.

It's painful to watch.

Stubborn, Nelye yelps like she's been injured and dashes forward, grabbing his wrist gently in her teeth and trying to pull him back.

Equally-stubborn, Kolya digs his heels into the muddied ground, refusing to bend.

“Seriously, stop! I don’t want you hurting, I—” she bites a bit harder, and he tugs his hand away, rubbing it in offense. “What’s gotten into you?!”

With apologetic eyes, her tail retreats even further between her legs. She whines, and shakes—and then her ears perk up when a distant whistle sings in the breeze.

Both turn to face the garden, and Nelye runs back when Isak appears on horseback, immediately relaxing the moment she passes the threshold.

He dismounts, scratches her head with a soothing “Hush, you’re alright,” then crosses his arms and lifts one brow, raising his voice so it carries across the glade. “Hey! Wanna tell me what your plan is, exactly?”

“Wanna tell me why you’re following me?” Kolya responds harshly, mimicking the other’s posture. “That monster told me I was free to go. So, I’m going.”

Isak’s expression hardens for a beat, then he bends down, stroking the sides of Nelye’s shoulders with both hands. “Stay here, it’s alright.”

She sits down on her haunches, watching warily as Isak crosses the border to approach Kolya. When he arrives, the pródniy is still frozen, glaring at him. Unfazed, Isak leans against a nearby tree trunk, then raises three fingers.

“Alright: three things. One, don’t call him that,” he lowers a finger, his expression stern. Kolya scoffs in response. “Seriously. It's unkind and untrue. Two, I wasn't told to find you. Supposedly. We saw Nelye in distress—which, please don’t do that to her.”

“Wha—I wasn’t trying to. She wouldn't leave me alone!”

Isak’s nose crinkles in amusement. He lowers another finger. “Three. The nearest town is two days' travel on horseback. How were you planning to get there on foot? With no supplies?” He gestures at Kolya’s utter lack of anything.

Kolya shifts his weight, heat rising up his neck.

“Unless you know how to hunt? Build shelter from scratch?”

“...No.”

All fingers down, Isak nods and tips his chin towards Nelye, who still waits anxiously within Rodina. “Good talk. Shall we head back, then?”

He takes a half-step back, hesitant.

“Or we can hang out in the rain,” Isak concedes, sitting down on a stone and leaning back on his palms. “Your call. But it seems like a bit of a waste to have your life spared, only to turn around and die in the mountains.”

Thunder rumbles in the distance, and the mountains behind Kolya fade away into a thick, foreboding fog. He swallows his pride, and drags his weary limbs back towards the garden.

As Kolya follows Isak back into the garden’s center, Nelye faithfully trodding alongside, he scratches her head before breaking the silence to wonder, “Why was she panicking so bad?”

“She was being a bit dramatic, no doubt. But for anyone born of Rodina—first generations, such as myself—it’s a bit disorienting to step foot outside. Or paw, in this case.”

Kolya blinks, confused.

Isak blinks too, and his eyes do that bizarre thing where they shift to a glowing purple. He taps the side of his temple. “Like this, for example. It lets me see the ultraviolet trails where others have recently been.”

Kolya scratches the back of his neck. “So…that's how you knew where to find me. You, uhm, followed my ‘trails’?” he says, forming quotation marks in the air.

“Well, I was tracking Nelye, not you. Only those who’re connected to Rodina are visible like this,” Isak states. “Though I suspected she was following you. So in a way, yes.”

“You really shouldn't have followed me…” Kolya mutters to Nelye, but she simply wags her tail, looking almost smug about the whole situation.

“It's more than just tracking, though.” Isak hums, staring up at the leaves which flicker in the breeze, sending subtle shadows rippling across the forest floor. “How to describe it…it's like an extra sense. Things feel clearer here, in a way that when it's gone, it's like losing a huge part of how you perceive the world. Imagine if, suddenly, your hearing was gone, and your sight was complete crap.”

“Right…” That would be disorienting. He finds himself tuning back into that indescribable tingle, wondering if it has anything to do with what Isak’s describing. “But then how come you seemed unbothered?”

“Oh, I’m used to the sensation. I travel all the time for trade. But Nelye? Well, she hasn't left in centuries, if she ever has at all.” Isak pauses below a tree bearing deep-purple fruits. From his lofted position upon the saddle, he easily plucks one and tosses it back to Kolya. “Here. You must be hungry.”

Kolya almost fumbles, but manages to catch it. While he is hungry, questions still burn. “You're telling me this dog has been alive for hundreds of years?”

“Yup! Well, if we're being technical, she's not the same physical dog—she reincarnates, and her soul travels through Rodina when she does. It's why she has these senses, even though she's not literally born from Priarod.” He snorts, throwing his head back and laughing. “Could you imagine, though?! Him giving birth to a dog!”

“That's not real.” With a near-whisper, he stops in his tracks. “Reincarnation. It isn’t real.”

Isak pulls on the reins, and when his mare comes to a halt, he shifts in his saddle, facing the pródniy with a strange expression. Amused, but weighted with sorrow. “Of course it is. What's become of this world…so many outsiders know nothing of the wonders the Gods have gifted us.”

“The Gods are gone,” Kolya says, echoing the words his father would often mutter so bitterly beneath his breath. “There's nothing to know.”

“Mm. Not entirely.” Isak urges his horse to carry on. “And no matter what, divine companions such as Nelye will always exist. There’s as many out there as the pródniy they’re tied to. It’s entirely possible you've crossed paths with one before, without even knowing.” There's a glimmer in his eyes; it's clear that he loves talking about this.

“‘The pródniy they're tied to’—back up,” Kolya says, frustrated, and Isak tugs the reins, backing his horse up with a playful grin. Kolya passes by him on foot and huffs, gesturing for him to carry on. “Pródniy don't live forever. Are you saying some of us reincarnate, too?”

Isak shakes his head in disbelief, still wearing the same, lopsided grin. “Do they really not teach this? Any of it?”

“We want nothing to do with the Gods—not divinity, not magic, not any of the shit that still torments us even though they're gone.”

“I think…we have a lot to talk about,” he says pensively. “There's so much we don't know about the Ohrana, and Hekateolis—you know, your city’s been secluded for centuries.”

Kolya adds ‘Hekateolis’ to the ever-growing list of words he’s never heard with a wry chuckle. “You think I’d put my people in danger?”

“Kolya. Despite all we’ve suffered, we’ve no interest in starting a war.”

They pass by the edge of a wide gorge, with a vast lake at its base. The crystal-clear waters collect each raindrop as it falls, filling the gorge with a soft, static-like pitter.

Kolya stares down at it, then finally bites into the fruit. It's delicious—like nothing he’s ever tasted before—and it reminds him how hungry he is. He truly would have starved out there.

Kolya sighs. ‘Behave, or be killed.’ He’ll have to be cautious. “I’ll tell you what I can.”

By the time they’ve reached the outskirts of the town’s heart, amongst the trodden paths and inset, arboreal homes, Kolya's hunger has moved past unavoidable into painful.

Rodina is truly massive. Having kept his horse at a sluggish pace to match the pródniy’s tired feet, they’d spent all day traveling, arriving well after the sun had dipped deeply past the treeline; fingers of molten gold paint purple skies and soft, scattered clouds. There's a campfire burning nearby, emitting the smell of earthen smoke, but they carry on past it, stopping only when a child dashes across the path in front of Isak’s mare. All around the crackling fire, villagers dance and tap on drums, telling stories, their melodies of laughter singing in the air. A few wave to Isak, who beams and waves back. Nelye departs from Kolya to make a cheerful round through the small gathering, her tail wagging furiously, but she soon bolts away to catch up before Kolya can leave her sightline.

“Where are we going?” Kolya wonders.

“I mean, you can go wherever you’d like,” he responds, turning his horse down a path lined with illuminated flowers, which cuts away from the cluster of homes, heading towards the tavern. “But I’m starving. And a cold glass of mead sounds amazing right now.”

Kolya’s stomach growls fiercely, and he places a hand over it to soothe the ensuing pang.

“Wouldn’t you agree?” Isak says, flashing a knowing smile over his shoulder.

The tavern is still far, but a pródniy's sense of smell is ever-keen. His mouth waters. “Uhm—yes, but. I don't know if I can go in there?”

He snorts. “Your survival instincts are terrible, did you know that?”

“Rude.”

“Truthful,” Isak corrects cheekily. “Of course you’re allowed. Come on, let's go—I’ll introduce you to some of the community, yeah?”

The two head along the trail in silence, Kolya doing everything in his power to settle his nerves, when the air suddenly becomes heavier. It doesn't take long for him to understand why.

Priarod whistles; a pristine note that lingers long after it's finished.

Nelye’s ears perk up, and she leaves the path to heed the summon. Kolya tracks her every movement until she disappears, and then he sees it. That monster.

The natchel is just a shadow across the way, backlit amidst the glowing flowers. Equally quiet, equally still, those satyr-like legs holding him tall and imposing.

When Nelye reaches him, she whines and bumps her forehead affectionately against his black-furred calf, but he doesn't acknowledge her. Instead, his eyes flash red—the only visible detail of his monstrous shadow, and unblinking. A predator’s eyes, set solely upon Kolya.

He says nothing. Neither does Kolya, though the cold evening air greets his damp clothes and causes him to shiver.

The pródniy breaks first. Determined not to let some self-righteous creature keep him from food, he clenches his fist, turns on his heel, and marches down the path to where Isak is waiting expectantly near the tavern’s entrance, tapping his foot to the beat of the muffled, acoustic music inside. He can still sense the natchel's eyes on his shoulder blades, but he doesn't turn around.

“Don't mind him, he’s been brooding all morning,” Isak says casually, gesturing at the entrance framed by blooming vines. One pushes out a marigold, its soft orange petals fluttering in a non-existent breeze. “Go on, then. I’m right behind you.”

Steeling himself, Kolya pushes the door open, and his eyes widen at the sight before him.