Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sixty-three days after appearing in the past, Ghost kills the Radiance.

It has far less fanfare than the first time around. There is no Godseeker watching on, no choir lifting ever higher, no thrilling surge of excitement from the unknown of such a battle. 

Instead, they slip out one night, when the constant eyes on them grow a bit more careless, and slink through the shadows until they reach the long-forgotten Crown of Hallownest. 

The Dream Nail sits heavy in their grip, Awakened and ready to cut through the veil. It traveled back with them, bound to their being as surely as the Void Heart is, which pounds within them as they strike the last statue of the Radiance, carving a path into the Dream Realm where she dwells.

For all that the fight is quieter than the first, it is not an easy one. That is not to say it had been before, either, but at least then she had been contained in some way beyond lost memories, even if that was within their Infected Sibling. Here, she is free, and her power unbound.

“A Pale Child?” She has no mouth, and yet her words reverberate in their mind. “The Usurper grows quite desperate indeed. He truly throws his spawn to the Light in the hopes that one will dim it? Dim me?”

Ghost does not answer, even though they know that they could. They have consumed her once before, in a future that will never come to be, and they can remember the few brilliant moments in which they had not just been the God of the Void, but of Dreams. Though the power is no longer theirs—not yet—they still understand dreams far better than ever before. In such a place as this, they could answer her, if they wanted to.

It is not something that she deserves.

(She doesn’t even recognize them.)

(But once…)

“Nothing to say?” She hums. “All the better. Let the Wyrm see how even his own Pale Light will not be enough to temper the flames of the Dawn.”

Her words are a song, far more alluring than any mortal could hope to make. Overtop her melodic tone echo the voices of those that Ghost loves. Their friends, their family, try to whisper to them and call them closer—call them home. It is one of the truest ways that the Radiance has been able to take hold of the minds of Hallownest. She digs within their dreams, finds the tunes of those they care about most, and weaves the voices in with her own.

It is her fatal mistake.

Because Ghost’s dreams are not filled with voices that can fool them—not here. They are the voices of those that they love, and they are voices that will find home only in Ghost’s mind. Some do not yet live, some are a world away, and the ones that are still here do not know them—will never know them as surely and truly as they did.

(Once, they opened their eyes for the first time, and saw a bug that looked just like them. Once, for the briefest moment before the Pale Light broke through and beckoned them up, they felt what could only have been love.)

It is the weight of a sacrifice that Ghost did not even know they were making until it was done.

The reminder burns hotter than Radiance’s damned Infection ever could. Anger rushes through them, and they can feel the Void roar back. Even for something so soundless, the pressure rumbles through the Dream Realm, and the Radiance finally falters—finally senses that she is missing something. It is already too late.

They fight. As they do, Ghost watches the Radiance grow more and more aware of who—what—it is that she is truly facing; that ancient enemy of hers, long forgotten, but never gone. They are quite similar in that way, aren’t they?

Ghost gives chase, the Void rising at their command, and the Radiance flees into the depths of the Dream, but there is nowhere that she can go that Ghost will not find her. She struggles as the Darkness pulls her down, but she cannot hope to match their strength, born of fury and love and her own devoured Essence in a future that will never be.

The Old Light burns until she no longer can, and screams as she dies.

Ghost allows themself to sit in the Dream for a long few minutes—for control of it is once more under their Will, and time in this place will only pass as they permit it—and simply breathes. 

(Once, Mato showed them the value in taking a moment to just meditate and feel nothing but the air and the rock.) 

(They do not need to breathe, and yet they do, and the lesson sticks with them more than others.)

Ghost feels the air around them and the rock below them, and in the same breath, they bring the Infection to heel. Those too far gone drop as lifeless husks. For many others, bright orange eyes fade to clouded ones, and sickness begins to run its course. It will take some time to truly disappear, but no more will die than already have, and no Dreams will again be haunted by the Light.

Before the night is done, they return to their shared room with Hollow—for why would Vessels need rooms of their own—and wait. 

It takes some time, but just about two cycles later, it starts to become clear throughout the kingdom that the Infection is gone. There is caution, but if it holds, the Pale King promises to lift the quarantine, eases restrictions for the time being, and vows to his citizens that a close eye will be kept to ensure that it does not return.

Only four days pass before—while intense discussions are taking place over what to do with two Vessels that are no longer needed—Isma turns a corner and catches Ghost and Hollow locked in a hug of mutual reassurance. All of a sudden, those discussions end. 

Ghost and their sibling are brought to the throne room. It is empty, save for the King and Queen. Not even the Great Knights stay, bowing quickly and closing the doors behind them.

The Pale King stands from his throne and approaches the two of them. The White Lady is a small step behind him. 

“Pure Vessel,” he says, looking at Hollow. His eyes dart to Ghost, and he corrects, “Vessels. We are going to ask you a question. You must answer as truthfully as you can, to the very best of your knowledge. Do you understand?”

Ghost nods. Hollow does, too.

“Good.” The Pale King looks nervous now—it is a strange look on him—as he crosses a set of hands in front of him. The White Lady’s face is carefully blank. “Now… Are you—either of you—truly… truly hollow?”

It does not seem as if Hollow knows how to answer, uncertainty ringing from the Void within them. That is fine. Ghost can handle it for both of them. They shake their head. Hollow glances at them, and then does the same.

“You can think?” Their father rasps. “Feel?”

The Void Heart pulses within them, unified for the first time ever with Dreams and Light beneath Ghost’s own Will, and they think that it would be very odd indeed if they could not. They take Hollow’s hand, hold tightly, and nod.

The Pale King lets out a shaky sort of breath, stark in contrast to the White Lady’s heaving sob. Ghost and their twin are wrapped in an embrace by their parents—the first one they’ve ever gotten—and the world shifts more than they ever imagined it could.

A gathering of the Dreamers is called. They were already on their way, and thanks to the quarantine still in place, the paths are clear, and it does not take them long to arrive.

Ghost stands near the throne and watches the Dreamers enter. They feel as if they know each mask as well as they know their own—whether from the entrance to the Black Egg or from the bugs that slumbered away in their seals. Ghost did not kill them, in the past, though they knew that they were meant to. They are even more glad for it now. It might be even harder to look at them, otherwise.

Lurien moves with fluttery steps, as if his feet are unsure if the ground will be there each time they land. Monomon, comparatively, slides forward with such grace that Ghost is almost jealous. Herrah is as imposing as they would expect, but they have little time to think about it, as a flash of red shifts behind her.

“Queen Herrah,” the Pale King says, and sounds like he’s grinding his teeth. “You were not meant to bring a guest.”

“‘A guest,’” Herrah scoffs, her voice the oddest mix of gravel and velvet. “My heir, you mean. And your child, as little as such a thing means to you.”

Hornet does not look as they remember. She is far smaller than in the future—obviously young—but still taller than either Ghost or Hollow, even if it is only by a smidge. Her horns are shorter. A needle is strapped to her back, though it must not be the one that she wielded in the future. She bounces a bit in place, head twitching as she looks around. There is an innocence to her that Ghost never got to see—one that she will not be forced to lose so quickly, now.

“Does she have a name?” The White Lady asks.

“Not yet,” Herrah says, far more kindly. “Though her training will begin soon, in both Deepnest and the Hive; she will earn it then.”

The Pale King inhales to speak again, but the White Lady lays a delicate hand on his shoulder and murmurs something low enough that Ghost cannot hear. The Pale King sighs, but acquiesces, and turns to address the room once more.

“I’ve called you all here to inform you that your services as Dreamers will no longer be required.”

The shock is palpable. Lurien gasps; Monomon stills; Herrah stiffens. Hornet—or Not-Yet-Hornet—falls into place and gazes up at her mother in wonder. Already, she knows what sacrifice would have been made, and rewrites what must be imaginings of a motherless future.

“Then… you truly believe the Infection is gone?” Monomon asks.

“I do not know for certain,” the Pale King says. “We know nothing about why it has gone, nor whether it will return. Regardless, even if it does still linger yet, we shall not counter it with the Pure Vessel Plan.”

“Did—Did something go wrong my King?” Lurien stammers when no other speaks.

“I suppose that depends on your perspective,” the Pale King replies. The White Lady whacks him lightly, and he clears his throat. “Ahem. Watcher Lurien, Teacher Monomon, Queen Herrah.” A pause. “Princess of Deepnest.” Hornet straightens. Their father places one hand on Ghost’s back, another on Hollow’s, and continues, “I would introduce you to Hollow and Ghost. Our children.”

Monomon leans forward with immediate interest. “The Vessels? They’re alive?”

“In every way that matters,” the White Lady says.

“The King and Queen’s children?” Hornet asks her mother not-very-quietly.

Herrah nods. “So it would seem, Daughter. They’d be your siblings, then.”

Lurien finally recovers, and manages, “Hollow and Ghost?”

The Pale King inclines his head.

“Rather interesting names,” Monomon hums.

The White Lady grins. “They chose for themselves.”

Things… change. 

Ghost supposes that many would probably say that they get better. 

They do get better, don’t they? Yes, they do. Things change, and they are better. The Infection is gone, Hollow is happy and safe—having tea with their mother and trailing off behind their father—and Hornet has her mother and gets to keep her this time, and Ghost is…

Ghost is…

…

Days are monotonous. There is little to do, despite the skills that they have and the things that they know. Where once they might have spent time fighting in the Colosseum, or digging up relics to sell, or mapping out new tunnels with their quill, they now find themself… bored. 

They, like Hollow, are ‘too young for combat.’ “Children are meant to be children,” their mother says—their mother lies—and smiles gently. “And you will never have to see battle—not if I have anything to say about it.”

(Once, she looked at them through blind eyes and told them to supplant—to kill—their tortured, broken, never-pure and never-hollow sibling.)

(Spawn, she called them then.)

(Child, she calls them now.)

Their hands itch for a nail that is not there, one that hasn’t even been made . They fought for such a long time, that it is almost strange to not do it now. They wake from naps and reach out blindly for a handle, and it always takes a few moments to remember. When Hornet visits, she strolls about with her needle poking out over her shoulder. Ghost tries not to be jealous, and tries not to miss the trusty weight against their back.

It might be better that they don’t have it, anyway. One day, Ogrim manages to sneak up on them, and they spin into a Cyclone Slash—useless and pathetic without a weapon to complete it. He gives a booming laugh, tells them that battle might not be the call for them, and that the Queen can likely put them in dance lessons if they desire.

(Once, the Cyclone Slash defeated Ogrim, and the next time Ghost saw him, he said they were mighty, strong, honorable.)

(Knight, he called them then.)

(Child, he calls them now.)

It’s probably good, right? Things are better now, so they don’t need to fight. The Infection is gone, Hollow is safe, Hornet is happy, and Ghost is…

Ghost…

…

They think that they might be ungrateful. They’re alive, aren’t they? So many of their siblings cannot say the same. The people that they loved before are safe, and others still might yet be saved. They live in a palace, with any luxury they could ever want—everything they never had before. A lantern that may have once cost them every last piece of geo they had now comes in dozens, each lighter and brighter than the last, each available for them to take without question.

Their life is one that other bugs can barely even dream of, and they know it. They should be thankful.

It does not stop them from thinking of the Abyss, though. The doors are sealed tight, and the King’s Brand is no longer seared into their shell, but they can still remember its burn. They wonder if the Void can, too. Shouldn’t it, if it is united under their Will?

The Void Heart pulses within them at the thought, one of the few things that remained with them. It almost makes them feel vindictive, in the proof that it provides; a soul rests within them, despite all the best efforts of the world. Their thoughts are real, their feelings are real, they are real. 

It’s a silly thing. Of course they’re real. Everyone else thinks so, too. Their parents, for all their faults both past and future, think that they are real. The tablet outside of the Abyss’s entrance is changed barely a turn after that fateful day in the throne room, and it is different from what Ghost remembers. It speaks now of an eternal mourning, a grave for the King and Queen’s children that would forever remain undisturbed.

They go to see it the first night that it is there, and have to hide away as the Pale King approaches. They watch his Light dim not from the weight of the Void, but the weight of his grief. He places a hand against the door, claws digging into the grooves, and tilts his head toward the ground. “Rest well,” he whispers to nothing, and Ghost’s Void Heart tries to thrum the same somber tune. They sit in the shadows until he leaves, and for hours more after.

(Once, the Pale King cast his unborn children into the Void below, and left all but the most worthy and most doomed behind to rot.)

(Vessels, he called them then.)

(Children, he calls them now, and weeps.)

As time passes and they settle into the past, much of the hatred Ghost feels toward their father fades. It had been easier to despise him when they did not know him. Now that they do, the hate bleeds into something more akin to bitterness—or maybe to bitter understanding. 

When they first arrived in Hallownest, the Infection had been nothing more than the way things were; certainly not something that called for the Hollow Knight—sealed away in body and mind—screaming—to be subjected to such a fate. Then, though, there was Myla, slipping away no matter what Ghost did. Her singing grew quiet and shattered, her body stilled to twitches, until eventually she hurled herself at them and her carapace split along their nail, Infection and blood spilling as one, staining the crystals.

She was the only one that they actually watched succumb to the Radiance’s twisted Dream, and it haunts their thoughts. They can’t imagine making the same choices as their father, but they can understand why he did. Hallownest was full of the dead, brought back by the Old Light, and if Ghost had watched thousands of those they were meant to protect fall just as Myla did, they think they might have become desperate too.

As it is, many of the Pale King’s mistakes have been made, and some never will be. 

Hollow will stay free and happy, and if that is all Ghost can do, then this will have been worth it. 

Things are better here. The Infection is gone, and Hollow is happy, and Hornet is safe, and Ghost is…

Ghost is…

…Ghost…

…

They are left alone more often than not. Or, perhaps that is not quite right. They are not brought along, and refuse to join without an invitation just as staunchly as they refuse to ask for one. It doesn’t matter much. They were alone rather often during their travels as well. This is not so different.

Hallownest is strange, now. It is lively in a way that Ghost never saw—full of bugs going about their business, gathering in trams and stag stations, hurrying down roads that haven’t had the chance to crumble. Areas that had once been dangerous are laughably safe now, with spikes covered by bridges and sound-minded guards posted about. 

Ghost wonders if the whole kingdom is the same. They have no way of knowing. Along with Hollow, they are not permitted to wander—not without an escort. They would laugh at it, if they could; Ghost can probably traverse the caverns better than any guard that could guide them through. That doesn’t matter, though. They are the child of the King and Queen, young and untrained, and in this strange, once-forgotten world, that means something. Ghost has defeated Gods, has ripped through the Dream Realm and torn the Radiance to shreds and wrested Divinity from her fading corpse, and they are no longer allowed to hold a nail. Funny.

It doesn’t matter. They don’t need to travel. They don’t need company.

Everything is as it should be. The Infection is gone. Hollow is safe and happy. Hornet is safe and happy. And Ghost is…

Ghost…

…

Oh.

And Ghost is no one’s favorite.

It is a strange thing to realize. It does not come as a revelation—a shock or an explosion or a nail through the back—as much as a steady understanding. Suddenly, they simply know that it is true, as if they always have. There is not one single moment they can point to as much as a million instances, catching on a web—tangling in a dreamcatcher—folding in on themselves as easily as the future did.

Hollow readily spends time with them until the moment the Pale King appears, at which point they peel away to patter after him, and leave Ghost alone in a courtyard. Hornet gives them naught more than passing acknowledgement when she visits, and they think it’s just how she is, until they watch from the rafters one morning as she flings herself excitedly at a delegation coming from the Hive. Their father tries to show that he cares, but the affection he so long harbored—harbors—for the Pure Vessel often takes precedence over the one that simply appeared one day, and so it always a case of ‘next time,’ of that patient and endless waiting for an invitation that will never come. The White Lady is free with her love, but it is the same she gives to the others—because her children are all equal in her eyes—and for all that the love is welcomed, it is not unique to Ghost. It is not unique to any of them.

The realization settles in a way that makes them double-check it; that rests so easily it might have been there all along. Ghost turns it over in their mind—no mind to think —and runs it between teeth they don’t have. They are no one’s favorite, and that is fine. They don’t need to be anyone’s favorite. It’s a selfish thing to want, anyway.

…But they had been once, hadn’t they? Would be—would have been—in a future as dead and gone as the million siblings resting eternally below? 

Once, Elderbug gave them advice and respite. Once, Cornifer praised their scribbled map additions, and Iselda offered discounts in exchange. Once, Quirrel let them lean on his shoulder and doze off as the endless rains of the capital continued through the window. 

Once, they crawled from the Abyss, draped in the shadows they were born in, to find their sister waiting at the top—stance unreadable as ever, but voice softer and words kinder. 

Once, she walked in step with them through the Ancient Basin to the tram platform, despite having speed they could not match. 

Once, she tilted her head as she looked at them, ran a fond hand over the top of their mask, and unknowingly spared her mother in the same instance; Ghost’s nail would never draw blood their sister shared—no will to break— because they would find another way.

And so they did.

Now, things are better. The Infection is gone, Hollow is safe, Hornet is happy, and Ghost is no one’s favorite. They fade into the background, and pass by friends they will never have, and have cordial exchanges with those that are meant to be family, and it is fine.

But there was a time, long ago and never to be, that reeked of death and destruction, that only they remember…

It was a terrible time, a broken time, a fallen time.

Selfishly, they miss it. 

Things are better now. They are better for everyone except for Ghost, and that is what matters. They got their chance—at love, at freedom, at happiness—but Hollow didn’t. Hornet didn’t. The missing siblings they carefully keep part of their consciousness looking out for didn’t. Ghost was born into the Abyss, was lost outside of Hallownest, had surely fought and struggled to survive, but they can’t remember that. Beyond their birth, the only times they do have—the times in Hallownest—were good; shops and benches, maps and elevators, friends and adventure. It is all gone now, but they got their fill. Now, it is everyone else’s turn.

Perhaps they tense when someone’s breath rattles too much, but they’ll get over it. Perhaps they sleep best on benches hidden away in the secluded corners of the palace, but they’ll get over it. Perhaps they spend their nights curled on a bed they never use, shaking with silent sobs—no voice to cry suffering—as tears of Void drip down their mask, but they’ll get over it.

They are selfish, and they mourn a dying world that they can never return to, and they are more alone than ever before, but they’ll get over it.

…And it’s not as if anyone will notice if they don’t.

The only one who might be capable of it would be the Pale King with his domain of Knowledge, but his thoughts are frenzied at the best of times. He is caught up with trying to atone, and there is much to atone for. Ghost knows that better than anyone. Still, they can’t hold much of it against him; not anymore.

Who are they to judge a Higher Being—a God—for his sins? When they are his greatest one of all?

They were meant to have no Mind, and yet they think. They were meant to have no Will, and yet the Void unites beneath it. They were meant to be a Vessel—pure and empty and hollow—and yet a single kind act from their sister was enough to drive them to godhood, if only to spare her heartache.

(Once, the Godseeker sneered at them, a speck in her most High and Holy Home.)

(Wretch, she called them then; crawler, cringer, fool.)

It may be better that they are left behind more often than not. Something ancient and eldritch shudders within them—something that they can barely even begin to comprehend. It stirs with their emotions, and beats in time with their Void Heart. 

(Once, the Godseeker gazed up at them in wonder, and drowned in a sea of Nothing.) 

(God of Gods, she breathed, and died.)

Yes, it is better this way. Void terrifies, and it kills, and it hollows, and they don’t want to do any of that. They can keep it calm—keep it Focused—and stop it from harming anyone. 

It is satiated for now, anyway. Ghost will make sure it stays that way, and give their siblings the peace that they deserve.

Hollow taps them on the knee. “Okay?” They sign, tilting their head at Ghost in concern. “Lost.”

“Not lost,” Ghost replies easily. “Thinking. Sorry.”

Hollow is still for a long few moments before getting to their feet, leaving the half-finished puzzle on the ground. “Come. Dinner soon.”

They’re right. Dinner quickly became a regular occurrence, where every night Ghost, Hollow, and their parents gather in one of the White Palace’s many dining rooms to eat together. The White Lady occasionally has to drag their father from his work to join them, but he always does. Vessels do not necessarily need food; they can survive perfectly fine without. Their parents don’t seem to care. 

Ghost trails behind Hollow through the lofty corridors. Retainers duck their heads in respect as they go, and Ghost is reminded of the White Palace that sat in the Dream Realm, overrun with thorns and buzzsaws: the Pale King’s last defense. It is nicer now, they think, gazing over vaulted ceilings and perfectly-carved pillars and plants that are kept eternally tidy. They certainly will not miss clinging to the wall to avoid being sliced in half, staring off into the endless clouds below.

(Once, they fought their way through one of the hardest challenges they had ever faced, all for the promise of secrets sealed. They reached the end, and watched a scene of their father and their doomed sibling, standing on a balcony together. The two looked at one another, and the Dream drifted apart, dropping Ghost outside of the memory and locking it away for good.)

(Once, their father had thought that the Vessel was pure—hollow—empty.)

(And he loved them anyway.)

“Good evening, my dears,” their mother greets them as they enter the dining room. “How were your days?”

“Good,” Hollow answers for both of them. “Puzzles.”

“How thrilling,” the White Lady says, and sounds like she means it. “Come, let us sit. It’s almost time to eat.”

They take the same spots as usual. The White Lady glides into one of the larger chairs, Hollow across from her and Ghost to her right. It is still a bit strange seeing her capable of moving around. In the not-future, she had been bound in the Gardens, far larger than she is now, roots stretching throughout the kingdom. She had not been kind or loving, but rather cold; her children nothing more than tools. Sometimes, Ghost thinks that it is good she is so different from how they remember her. It makes it easier to pretend that they aren’t even the same person at all.

Hornet, visiting at the moment, is already there, perched in one of the empty chairs at the end and weaving silvery thread with three hands. She is truly Hornet now, having earned her name just days earlier after defeating the Hive Knight in combat.

“He’s going to be late,” she says, barely looking up from her work. 

“I’m sorry, dear,” the White Lady says. “I would hope that having you here as well would spawn the smallest bit of initiative. It seems I was a tad too optimistic.”

Hornet snorts. “Quite bold. If his own favored children are not enough to bring it about, I doubt my own presence would.”

The White Lady stares at her, just a bit sadly. “He cares for you, Princess. As do I.”

“So I know,” Hornet says. It sounds genuine.

The Pale King walks in some fifteen minutes later. He moves regally until the doors close behind him, at which point he hurries forward to his own seat at Hollow’s side.

“You’re late,” the White Lady says.

“Apologies, dearest Root,” he replies. His Light is calmer in this time, and Ghost wonders if it is truly dimmer, or if they have simply gotten used to it. “I was preoccupied. The Old Light’s sudden retreat is as much cause for concern as it is a relief.”

Hornet scoffs. “One would think the relief would be greater.”

The White Lady hums, and a soft touch brushes the top of Ghost’s head. “I cannot help but agree.”

Light flares for a moment, but it is gentle, and the Pale King turns his head to observe all of them as he says, “Yes. I find I do, as well.”

They eat. The King and Queen ask questions about whatever things they must think are valuable to know—colors they like, books they’ve read, games they enjoy—and Hollow answers eagerly, while Hornet picks which ones she cares about. Ghost answers when prompted.

The food is good, at least. In their journey through Hallownest, Ghost had never really eaten anything, because they did not need it, and there was already very little for those who did.

(Once, Iselda passed them a piece of hardened sugar wrapped in paper after they safely returned her husband from Deepnest. It was sweet, and tasted like a fruit they’d never had.)

(Once, Grimm cackled as their dance ended and the Nightmare Heart grew ever stronger, and gave them some sort of pastry dusted with red. It was spicy, and tasted like fire.)

(Once, Hornet sat with them in a tent above their common father’s once-grave, and shared her meal of mushrooms and dried skins with them, even though she knew they did not need to eat. It was cozy, and tasted rich, and crunched as it dissolved in the Void.)

Now, they can have whatever they want. They often don’t, because it never really crosses their mind, but they can appreciate the constantly-changing dinner spread: meats free of Infection and freshly-harvested plants and cakes no one in the future even knew how to make.

Their plate has barely been empty for thirty seconds when the Pale King gets to his feet.

“Back to work?” The White Lady asks.

“No rest for the wicked,” Hornet comments.

“Nothing with the Infection, dear,” he says, ignoring his daughter. “I simply have a few tasks that desire my attention.”

“Very well.” Their mother stands as well, and Hollow follows suit. Ghost, as well as Hornet, stays in their seat. “I’ve my own duties to attend to, loath as I am to say it. At least Herrah’s letter promises to be interesting.”

The Pale King nods, flaps his wings once, and presses his forehead to his wife’s for a moment before returning to the ground. He steps toward the doors, and Hollow scurries closer, taking one of his hands.

“Oh?” The Pale King looks down at them, amused. “Would you like to come along?” Hollow nods. “Well, know I will never deny your company, child. Let us go.” The two of them depart, and though Ghost’s stare traces them the whole way, neither look back once.

The White Lady notices. She does not offer them true comfort, however, nor does she invite them along herself. Instead, she chuckles and says, “Do not be jealous, my dear. You will get your own time with each of them. We’ve the entire future ahead of us.”

Hornet hops up from her seat, flips over the table in a flash of silk, and inclines her head at them as she passes on her way toward the doors. “They will not be doing anything interesting anyway, sibling. I’ve been in our father’s workshop; it is nothing to mourn not seeing.”

Her words… do not make Ghost feel better.

The White Lady hums again, places what must be a kiss atop their mask, and says, “Calm your thoughts, my child. You’ve nothing to worry about now; not when we are here to unburden you.” Her fingers stroke the sides of their head, and she smiles and leaves as well.

And Ghost is alone.

…It’s fine. They’re fine. Everything is fine.

Deep in the Abyss, the Void Sea surges with the pounding of their Heart, and long-departed siblings begin to wake from their slumbers. Ghost yanks themself from reality to focus their mind on soothing the ancient Darkness, tempering the waves and lulling shades back to sleep. They weave Dreams, and though they are nowhere near as deft with it as the Radiance was, they think it is better than nothing. A rush of warmth floods the Sea, and the pulse fluttering in their throat slows.

It’s fine. They knew that things wouldn’t be easy upon waking up in the past. They just thought that it would be ending the Infection that would be difficult, rather than everything that came after.

Ghost can adapt, though. They have before.

Hollow is safe, Hornet is safe, the Infection is gone, they assert to themself. Things are better.

They are. This is a price that Ghost can pay. It is one that they will choose to pay a million times over if it means that those they love will be all right.

(Once, Ghost used their Dream Nail on the corpse of their father, and his thoughts echoed through their blasphemous mind—No cost too great.)

(Ghost didn’t understand him then.)

(Now, they think they do.)

They are the Ghost of Hallowest, sibling of Hollow, sibling of Hornet, born of God and Void. They have ascended the most High and Holy Pantheon, slayed the Radiance, and ended the Infection for good. They are the Lord of Shades, the God of Gods, the Void given Focus. They can handle being lonely, and lost, and the favorite of no one. It’s fine, as long as it’s only them.

(Now, they are loved and they know it.)

(Once, they were loved and they felt it.)

The Abyss settles, and the Void Heart hums a steady, empty, beatless tune. It might be trying to soothe Ghost as well. That’s stupid, they think. Why would they need to be soothed? They’re fine, aren’t they?

Yes. They’re fine.

Ghost gets to their feet, pushes in their chair, and heads for the door, and if stray black tears curl down their mask and dissipate against the ground, then at least there is no one around to see it.

Chapter Text

Here’s the thing: Hornet never told Ghost that she loved them.

Perhaps it is a strange thing for them to think about—to focus on when there is so much that demands their attention—to turn in their head over and over and over until it tastes only of bitterness. Still, they cannot help where their mind—no mind to think, no mind to think, no mind to—wanders.

Ghost knows that she loved them, too. They are sure of it. She had patted them on the top of their mask, and shared her food when there was so little, and promised that she would be with them at the end. They had felt her care—remember how her touch turned gentle from harsh, warm from cold. What else could it have been but love?

But she never said that she loved them. Her voice became kinder just as her actions did, and yet never were the words pulled from her throat. Was it real, if it was never once spoken?

It was, Ghost thinks sternly, because why would a voice make something real? Hollow is real, aren’t they? The fallen siblings were real, once. Ghost is real, loathe as they are to know it. The love that Hornet had for them, once-upon-a-time and never-to-be, had to be real as well.

Somehow, they think that makes it worse.

“Hello, sibling,” Hornet says as she passes them in the halls of the White Palace. There is no chill to her tone, but no comfort either. She is cordial when she comes to visit; as polite as she needs to be. She speaks with a mix of flowy words and quick sarcasm, and she doesn’t know Ghost at all. When she leaves, it is not to patrol through a dying kingdom, but to head back to her waking and breathing mother, ruling over a Deepnest free of Infection—free of Light.

It’s almost appropriate, isn’t it? There was nothing in the old time that Hornet had despised more than the Radiance’s Dream, and now such a thing was under Ghost’s command. Perhaps some part of her, deep down, knows that they have become what she hates—what she hated in a future that will never arrive.

(Once, the corpse of their father’s previous life caved in around them, and the darkness had been so agonizingly familiar that it chilled them to the core. Then, hands wrapped around them, and they were pulled from the rubble and carried to the bench nearby.)

(Once, while the King’s Brand sizzled fresh on their shell, Hornet sharply said, “Do not dare look at me like that. I could not allow you to meet your end there, before your mission has met its own.”)

(Once, despite her jagged edges, she let them lean against her and fall asleep, and stayed there until they woke.)

They hadn’t realized how used to Hornet’s presence they were until she was gone. There is a gaping hole in their life where she is meant to be—one that cannot be filled by the passing interactions that they manage on the few days that she is around. 

Where once they could often catch a glimpse of her always just past their view, things are now emptier. They are safer than ever before—secure and protected within the walls of the Palace—and yet they feel as exposed as they might have been in the wilds beyond Hallownest. Hornet’s gaze traces them, and then turns away, and never does it linger to make sure that they are all right. There is no reason why they shouldn’t be.

Ghost does not feel very all right, but they suppose that doesn’t matter. They just need time to get over themself—to impress upon their mind that it’s fine if Hornet doesn’t think of them any more than she does any other vague acquaintance; that is all they are to her.

Instead, they spend time with Hollow. Or, well, they spend time with Hollow when Hollow is not spending time with someone else. 

It hurts to be around them sometimes; makes Ghost sad in a way they find hard to articulate. It makes the failures of the old world all the more horrible.

Ghost never met the Hollow Knight in the previous time; not really. They fought their twin within Godhome—where Pure Vessel was far more accurate a title—but their gaze never fell upon the sibling sealed away in the depths of the Black Egg. 

Despite this, Ghost knows what they looked like.

Whether it is through the Void or Dreams or something else, Ghost is well aware of the Hollow Knight’s state at the end. Beyond the screaming and the pain and the Light, Ghost knows that their mask was cracked, and their arm was missing, and their body was so overcome with Infection it burned. The Radiance broke through the Hollow Knight’s mind, and broke through their being as well. 

Ghost hopes it hurt when she died.

The Pure Vessel—the Hollow Knight—was quiet and empty and perfect. It was born in Darkness, and was cursed to spend eternity containing the Light, and never would it know life or love or freedom. There was nothing it desired beyond the goal that it was made for. It had no mind—no will—no voice. It was the ideal puppet for the Gods, just as it had been designed.

...Hollow likes flowers. 

Purple ones are their favorite, they clarify; specifically the light ones that bloom a soft lavender color. They like fairytales, but only the ones where there is a happy ending. After they learned to write, they started adding swirls at the ends of certain letters because they thought it looked pretty.

They can’t sleep without a nightlight.

Ghost’s chest hurts when they think about it, and their Heart sings a soundless, mournful tune.

(Once, the Hollow Knight was strung up in chains, with nothing but the Void and a sealed God for company.)

(It was dark, in the Black Egg. Hollow would have been scared.)

(Ghost wonders if the Hollow Knight was scared, too.)

“Sibling-sibling!” Hollow exclaims when they turn a corner and spot Ghost halfway down the hall. “Look! Look!”

There is a pot, with a sprout nestled inside. It is taking both of Hollow’s hands to hold it, which explains the Void-Speak. They try to use sign as often as possible—even when they do not need it to talk with one another—in order to get practice. Ghost thinks it is helping.

“Plant?” They sign, and tilt their head.

“Pale Lilac!” Hollow replies. “For room! Mother-Queen gave.”

“Pretty,” Ghost says, though there is not even a bud yet. 

“Will be,” Hollow nods. “Pale Plant. Needs only Soul. Easy.”

Ghost wonders if the Delicate Flower had been some kind of Pale plant as well—a flower that could be sustained by Soul alone. It never seemed to wither, no matter how long Elderbug held it in his claws. Did it survive through the kingdom’s stasis, or its own?

Either way, whatever power was within that Flower, it was enough to counter the Void and the strength of a newly-born God. It was enough to tear them from reality and send them hurtling back in time. What would things be like, had they never given the Godseeker the Flower in the first place? 

They suppose it doesn’t matter much now. They did, and it brought them here. No use dwelling.

“Must find spot for it,” Hollow says. They take a few steps forward and then pause. “Come with?”

Ghost thinks if they look at the plant for any longer, they might try to strangle it. Their fingers twitch, and they shake their head. 

Hollow’s shoulders slump. “Okay.” They scurry away, and Ghost watches them go.

(Once, Ghost fought and fought until their shell ached and their Soul was depleted, and one final strike of the nail managed to bring the Pure Vessel to their knees.)

(Once, the sky cracked open above them, and the Old Light’s terrible shriek echoed throughout Godhome.)

(Once, the Pure Vessel, even despite their exhaustion, tensed through the call, as if they already recognized the scream of their inevitable sacrifice.)

There are less retainers in the real White Palace than in the Dream they had once traversed. That is not to say that they do not exist, but many more corridors sit quiet and empty than they remember. They suppose the differences make sense; there are no buzzsaws or thorns or endless falls through clouds here, either. Ghost can wander through winding halls for hours without seeing a single soul, and never walk the same one twice.

While it is a good way to pass the time, the space to think does also bring forth something that they prefer to forget when they can: the Divinity that now hums within their shell. 

(Once, they were born of God and Void, and were created to be less than less; to be nothing. It only doomed them—to Darkness and Light alike—and left their screams to go unheard and unheeded.)

(Once, they were killed and hollowed and emptied before they even lived, denied the Godhood that should have been their birthright.)

(Once, Divinity was something that they and their siblings were formed of, and it did not save them. It did not save any of them.)

If they had known what would happen when they chose to kill the Radiance in Godhome instead, would they have still done it? If they had known that it would unite the Void beneath them—no will to break, no will to break, no will to—and force them to a place where no one that they loved knew or remembered them, would they have found a different way?

(Once, Ghost Ascended, and they did it all on their own.)

No. They wouldn’t have. This is the different way, isn’t it? The only other option meant killing the Dreamers—killing Hornet’s mother—and Ghost was never going to do that. Now, Herrah lives, and Hallownest thrives, and Hollow will never be sealed away. In the end, Ghost knows that if they were given another chance, they would choose the same thing. They would choose it every time.

But…

But Ghost does not like being a God.

It might be something that others desire—the endless and unbound power of a Higher Being—but Ghost is not among them. They wish to be normal; to be the kind of bug that doesn’t have to worry about Light or Dreams or the Void, or lost souls clawing at their thoughts whenever they let themself rest for a moment, or a future that must be prevented no matter how dearly they hold it in their Heart.

Ghost has never been normal, though. From the moment that their egg was hollowed out and they were still pulled into existence, they have not been normal. Everything that they are was not meant to be, and yet still they live. They faced the Radiance at the peak of her power and challenged her rule, and yet still they live. Against all odds—despite the ease of the alternative—still they live.

...They have to make it worthwhile.

Hollow is long gone from the corridor when Ghost sets off in the same direction. Upon reaching the royal family’s wing of the Palace, they swerve into their room, just across the hall from their twin. Hollow’s door is open, but Ghost has to focus, so they avert their gaze and shut their own door tightly behind them.

Pacing the length of their room, Ghost does their best to think. They are back in time, and they have changed things, but there must still be things to do. Their days cannot be spent simply waiting for once-fallen siblings to emerge from the Abyss. 

In the old world, they left Hallownest, and by the time they returned, the only siblings that they found were long gone: broken masks and tattered cloaks and empty shells with nothing left behind. 

If they have power—moreso life—within them, then they have a duty to those that they once failed. They have a responsibility to use it.

Climbing onto their bed and folding their legs beneath them, Ghost stretches out their senses and calls upon the Void as they search the Abyss.

It is choked with Darkness. Endless threads clamber for their attention, and they do not know how to differentiate between a shade and a sibling. A million shattered children cover the Abyss floor, and there is no way to tell where death ends and life begins.

They cannot even feel the spark from the Abyss Creature. It had been there when they first arrived in the past, they remember. The small surge of energy had called to them, ushering them closer during their desperate climb to the top. They had landed on the platform before the Creature’s door, and blinked past a flash of blue light to find the ever-familiar Lifeblood Core sitting on the ground before them. It was warm when they took it in their hands, and whispered delicately of echoes—memories—once—once—once. 

Ghost did not understand then. They still don’t. They took the charm anyway, and the Creature went quiet. Ghost has not felt it since, nor anything akin to it, either.

The Void seeps into everything around it, even reaching those regions that rest outside of the Abyss’s clutches. Whatever exits Ghost and the other siblings may have used are lost to those memories that they never quite got back.

(Once, long before they were Ghost, they sprinted through shadows that closed in on every side.)

(Once, fangs bit at their ankles and claws scratched their horns and a roar pierced the air, so loud they could gag on it.)

(Once, they ran and ran and ran, and did not look back until they were deep in the Wastelands and the only thing they could hear was the wind.)

If they cannot find the still-living Vessels within the Abyss, and they cannot find any exits either, then what can they do?

An answer taunts Ghost as so many things do these days—hangs before them in the image of too-small corpses strung up and still.

The Nosk.

Ghost can kill the Nosk.

The thought excites them, more than it probably should.  It is not just the prospect of protecting their family—of saving all those siblings that had once been murdered—but the idea of having a nail back in their grasp. Ghost constantly has enough Soul stored for something like six spells, and no place to cast them. It feels as if there is energy always trembling within them, making their limbs tremble and feeding off of their stress, and they need something to take it out on.

Nosk, who killed their siblings once and will try to do the same again, is the perfect target.

They just need to figure out how to do it.

Ghost begins to plan. They have to get into Deepnest, of course, but more importantly they need to do it without anyone knowing that they are. If all goes well, it will be just like when they killed the Radiance, and they’ll be back in bed before anyone even notices they were gone.

The tram is out of the question, then. Of Deepnest’s untamed regions, the station and the Hot Springs were certainly going to have the most people.

(Once, Hornet perched herself on the Hollow Knight’s fountain and sat with them, telling stories of her childhood that sank into Ghost’s memories and in the same instant were lost to the rain.)

The Queen’s Gardens entrance wouldn’t be a great idea, either. Besides leading straight into Weavers’ territory, Ghost would have to find a way to even get through their mother’s Gardens without being caught. That was not something they particularly want to bet on.

Fungal Wastes has an entrance between it and the Gardens, doesn’t it? But, no, that was formed by a collapsing floor, and Ghost doesn’t want to rely on the hope that it will be in the same state of disarray while the kingdom is still thriving.

In the end, the answer seems obvious.

The Royal Waterways stretch down into the edge of the Ancient Basin in order to reach the Palace Grounds. If they make their way into the Waterways, they can use them to travel below the City, avoiding the many guards within. At the western end of the sewers, they know that they can break through into the bottom parts of the Wastes. Specifically, they’ll be right near the entrance to Mantis Village.

Mantis Village, which has a way into Deepnest.

Before, Ghost went to the Village more times than they can count. They know it like the back of their hand, and they are sure that they can blend in with the shadows and make their way into Deepnest without being spotted.

Their hands shake a bit, thrilled at the idea. Yes, that is what they will do; travel the Royal Waterways through to Mantis Village, slip through into Deepnest, and then find and kill the Nosk. Easy.

All they need is a nail.

It is… harder to get one than they’d like.

They don’t bother even trying to ask their parents. They are well aware that it will bring them nowhere. 

Other avenues don’t prove particularly fruitful either.

None of the Great Knights even entertain the idea. Dryya chuckles when they attempt to sneak past her and grab a practice weapon from the rack. They hadn’t realized she was still there, and she scoops them up and deposits them on the ground outside of the training room.

“I don’t think so, princeling,” she says, crossing her arms. “Her Majesty has been quite clear. Perhaps you may appeal when you are older, in years to come, but for now you must be comfortable in her judgement.” She bends down, takes their hand in hers, and pats the back of it. “It is admirable to wish to protect those that you love. Know, Highness, that such a duty is one you can feel secure leaving to us.”

(Once, Ghost staggered past Cloth’s corpse and approached their mother’s hideaway, deep in the Gardens. Before it laid dozens of dead mantises, as well as one slumped figure: long-passed, and yet still trying to protect—protect—protect.)

(Once, the White Lady never even learned that her ever-fierce and ever-devoted Knight was dead.)

Hegemol… annoys them, on the best of days. He is the largest of the Knights, and the strongest as well, and he looks down at them as if they are fragile; something to be tucked away and kept from anything that might cause them harm. He all-but tiptoes around them, as if scared that he will break them if he is not careful enough. Ghost doesn’t even bother trying to get a weapon from him. The failure is not worth the effort.

The Grey Mourner—Ze’mer, they remind themself, she is Mysterious Ze’mer—gives them as much of a chance as Dryya does. “Ah, nym’prince, the desire can be understood,” she says when they point insistently at the training room she has just locked, “But che’s Lady’s words are firm. Che’ dares not counter them, especially as meled’lover already leaves che’ in dire straits.”

(Once, a lone house at the edge of the kingdom held nothing but memories and the hollow shell of a once-Great Knight, mourning for eternity.)

It makes sense, they suppose, that she is so quick to deny them. Ze’mer and her mantis lover are not a relationship that either side really approves of, and she does not wish to do anything that might draw the King or Queen’s ire. 

(Once, Flowers bloomed over a forgotten grave, and a spirit gave a single flickering bow before disappearing for good.)

Theirs is a story without a happy ending, even given time. Ghost is frustrated by it anyway.

They are in the middle of asking Ogrim—in the middle of yet another refusal—when Isma swoops in. She lives up to her ‘Kindly’ title, Ghost has learned, always quick with a sweet word and a guiding hand. It is the reason she and Dryya often team up to teach the newest recruits; one to be harsh, and the other gentle.

“Oh, I do hope you did not take my words to be grim,” Ogrim says when they ask, likely referring to when he'd ignorantly said they would be more suited to dance than combat. “Of course, anything you wish to pursue may find itself conquered, but the battlefield need not be one of those things!”

Ghost resists the urge to stamp their feet. 

Isma hums as she emerges from her own training, approaching with light steps. “If you are still interested even without a blade in your hand, little Highness, you are welcome as an observer to my next session with the newest guards.”

Ghost goes to shake their head, then pauses and signs, “Really?”

“Of course,” she says. “I will never turn away assistance.”

Their fingers ache for a nail to drum along. They nod.

“Wonderful!” Ogrim exclaims. “You two shall have a marvelous time. Speaking of, you should make haste, lest you be late. I shall inform their Majesties for you.”

Isma leans her mask against Ogrim’s for a quick moment. “Thank you, darling,” she says as she pulls away, and then holds out a hand for Ghost to take. “Come along, my prince. It would not do to dally.”

After the briefest moment, they place their hand in hers, and try not to shiver at the jolt it sends through their shell.

Watching the training for the new guards is… odd. Ghost thinks that is the right word. Their eyes trace movements—attacks that change from bug to bug—that they could counter in an instant. The forms are sloppy, turns a bit too slow and motions a bit too choreographed, and Ghost cannot help the thought that they could defeat every one of these guards all on their own without blinking.

These are new guards, they know; perhaps that is the reason. Still, it is strange to think about being protected by those who are far less capable than themself. 

Ghost expresses none of this, sitting far from the action along the sidelines or hurrying about the room when Isma asks them for help with something. The tasks she gives them are never ones of substance, but they appreciate that she is trying her best to make them feel useful, even if they know better.

“Did you enjoy yourself?” Isma asks once the new guards have left. It is just the two of them now, with the supplies that still need to be rolled away into storage.

Ghost nods after a split-second, and she brings a hand to where her mouth must be beneath the mask.

(Once, Isma and her Grotto became one, mask merging in with the vines, and all that she had left to offer the kingdom she had given everything to was a blessing to whomever could find it.)

“You need not lie to me, little Highness,” she says, grabbing the handles of a nail cart and pushing it along. “If boredom took its hold, I do not mind. I enjoy watching the progress of our newest members, but I understand that many find it dull. His Majesty is one of them, you know.”

They did not know that. It is a bit funny, imagining their father trying his very best to look both interested and attentive when he is likely neither.

Ghost rushes forward to hold open the storage room door. Isma gives a gracious nod and pushes the nail rack inside. As she goes to pull over the rack with the shields as well, Ghost eyes the weapons. None of them are particularly sharp—all training nails for fresh recruits—but they would be better than nothing. 

They glance back at Isma’s turned body, take a deep breath, and rush inside. The door closes tight behind them. There is still light within the storage room, a lantern dangling from the ceiling, and they snatch the first nail they see that seems to be the right length. Ghost prefers it resting against their back, but they cannot afford to be either picky or caught, so they slip it under their cloak and let it shift into the shadows of the Void. 

Quick steps get closer and closer, and Ghost grabs a wooden wedge just as the door bursts open.

“Little Highness!” Isma exclaims. “What are you doing?”

Ghost extends the wedge. “Hold open door,” they sign.

“Oh,” Isma says, letting out a long exhale. She was not there to hear them asking Ogrim for a weapon—only catching the bits about training. She does not know to suspect them at all. “Quite good thinking, my prince. Come, let us finish up.”

They prop open the door, and Ghost helps Isma pack the last of the equipment away. She closes up the storage room with a silver key clipped to a loop beneath her armor. 

“Thank you for accompanying me today,” she says as she guides them out of the room. “The companionship was much appreciated. You’d best hurry along to dinner, though. It would not do to leave their Majesties waiting, nor your royal sibling.”

They listen to her, giving a quick nod of acknowledgement before peeling away down the hall.

Dinner is as it normally is; they sit with their parents and their twin, Hollow talks far more than Ghost does, and the food is good. Nothing of note is new. Both their mother and father ask them how their time with Isma was, and they make sure to mention how good she is at her job. They do not intend to be caught with the stolen nail, but if they are, they wish to remove as much culpability from her shoulders as they can.

When they are finally back in their room, Ghost allows a few moments to go over their plan: take the Royal Waterways to the Mantis Village, sneak through into Deepnest, and destroy the Nosk before it can kill any of their siblings. It is nice and simple.

(Once, fresh out of the Abyss and shaking in the din, they looked at their reflection and ran the other way, because the last time they followed a sibling it only brought them pain and an endless fall into Nothing.)

(Once, a mirror drew in Vessel after Vessel with their own visage, because those lost children wanted nothing more than to not be alone.)

(Once, Ghost was saved from the monster that killed so many others like them, because the fear of yet another betrayal was enough to convince them that the safety of isolation was better.)

(They were right.)

Satisfied, Ghost gets to their feet and leaves the room. Just as they open their door, Hollow emerges from their own across the hall.

“Sibling!” They sign. “Good day?”

“Fine,” Ghost answers quickly.

Hollow goes to reply, but Ghost cuts them off.

“Busy,” they say, because they have a great distance to travel and not a lot of time. “Sorry. Busy.”

Hollow stares at them for a long moment. Their hands, still raised and ready to sign, twitch, and then fall. They nod, a bit stiffly, and return to their room. The door shuts loudly behind them.

A chill rises in Ghost’s throat—no voice to cry suffering, no voice to cry suffering, no voice to cry—but they ignore it. If they made Hollow upset, they can apologize later, after they have ensured that no more siblings will die than already have.

Sneaking out of the Palace is more difficult than it was the first time—when they went to kill the Radiance—but it is not too much of a struggle. There are many more guards around the Royal Wing, but once they make it through, it is just like before. They trail along the cavern walls behind the lofty Palace and slip into an access tunnel that leads to the Waterways, marked with a sign demanding ‘No Entrance to Any Without Clearance.’

The lock breaks under a quick, concentrated Shade Soul, and Ghost scrambles up the ladder and into the sewers between the City and Palace Grounds.

Unlike the rest of the kingdom, the Waterways are no nicer in this new time than they were in the old. The only improvement Ghost finds is in the lack of Flukes. The Flukemarm must have moved in some time later, perhaps during the Infection, and the pipes are much easier to traverse without her ilk filling them. Belflies still cling to the ceiling, but without the Radiance’s influence, they are passive, watching Ghost slip by with beady eyes.

It is difficult to travel without any of their abilities. They do not have the Mothwing Cloak, or the Crystal Heart. There is no Mantis Claw to manifest in their hand and cling to whatever wall they leap at. Their Monarch Wings, once healed by the Pale vestiges just past their fallen sibling, sit broken and dead against their back.

(Once, they clung to a ledge at the top of the Abyss and watched their twin turn away, following the Light and leaving them to die.)

(Once, there was no one to help them, and they fell—fell—fell.)

(Once, they crashed into the corpses of siblings that were given as little a chance as they were, and the last thing they felt before the Darkness flooded in was their fledgling wings shattering against cracked shells, never to be used again.)

They do not know how long they travel for. It is far slower with their stunning lack of movement, and while they may have godly powers that could help, Ghost… does not want to use those.

So, running it is.

Finally, they crest over another pipe to see the drain releasing into the Fungal Wastes. It is nowhere near as dilapidated as when Ghost first broke it, and their nail is far weaker, but they should be able to manage. Sidling up next to the grates, Ghost manifests some of the Soul they have stored within them, and dives toward the ground with a Descending Dark. 

While the spell does not break the metal, it does wreath them in shadows for just long enough to slip through the gaps in the bars. They emerge on the other side, blinking past the spores already filling the air.

Climbing their way to the entrance into Mantis territory, Ghost takes a moment to collect themself. It is well-lit here, even as the lights naturally dim with the falling of night. They scan their surroundings, and sink into the closest shadow they can find, near-completely blending in with the darkness.

The Wastes feel much more alive, Ghost notices. It is as if they can sense the underlying hivemind every mushroom and fungus is meant to be a part of, so strong here where once it was long-broken. What might they hear from the Mushroom Clan, were the Spore Shroom still within their possession to translate?

It doesn’t matter. They don’t have that charm, and they won’t be getting it back. Right now, they have a job to do.

Even without the Infection, there are still many mantises that patrol the area. They are protective of their home; Ghost is as aware of this as anyone. They stay within the shadows snaking between the walls and along the edges of acid pools, keeping one careful eye on whatever mantis is nearest. 

Finally, they reach the entrance to the Village. Two mantises stand guard, and a torch banishes the shadows. If Ghost wants to make it through, they will have to leave the safety of the dark patch for as long as it takes to make it to the next.

They breathe carefully, trying to calm the panic that worms its way into their Heart. For siblings, they assure the waking Void. Careful, for siblings.

Ghost sneaks to the edge of the shadows just behind the mantis guards, eyes where they need to reach, and move.

There is very little that the Vessels were created with. They were made to have no mind, or will, or voice. For all that such intent failed, the involuntary silence is something that managed to sink its claws into all of them. 

Despite this, their footsteps are certainly not quiet at all.

Ghost is halfway to the shadow they are aiming for when they are tackled from behind. They slide across the ground and are forced around, face turned up. One mantis holds them down, blade against their chitin, while another looms nearby, standing at the ready.

“Trespasser,” the mantis above them hisses. “And a dishonorable one at that, to attempt to sneak through rather than fall in battle.”

The other mantis makes a quick clicking noise and inclines their head. “Yes. You’d best invoke your God-King, cowardly thing, and pray that he ushers your spirit to whatever Death-Land you think you deserve. We’ve little mercy for those who dare walk our lands without having earned it.”

Ghost wiggles their arms free, hopes that they know the same hand language, and signs, “Challenge! Challenge! Challenge!”

Behind their mask, the first mantis’s eyes narrow. “Challenge? You wish to fight for you right to live?”

“Deepnest,” Ghost says. The Void squirms, as if sensing danger, and Ghost signs a bit more frantically. “Must go to Deepnest. Challenge.”

“The Proud Tribe does not grant such passage for simple victory,” the second mantis says sharply. “A battle with us rewards you with only your life.”

Ghost shakes their head. “No. Not you. Lords.” They push their way out from under the first mantis and get to their feet. The guards allow it. 

The Void calms at their insistence, relaxing with the pulse of their Heart, and Ghost manifests their nail from under their cloak, drawing it forth to drive it into the ground before them. “Challenge. Lords.” As confidently as they can, they sign one more time, “I Challenge the Mantis Lords.”

Chapter Text

If there is one thing that the Mantis Tribe respects, it is a true and honorable challenge. Ghost knows this well, and they do their best to stand straight as the guards escort them into the heart of their territory. 

There are far more mantises than Ghost remembers seeing. Perhaps the Infection had taken its toll, even if it had not found hold in their minds. 

(Once, they walked these halls freely, and exchanged respect with every bug they passed.)

They are deposited in what must be a holding cell, one guard staying to keep watch while the other peels off. It would be rather easy to escape—just a single Descending Dark, they guess—but they don’t plan on leaving until they have done what they came to do.

Instead, Ghost takes the opportunity to sit down on the bench in the back of the cell. They don’t have any of the charms they did last time they fought the Lords, but they should be able to manage. Still, the moment of respite allows them to pull out the Lifeblood Core and secure it to their cloak. Their notches remained—the same capacity for charms as they had before. They’re quite sure they’d be strong enough to wear the Lifeblood Core regardless, but it is nice to not risk pushing their limits at all; they overcharmed once, and will not make the same mistake again.

The moment that the charm clips into place, a cool surge of energy pulses through their limbs. Added strength is better than nothing, they think, especially since it will probably take Ghost longer than usual to beat the Sisters with only their spells and a training nail at their disposal.

“-Rather small,” the missing mantis guard is saying as they draw closer, “Still, they issued a Challenge regardless.”

“To the Lords themselves?” A new voice asks, skeptical. “Never have I known an outsider so bold.”

The mantis still guarding Ghost snaps to attention, giving a quick bow of respect when the other guard and a new mantis, wearing a mask with a slightly different design, appear. “Valiant,” they say. It sounds more like a title than a name.

For a moment, the Valiant goes to respond, but pauses when she sees Ghost. “Braves,” she says, “What is this?”

“The intruder, sir,” the first mantis guard replies.

“That,” the Valiant says sharply, “Is a nymph.”

A choking noise comes from the second guard. “Wha— A nymph? They cannot be! Some bugs are simply small, are they not?”

“Have you been rendered blind?” The Valiant asks. “Or have you never seen a child before?”

The guards shift uncomfortably, and the first hedges, “I’m rarely near them.” The second nods their agreement.

“So it seems,” the Valiant says. “I’ve my own children, however, and train many besides. I can differentiate between a small bug and a child.” She turns to Ghost. “Which you are, unless I am severely mistaken?”

Ghost wishes the scowl they think they are wearing was visible, but they nod.

“You shall not be granted passage through our lands,” the Valiant says. “But neither shall you have to fight for your freedom. Youth are bold—and often foolish—when raised outside of our Tribes’ bounds. You shall be escorted to the edge of our territory, from which you may return to whatever part of that accursed kingdom you desire.”

Ghost shakes their head rapidly. “No!” They sign insistently. “Must go to Deepnest.”

“There is many-a-way into Deepnest,” the Valiant replies. “A tram, a stagway, even that entrance in your God-Queen’s Gardens. Any would be suitable.”

“Not!” Ghost manifests their nail again and drives it into the ground. “I Challenge the Mantis Lords.”

One of the mantis guards looks hesitantly at the Valiant. “Should a Challenge not be honored?”

“Do we honor the Challenge of every nymph who may wish to try their luck?” The Valiant asks, rather than answers. Perhaps it is an answer on its own. 

“Able,” Ghost signs. “Can win. Will win.”

“They often think that, don’t they?” The Valiant muses. “Very well. It is not within my rights to refuse a Challenge on the Lords’ behalf, besides. The child shall remain here, until their Lordships make their decision.”

Whatever decision it is certainly takes a good amount of time. Ghost doesn’t know how long passes, but they use the wait to familiarize themself with their new nail. They slash—up, down, left, right—and do their best to get used to the weight. What they wouldn’t give to have their Pure Nail back…

(Once, the Nailsmith worked on, even in a dying and dead kingdom.)

(Once, he forged their nail into something Pure, and begged to taste death from its perfect blade.)

(Once, Ghost refused, and found him again—happy and whole—with another who found the same solace in craft. Thank you, friend, he’d said, For affording me a future even as I saw none.)

They cannot get their Pure Nail back. It has never even been made, in this new world. Would they find those Pale Ore in the same places as they did in the not-future? They wouldn’t be able to find enough, either way; some were in the possession of people, rather than buried in the depths of the kingdom. Such a weapon may never be theirs to wield again.

(No mind to think, no mind to think, no mind—)

(No use dwelling.)

“Come, trespassing child,” the Valiant says when she finally returns, pulling the door to their holding cell open. “The Lords shall see you now.”

They are marched farther into the Village. It is even more lively than when they’d entered, and Ghost hopes that it’s just because the mantises wake earlier, rather than from them taking entirely too long to complete this mission. They would certainly prefer getting back to the Palace before anyone has a chance to notice they’re missing.

Arriving in the deepest chamber, Ghost sees that the door into Deepnest has been closed. That is probably a good idea; they had been considering just making a run for it. Instead, they are guided in front of the Lords’ thrones. The Valiant bows, and Ghost inclines their head in respect as well, only for panic to snake into their Heart when they look up and see not three Lords, but four.

(Once, a Lord let the beckoning Light in, and his followers did the same, and power unknown became theirs.)

(Once, those traitors left their home behind, banished on pain of death.)

(Once, a throne was shattered, the last reminder of what the Tribe had lost.)

Ghost had forgotten about the Traitor Lord. How could they have forgotten about the Traitor Lord? Their shell aches with phantom pain from his booming strikes.

They must have killed the Radiance before he had a chance to betray the rest of the Tribe. He looks better here, they must admit; his body, while larger than his sisters’, is not bloated with Infection, and his gaze is sharper—more focused.

At the foot of his throne stands another mantis that Ghost has seen before—only as a spirit though, who vanished as they granted a final gift from her lost love: the traitor’s daughter.

The Traitor Lord is happier here, because of course he is. This world is better for everyone, isn’t it? 

(Everyone except for Ghost.)

“My Lords,” the Valiant says, rising from her bow and gesturing toward Ghost to present them. “I bring the child intruder.” She turns to Ghost, nods toward the Lords, and says, “Child; the Quickest, the Wisest, the Toughest, and the Strongest.”

Ghost… did not know that they had titles. They’d never been afforded a proper introduction, after all. Perhaps they should have asked.

(Nothing to be done about it, now.)

“A nymph indeed,” the center Lord—the Wisest—says. “Truly, you have issued a Challenge, child?”

Ghost nods firmly. They might have forgotten about the Traitor Lord, but they have beaten him just as they beat his sisters. It won’t be a problem. They retrieve their nail once more, stick it into the ground, and for the third time sign, “I Challenge the Mantis Lords.”

“Certainly we shan’t entertain this,” the Strongest—the once-traitor—laughs. “Their body would crack upon our lances, should we dare.”

“Do not speak so boldly, brother,” the Quickest says. “Underestimating one’s opponent can be all that is needed to spell doom.”

“Only if a battle ensues,” the Toughest points out, “Which, in this case, it shall not. Am I incorrect?”

The Wisest hums and stares down at them. Ghost squares their shoulders as best they can, and meets her gaze solidly. 

A long few moments pass before she asks, “Why is it you wish to Challenge us, nymphling?”

“Must go to Deepnest,” they sign. After a quick pause, they add, “No other way.”

“Deepnest…” She says the word slowly, even though she had likely already been told their answer. “Quite determined for such a dangerous destination. For what reason, one wonders?”

They are still, and then carefully sign, “Family.” More steadily, they continue, “Must help family. Must go. Only way.”

“A worthy goal,” she says. “And an understandable one, at that.” She perches her head on the back of her hand for a moment, staring off at the closed door. Around her, the rest of the Lords are quiet, allowing their sister to stay deep in thought. “Very well, then,” the Wisest finally decides. “A Challenge you have issued, and a Challenge we shall accept.”

Ghost thinks it is a testament to her title that the others do not argue. Instead, the Lords simply sit straighter in their thrones as the walls for the arena lower from the ceiling and anchor into the ground. Spikes are uncovered on the floor, restricting their movement, and something giddy rises within Ghost at the familiarity. This is something that they know. 

The Wisest stands, poised atop her seat, and gazes down at them.

“Draw your nail, oh one who dares walk our forbidden lands, and Challenge the Lords of the Proud Tribe, that their lances may cross your own, and we may see which claims itself better.”

Excitement trembles in their limbs, but their grip is steady as they grab the handle of their nail and brandish it, daring the Lords to come closer; a clear Challenge, as it always has been.

As expected, the Wisest Lord vaults from her throne and dives down at them instantly. They dart to the side, a bit put-off by how slow they feel without the Mothwing Cloak, but dodge her strike rather easily. Ghost doesn’t need their Cloak to do this—just as much as they don’t need their Wings—and it would probably be better to conserve as much Soul as possible for when the rest of the Lords join in.

It is simple to fall into the rhythm of the fight—one that they have done over and over and over in the Dream of Godhome, just to make sure that they are perfect at it. Even with the weaker nail and the lack of movement, it is little more than a waiting game—wearing down the Lord until she falters, stumbling back and returning to her throne.

The moment she sets down, the Quickest and Toughest Lords stand in turn, leaping as one into the heart of the arena and immediately charging toward Ghost from either edge of the spikes. They jump, slashing down with their nail as they arc over the Lords, and bounce off of incoming boomerangs before sending a Shade Soul at the Quickest, who clings to the closest wall. She grunts, and hurls her lance at them again, just as her sister rushes toward them from the side. Ghost pushes off to avoid both attacks, only to slam back into the ground as pain erupts from the back of their head.

The Strongest Lord looms over them, and it seems that even without the Radiance’s power strengthening him, he still hits hard enough to send them reeling. The Lifeblood rushes to revitalize them, and they roll out of the way before a dive from the Wisest Lord, rejoining the fray, can wear them down even more. Pulling at the Soul stored within themself, they blast into a Descending Dark and take the small moment of reprieve to breathe unneeded air and gather their bearings. As the shadows slink away and the four Lords recover from the spell to surge back at them, Ghost does their best to fall into a rhythm that they have never followed before.

It is… much more difficult, fighting the Traitor Lord alongside the other three. Every time Ghost takes an opening that they know should be there, the Traitor—Strongest, the Strongest Lord—fills in the gap. They take any chance to gather more Soul that they can, because the moment the Strongest begins to pound the ground and send shockwaves out, the other three Lords jump out of reach, and Ghost is forced to use Descending Dark again just to avoid getting hit.

Perhaps they would be doing better with a stronger nail, or with any movement beyond what their own two legs can provide. As it is, they spend half of the fight in the air, pogoing off of one Lord and using the momentum to dodge another and then doing it all over again. Whenever they are knocked down, they shake off the pain as quickly as they can and slide out of the way before getting right back into it.

Eventually, the Lords seem to realize that Ghost’s only way to circumvent the Strongest’s shockwave attack is using Descending Dark. Immediately, it becomes more prevalent, and Ghost’s Soul is drained faster than they can regain it. Not for the first time, they feel the smallest amount of bitterness at the Kingsoul for transforming into the Void Heart and losing its Soul-generation abilities in the process.

(Their Heart pounds faster.)

(It might be trying to apologize, in whatever silent way it can.)

The time comes—as it always would—that a shockwave races toward them when they are still another solid strike away from having enough Soul for a spell. Their Lifeblood is long-depleted, and they’re not sure if they could take another hit from even the weakened Wisest Lord, let alone from the Strongest.

If they had their Mothwing Cloak—their Shade Cloak—it would be no problem at all, but they don’t, and there’s nothing else that they can do.

But…

But they don’t need speed to reach the shadows, do they? The Darkness, now, is not just within them, but is them. Or perhaps more accurately, they are it. The Void bends beneath their Will—follows their every command and whim—so why should it be that they need a Cloak to veil themself in it?

(No will to break, no will to break, no will—)

Before they can second-guess it, Ghost focuses on the feeling that the Shade Cloak always brought—that sudden and sweet Nothing—and calls on the Void to fill in the gaps. It does, and as the shockwave reaches them, they dissolve into shadow and appear whole on the other side. Something pulses within their head, and they don’t want to think about any of this very hard, but it worked. They can use that.

From there, the battle turns. The Lords seem to know it just as well as Ghost does. Even with their new ability to avoid his worst attacks, the Strongest still does more damage than any of his sisters, and so they center their attention on taking him down. Without the need to save their Soul for Descending Dark, Ghost feels far more free to use their other spells, as well. They pogo off of the spikes along the arena to send forth a Shade Soul that hits all four in one go, managing to catch themself on the platform edge as they fall. Sliding beneath the Strongest Lord as he bounds at them, they reach for the anguish of a million dead siblings and release an Abyss Shriek, which roars as it envelops him and claws at his lifeforce.

It takes a good few more strikes—and a bit of luck with their dodges—but Ghost at last parries the Strongest Lord’s lance, darts forward as he recovers, and dives into a final Descending Dark, avoiding an attack from the Toughest Lord and bringing the Strongest down all at once. Hemolymph drips sluggishly from a dozen shallow cuts they managed to make, and the once-Traitor Lord staggers back to his throne, waving away his daughter as she hovers worriedly. 

This fight, now—this fight is one that they know; it is one that they could do in their sleep. Ghost has fought the Sisters of Battle before, and even with all three of them now, they are not as strong as they were in the Dream. 

Ghost brings down the Wisest Lord first, knowing that she will fall easiest after having fought the longest. Just the Quickest and the Toughest remain, and Ghost has memorized the attacks of only two Mantis Lords well enough to find windows to Focus, Soul knitting together some of the injuries along their shell. 

Rapidly, they lose track of which Lord is which—the two weaving between one another and switching attacks any time they think they have it figured out—but it doesn’t matter. This is a familiar dance, and they are sure that they would be grinning, if they could. The Abyss stirs with their amusement, the Shades growing curious at the joy sparking through the Void, but Ghost doesn’t soothe them yet. Besides the fact that they still need to focus, it might… do their fallen siblings some good, to feel whatever delight they can. 

(They wonder if Hollow can feel it, too.)

One of the Lords slumps in defeat—the Quickest, based on the throne she returns to—and Ghost is left facing the Toughest alone. The end of the fight takes longer than they would like, but their nail is weak, and the Toughest must have gotten her name from somewhere. Finally, though, they bring her down, and she huffs out an exhausted laugh before taking her seat once more.

The walls of the arena raise, the spikes sliding away, and a thrill rushes over Ghost as the Mantis Lords stand and bow as one. They return the gesture easily and bounce a few times in place, as if it will rid them of some of the adrenaline that sends tremors through their body.

“I suppose you prove your title once more, sister,” the Strongest Lord speaks first. “The intruder indeed was capable—far more than I’d assumed.”

“The warrior,” the Wisest Lord corrects sharply, though not unkindly. “A moniker well-earned, I should think.”

“Our way into Deepnest shall be yours to walk, warrior child,” the Toughest says, and the door rumbles open with her words. “And just as much our lands in kind.”

“In fact, I would say a reward is in order,” the Quickest says, eyeing the other three, “After all, this is a rare occurrence, is it not? When were the four of us last brought low by a single opponent?”

“Years,” the Wisest replies. “Not since the last period, at least. Hmm, yes, I agree, sister. Certainly passage alone is not prize enough.”

“Wonderful.” The Quickest, despite the wounds still dotting her thorax, hops deftly off of her throne and lands in front of Ghost. “Come, warrior child. I shall lead you there.” They go to hurry after her, stumbling a bit as an ache pulses through their leg before they right themself. She pauses, observing them, and then adds, “Perhaps a place to rest would not be remiss, prior to your departure. It would do you well.”

“Yes,” the Wisest says before Ghost can respond, “Quite right, sister. Valiant-” The Valiant that had led Ghost here straightens- “Have a bunk prepared for the visiting warrior. They have earned the respect befitting it.”

The Valiant bows. “It will be done, my Lord.”

Little else can be said, as Ghost is steered from the throne chamber by the Quickest Lord, brought higher up in the Village and through to the treasure room that they have rested in a thousand times before.

(But if it only happened in their memories, did it happen at all?)

“This,” the Quickest says, stopping before a chest, “Is most prized amongst our people. Should you don it, all those within the Proud Tribe shall know of your feats, and of the deference you are due.”

She turns, and presents them with the Mark of Pride.

Ghost had always loved the Mark of Pride. It lengthened their strikes, of course, but more so it sang of their accomplishments. They could wear it, and all would know that the Mantis Tribe allowed them passage as if they were one of their own.

(Once, they sat on a bench, hidden away within the Tribe’s depths, and breathed in the peace.)

(There were few places where they could truly do that.)

They take the charm from the Lord and clip it onto their cloak, just above the Lifeblood Core. Until they sit on a bench and are able to truly connect it to those notches of theirs, it will be little more than decoration, but this is a decoration that they like.

Nodding her approval, the Quickest Lord says, “As regarded a reward as that is, I cannot help the thought that it pales against your achievement. I insist, then, that you inform us if there is something you may wish for, and our best efforts shall be made to fulfill.”

Ghost almost shakes their head—because they really only needed the entrance to Deepnest—but something occurs to them before they can. Their hands twitch, and they raise them to sign, “Claw? To climb?”

Surprisingly, the Quickest Lord laughs. “A Mantis Claw? Well, most certainly.” She moves purposefully to the wall and takes down one of the Claws sitting there—much nicer than the one Ghost managed to snatch before. “After all, no member of our Tribe—honorary or not—should be without.”

Ghost takes the Claw when she extends it, splitting it and passing the two halves between their hands. This pair fits even better than the one they remember—sharpened and polished—and excitement runs through the Void as it echoes their own.

The Valiant is waiting outside of the treasure room, and leads Ghost even farther into the Village. Mantises bow in respect as they pass, spotting the Mark of Pride pinned to their cloak, and Ghost gives little inclines of their head in return. 

“This is where you shall stay,” the Valiant finally says, approaching a door. She pushes a lever and Ghost hears a click before the door slides open. On the frame above is nailed a carving shaped oddly like their mask. “It is a great honor, to be granted a room rather than a bunk,” she explains. “Traditionally given only to us Valiants, Masters, and the Lords themselves.” She cocks her head and observes them carefully. “Though I suppose you have been proven of similar measure; appropriate then, it would seem.”

Ghost looks inside. It is nice, though certainly much smaller than their room in the White Palace. That’s not very surprising, actually. The bed is oh-so-inviting, but they don’t— They can’t—

“Need to go to Deepnest,” Ghost signs. “No time.”

The Valiant is quiet for a long moment. Then, she says, “You must rest, warrior child. If into the dark you truly intend to go, you will need your strength.”

She is right. Ghost knows that she is right. Their nail is half-broken, and they don’t have any Soul left stored, and they’re— They’re—

(They’re so tired—)

“No sleep,” they sign persistently. “Just rest.” They hesitate. “For a little.”

The Valiant nods. “The Lords shall await you in their chamber, when you intend to depart. Should you not know the way, ask it of any Brave about these halls; they shall be most willing to assist.”

She bows and then leaves, closing the door behind her, and Ghost is alone.

They think they can feel every ache as if it is fresh. Their head pulses with pain, shell tingling where flakes of their mask were shorn off by a passing lance. If they brush at the constant sting of a slice on their arm, Void pools between their fingers.

(No voice to cry suffering, no voice to cry suffering, no voice—)

Yes. Rest might be good.

It need not be for long, they tell themself; they tend to heal fast, once they have the chance to truly do it. 

Ghost hops onto the bed and pulls their legs up to fold beneath them. Their nail—still held tight in their grip—they prop against the wall next to them. Upon a bit of coaxing, they feel the Mark of Pride slot into place in their charm notches, promising that every strike will be longer for it. 

That has always been one of the strangest effects to them—how could a charm that they wear affect the length of their nail? They suppose it doesn’t matter much how it works, as long as they know that it does.

It is never particularly quiet in the Mantis Village; even if the distant chatter is organized, they can still hear it. It is peaceful here, though. Ghost can appreciate that, as they blink off into nothing and let this small rest slowly pull their injuries closed.

They don’t have time to be sitting here, though. Even ignoring the fact that every moment they spend resting is a moment that the Nosk could be killing one of their siblings, they also… They have to get back to the Palace. They fear that the night may have already passed by now, and hope that their family doesn’t think too much about their absence. 

(Perhaps being alone so often could come in handy, for once.)

Just a bit longer, they think as the cut along their arm heals. They’ll just sit here until their headache is gone, and then they’ll leave. Just for a little bit more…

A few moments later, they are staring up at the ceiling, blinking away sleep from the corners of their eyes.

…What?

They fell asleep.

How could they let themself fall asleep?!

Ghost sits bolt upright, panic gripping their Heart. The room looks the same, so perhaps—perhaps it wasn’t that long!

When…When is it? How much time has passed?

The Void—the terrible, empty, Timeless Void—shrugs; or the closest approximation, at least. Its Sea sways with Ghost’s flash of irritation. They stamp down on the emotion and temper the Darkness all at once.

Certainly it cannot have been that long. They— It is an overreaction, either way. They might be able to be gone until the next night before anyone notices, anyway. 

Yes, it’s fine. They’re fine. Everything is fine.

Ghost grabs their brittle training nail and bursts from the room. Mantises show them respect as they pass, but they do not return it. They don’t have time—

(Once, they stood as equals with the Lords, and with those that followed them.)

(Once, they could stop their hurrying—just as long as they were within the Village at least—and feel for a few moments the kind of world they might be fighting for.)

(Once, things may not have been easier, but they were simpler.)

(Now, their Heart thrums with the sin of missing it.)

They weave through the mantises in the Village, instinctually manifesting their newly-obtained Claw in their hand to slide down the walls faster. When they finally land in the throne chamber, the Lords are waiting for them. The entrance to Deepnest is wide open—dark and gaping—taunting them.

“Warrior child,” the Wisest Lord says, and the four stand to greet them. “We are glad to see your wounds healed. Certainly, it would not do to lose so formidable an opponent this soon.”

“Must go,” Ghost signs. Their gaze stays on the waiting shadows. “Deepnest. Siblings need.”

“So it is,” the Wisest nods.

“The entrance shall be open to you,” the Toughest says. “Now, and forevermore.”

“Yes,” the Strongest then rumbles. Ghost does not particularly like hearing his voice—does not particularly like seeing him happy, because how is that fair— “That Mark does as promised; it names you henceforth a member of our Proud Tribe. Shall you ever walk our lands again, you shall do so as a friend.”

“Tell us, warrior child,” the Quickest says before they can hurry on. “Have you a name to call your own? A title, perhaps? I am unsure which might be relevant; those customs of your God-King—and of those other Kingdoms—can be quite strange, sometimes.”

Ghost nods. “Have name,” they sign. “Sister gave.”

And she had, hadn’t she?

Before Hornet, they had been nothing more than a wanderer from nowhere; a knight sworn to nothing; a child of no one. It was their sister, as unkind as she meant it to be, who first named them—who first gave them something to call their own.

“Ghost.”

“Quite fitting, that,” the Wisest Lord says, and sounds amused as she does. “Very well, then. We wish you luck, warrior child—Ghost—on your journey. Know this Village will always be open to you, should you wish it. That, we swear.” She bows then, and her three siblings follow suit, as does the Lordlet—the Strongest’s daughter—where she still stands beneath her father’s throne.

Ghost bows back, as they should. It is only right. 

The shadows are waiting. Even if it is not the Darkness curling inside of them, there is something almost comforting about it. Deepnest has never been their favorite place, but beyond the Weavers’ territory, it must be as untamed as they remember. Like the battle—and unlike life in the Palace—that unknown is something that they understand; something they know how to handle.

Somewhere within, the Nosk dwells, and perhaps too the corpses of siblings that they are already too late to save.

No. No, they shouldn’t think like that. They are not too late. They can’t be.

Ghost tightens their grip on their nail, takes a final breath of fresh, useless air, and sets off into the dark.