From forth the fatal loins of these two foes,

A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life.

PAST I

The Sins We Often Regret

ANASTASIA ANDINO KNEW QUITE A FEW STORIES ABOUT THE CURRENT EMPEROR. Nikephoros the Nightbidden, a supposedly kindly man who ruled over the Empire quite competently, wasn’t all he seemed.

The first red flag was, of course, the most obvious one: no one had any strong opinions about him. The public opinion about him was a bland consensus that he was competent: if there had been controversies, it had been about his vassals, not Nikephoros himself.

Not once had the blame even reached him or the Imperial family—when Alina de Evlogia, his closest aide, had reached a rock and a hard place when dealing with Gailbraith traders, the issue had been but a flickering rock across the pond: the ripples had been minute across the Empire, although Doxa had been shaken.

Anastasia knew how hard mitigating damage was. She’d originally wanted to be an engineer, overseeing the construction of new industrial infrastructure in Tyche. She had merely dabbled in blacksmithing and engine designing, even though it was close to her heart, it wouldn’t bring her any places she wanted to go.

But here she was, a fresh graduate of the Library of Alexandria, brought before the Emperor because of her inventions.

Fuck, would be a very apt term.

She bent her head as the Emperor spoke, pleasantly.

“Face Andino,” addressed the man, “it has been brought to my attention that you have designed siege weapons that could potentially destroy the Empire.” He smiled genially, robes and Imperial cape flowing down the sides of the dias as he leaned forward, eyes twinkling. It was worn but not as worn as it should be: age touched the Emperor’s face but it did sparsely, like an unblemished glove, or a glistening crown.

At his right stood a tall young girl with a long flaxen braid and green eyes, unsmiling but regal, holding herself like she didn’t own the world but was watching it. She leaned on the pillar behind her throne, her face obscured by shadow, but Anastasia assumed—correctly—that it was the First Princess.

“Your Imperial Majesty.” It was undeniable that there was panic gripping at her throat, but with the fear was a dawning realization that she hadn’t been executed yet. Did they— need her?

Was it too arrogant of her? Had she made too many enemies, too little friends? What would become of her inventions now that it was in the Empire’s hands? Questions came and went like darting fish, as if a string had been inserted into her ear and out the other, threading away at her brain: mentally unpleasant, and physically impossible.

But here she was.

Anastasia cleared her throat.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” she croaked again, “I—”

“You’re not in any trouble, Face,” the Emperor interrupted, his voice assuring. “I looked at the siege weapons myself. They could potentially destroy the Empire, yes.” His smile was still placid. “But only when they fall into the wrong hands—in this case, I’ll clarify the term: hands outside of ours.”

He said it in a way a villain would say it, but in a fatherly way: gentle and paternal and deceptively smooth. No trace of malevolent intent at all - but Anastasia heard a soft snort in the silence. When the Analyst looked up at the First Princess, her face was dead still - in a cold way compared to Nikephoros’ warmth - but the Emperor still turned to the pillar.

“Daughter,” he chided, gently, “I’m in the middle of something.”

The First Princess shrugged offhandedly. It was more careless than anything else, but her eyes were strange, tracking the scene with caution. She didn’t speak again as Nikephoros continued.

“You’re here because I have an offer for you,” said Nikephoros the Nightbidden. “This Empire needs, well, not to advance but to have that path—that choice—to. I’ve had someone explain your weapons—the ballistae, if I’m correct—and I believe that you can help me pave that path.”

The Emperor tilted his head.

“Of course,” he conceded, “like all offers, this is something that can be turned down. But I will give courtesy when courtesy is due, and say that, without this offer, you will be torn to metaphorical—and perhaps physical, you never know with these things—shreds.” There was no triumph in his tone as he said that—the words were bland and warm, like oatmeal.

Anastasia sighed internally.

It wasn’t much of an offer, was it? A veiled threat, more likely.

“This loyal subject will follow the Emperor’s wish, and accept your offer,” the Analyst said, as cautiously as she could. What was she supposed to do, shout ‘Long live the Emperor’ after this? Pah.

Her heart was still hammering inside her chest, but she met Nikephoros’ eyes as calmly as she could.

“Good,” said the Emperor, still smiling. “With this offer, of course, comes an invitation and an appointment.” He stood up from the seat powerfully, descending the dias as if brandishing a knife. Anastasia met his eyes—they twinkled like stars about to implode, and she heard another scoff from behind the throne.

Nikephoros raised a hand towards the woman.

“Rise, Anastasia Andino, for the Chryselephantine Throne appoints you to the rank of Dame, and assigns you to a residence in the Imperial Palace as an Imperial Analyst.”

Well.

Gods, she was dead.

Anastasia was hidden away on surprisingly generous terms.

It started when the first person tried to poison her at a tea party.

The clouds were murky and so were the moral compasses of the people sitting next to her, but it was less terrifying and more I-want-to-go-home-please-ignore-me. Fortunately—or perhaps unfortunately—Greta was her unofficial societal shield, even though the First Princess seemed to be content with Anastasia being the target of snipes as long as nothing went over the Imperial Family’s bottom line.

The poison apparently did, though.

“Stop.”

The word was said firmly, just as Anastasia raised the cup to her lips.

Green eyes blinked at the Analyst, and a finger was pointed.

“Sarawolf,” said Greta dryly, in the same tone of pronouncing someone dead. Surprisingly gently, she plucked the cup out of Anastasia’s hands. A pause, as the Analyst blinked—and Greta threw the imported Tianyan porcelain as it sailed through the air in a vicious arc, slamming it in a noble lady’s face as the latter screamed.

Anastasia winced throughout the terror at the large clunking noise it made as it smashed into the woman’s nose, blood streaming from the noble’s nostrils as the Analyst heard the cup ricochet off the noble's face and onto the lawn, smashing itself into the lawn grass.

“Sarawolf,” repeated the First Princess. “Coated on a specific area of the cup. Amateurs.”

Greta’s eyes flickered to the Guards behind her, who wordlessly came forward to seize the writhing noble and drag her out of the square.

“Dismissed,” the Chosen said to the other nobles around the table, who gladly took the chance to follow her orders.

And then, Anastasia and Greta were left alone, to which the First Princess spoke.

“This current arrangement won’t be enough, I think.”

The Analyst could do nothing but nod, which was how she got imprisoned in a partial dungeon.

“When people usually imagine the life of a Chosen, they probably think of something more refined than throwing a teacup in someone’s face,” said Greta, studying Anastasia’s face. Her eyes were unnerving, the Analyst realized—a green that was too green, a shade too vivacious of a viridian but also so unnervingly dull.

Anastasia coughed.

“I’m sure there are plenty of other refined things about your lifestyle, Your Highness,” lied the Analyst, removing her gaze from the Princess’ eyes. “I wouldn’t want to assume anything about it, though.” The ballistae designs were much less intimidating, Anastasia thought. What was with Imperials and eye contact?

“Assumptions,” the Analyst heard the Princess remark, “are a double-edged blade. On one hand, they can keep you alive; on the other hand, it can create bias. Prejudice. Unnecessary things.”

There was a strange uncertainty, like she didn’t mean the words she was saying.

“It depends what you make the assumptions off of,” mused Anastasia, absentmindedly. “A person’s character can change. Their motivations with it, as well as their identity. You can only make assumptions based on what you assume will stay constant. If you assume that the sky is blue without looking out the window, you’re also assuming that there isn’t a world apocalypse happening outside. Even if you’re looking at the sky as you say it, you’re assuming that the sky isn’t an illusion fabricated by some sort of technology or magic. Constants. Variables. Hypotheses.”

Greta hmm’ed just as Anastasia processed what she herself was saying.

“The only constant to life is that there is no constant,” the Princess returned. “Assumptions can create unnecessary things, but you’re right in that some constants have to be necessary for people to continue to assume about—no, try to understand the world around them—otherwise they would go insane, wouldn’t they?” The last part was said as if musing to herself, and the Analyst remained silent.

There was a long length of quiet.

“There needs to be a constant to change,” murmured the Chosen. “Well, that’s interesting, isn’t it?”

Ominous.

Anastasia shook the dreary atmosphere off as she continued working away at the plans. She winced internally as she felt Greta lean across the table to watch her work, but kept her mouth shut.

“I’m not good with weapons,” the girl remarked, “but aren’t these plans for siege weapons? Ballistae, Father mentioned.” The Analyst felt the Chosen tilt her head. “Although I’m curious what interest a...civil engineer has towards military weapons, I won’t ask further.” Her formality was a bit strained, but Anastasia swallowed.

“Just a hobbyist,” the Dame murmured.

A scoff.

“A hobbyist,” repeated Greta.

Anastasia could imagine that stone-like face.

“A hobbyist,” agreed the older woman after a while.

A silence again.

“You know,” Greta interrupted, “I read this particularly interesting paper the other day. It was called...On Industrialization, I think. About how the Empire’s transition from an agrarian society to an industrial one will come—how did they phrase it— ‘like a clunky vehicle: stopping at the most crucial parts, only to move when no eyes are on the helm by an invisibly competent driver.’”

Green eyes bore into the Analyst’s back.

Gods.

“It said,” continued the First Princess, “that for a society truly independent from social norms to form—in the context that, regardless of what social or political changes happen in the role of the Chosen and the Emperor, the society will continue to function—its technologies to defend from external forces applied to it will need to develop.”

There was a bead of sweat trickling down from Anastasia’s forehead.

“‘If a pillar supporting a roof is weak, it will crumple with the slightest push from an external force,’” Greta quoted. “Do you know anything about this, Face Andino?”

Anastasia felt the threat very well.

“Maybe,” the woman croaked.

There was a laugh.

“It could be taken as treason, you know,” said Dionysus’ Chosen. “Suggesting that the Empire won’t be eternal. But it’s pragmatic. The Empire needs to be changed, doesn’t it?”

This was a trap.

She was just a girl.

But a girl who could chop off her head in an instant.

“That’s a rhetorical question, isn’t it?” was all Anastasia could say.

There was another laugh, and all the Analyst could think was that she just wanted to go home.

It was raining, a couple of years later. She’d been hidden away like the Empire’s fate hung on her shoulders, one of those Gailbraith tales of princesses locked in towers except she was less of a princess and more of a Imperial tool. It would’ve driven her mad, if she hadn’t been given free rein over a small pavilion that included no screaming Analysts accusing her of blasphemy, plagiarism, or both.

Ah, she didn’t miss the Library of Alexandria.

At all.

Greta visited surprisingly often, but other than Anastasia’s name being carefully forgotten, she brought no news. The first year was bearable, the second tortuous, but the third—when she’d been allowed to wander the gardens under the cover of night—was beautiful, yet by the fourth Anastasia wanted to die.

The Analyst had everything at her fingertips, almost every military resource the Empire had.

The first year had only brought the invention of the gun.

Anastasia had heard about the Tianyan weapon, refashioned it into something more portable, and she’d been rewarded with a pet peacock.

You heard her right.

A pet peacock.

The older woman was only five-or-ten-some years the Emperor’s junior, but really?

A pet peacock? She would’ve blamed it on the generational gap if they weren’t around the same age.

The Analyst had practically revolutionized military technology, but her ‘gun’ had been stored away “until further production,” the Emperor had explained.

The next years were the completed ballistae and the bayonet, the former being Pub-tech-based and the latter with an abomination of Gailbraith ideal. They had been revamped with an Imperial touch, but the blueprints and initial models had been hidden away “until further notice.”

It made her wonder exactly what they were hoarding it for.

But the name of ‘Anastasia Andino’ had been erased from the academic world concerningly thoroughly, so even if she did suspect some sort of political ploy, she would be dismissed and silenced. She didn’t know what exactly Nikephoros and Greta saw in her, but her life right now provided survival.

She still held a grudge for a noble brat leaking her siege weapons to the Library Head and bringing it to the Emperor’s attention, but what was done was done. It was either be killed and let her work be pillaged, or this, and Anastasia didn’t want to push the man at all.

She sighed.

The rain was grey, but so was the surroundings around her.

Five years, with the same view and the same name and the same two faces.

Thunder roared ominously, and the Analyst remembered a superstition, her mother’s voice snaking in her ear, that whisper: “It rains when te’ Gods are angry, Ana. It rains before te’ flood, it wails before te’ storm.” The thick Tyche accent made Anastasia’s fists curl inwards as lightning streaked across the sky. As her nails dug in her palms, she heard a door creak open.

The Analyst whirled around to see strange eyes.

The Emperor sat down.

“It’s a stormy night, my love,” said Nikephoros, looking out at the expanse.

“Don’t call me that,” sighed the Analyst, but it was affectionate. She returned her gaze to the window, rain pebbling on the window and streaming down the glass. The Emperor came behind her but it was a bland approach: instead of sweeping Anastasia into his arms, he put a light hand on her shoulder and squeezed.

“There’s a storm outside,” repeated Nikephoros, lighter. It could be taken as a threat if she felt threatened, but really it was just one of his strange remarks.

She leaned closer.

Lightning sparked as she kissed him and they fell back, darkness consuming the room as the storm continued.

A year later, an amber-eyed archer pointed an arrow at Anastasia’s baby.

“Orion,” warned Greta.

The Princess stood tall, wheat hair twisted behind her and baring her fair temples as a severe pin stabbed its way through a whimisical bun at the back. The years had refined her, like a pearl being formed around a coarse piece of sand, but a new resolve hung her head high.

The new Prince stood by her side—rough around the edges and jumpy: Anastasia had heard rants from Greta about his twitchy arrow finger and his strange quietude, while Nike had only expressed concern at his ability to adapt to a new environment. There was a callousness about his eyes, as if he would leap at her any second.

“I don’t know you,” he said, his voice tight. “I’m not going to listen to people I don’t know. But I know that this—if I’m assuming right, and I know I’m assuming right—is a taboo. You’re going to get us all killed.” He said that rudely, but with an apathetic glint in his eye, as if letting go of the arrow would just be another movement to him—an impulse, a reflex, a twitch of his fingers.

Green eyes burned with uncharacteristic fire.

“Put the arrow down, brother.”

There was fear in Anastasia’s heart, coming in pangs as she held the baby closer. The boy cried, but—

Greta reached for the archer’s shoulders and met Orion’s eyes, not in an attempt to stop the arrow but with finality. Anastasia watched as the Princess’ fingers dug into her brother’s shoulder and—

“Put the arrow down, brother.”

The Analyst heard the sounds of something being rummaged and torn as the world—

—stopped.

A beat. Two beats.

Orion froze. Greta looked strained.

Something was mangled, a sense of jarring wrongness that made Anastasia clutch the baby closer.

“I’ll take care of Father and Orion,” said Greta quietly as her brother slumped to the floor. “They won’t remember a thing, I swear to the Gods.”

Anastasia wasn’t given a second to process the sentence, before the Princess swallowed, her pupils dilated as if she was seeing something the Analyst couldn’t, as if she had done something that violated some kind of law.

“Name,” whispered Anastasia, hoarse. “Won’t Nike—name my—”

“Aeron,” said Greta, as if throwing out a random name, an edge to her voice as she pointed to the baby. “Now go.” Urgency was conveyed as a storm formed at the edges of the distant horizon, fast and angry and dark. The Anothen Sky thundered the Lightning King’s wrath at a taboo being broken, and Anastasia left, only one destination in sight.

The Analyst whose name history forgot returned to her home.

Aeron.

SOME TIME LATER

PAST

“A secret for a secret, dearest First Princess,” chided Anaxeres. “I’m being generous here: I’m giving up a whole web of secrets, while I’m only asking one.” The Duke’s young face was affable and smiling, the older woman across from him completely the opposite.

“What about a story instead?” the then-First Princess offered. “One with a secret of...let’s say, the Sky?”

Thunder crashed outside the dimly lit parlor.

The gambler inched closer as lightning illuminated two faces.

“I’m listening.”

SOME TIME BEFORE

PAST

Are Ones We Do Not Commit

The Williams Marquessate had a long and illustrious history. Josephine didn’t know it all by heart because, one, she hated her family; and, two, there were too many Imperial loyalists and anti-loyalists to conclude a satisfactory political mean. Josie called it an overload—too many extremes led to Williams being easily swayed to a side, until someone competent had finally taken the seat and found a balance.

A bland one, but a balance still.

She focused on the entertaining bits, most of the time—hearing about plundering when you weren’t the one being plundered was detestable, sure, but it was the stomachable kind of detestable when it wasn’t in front of your face. It was still morally horrifying—of course—but it was a distant guilt you could get over.

A distant guilt Josephine had gotten over.

But that was not her life, not anymore.

Dame Efcháristi leaned closer. “Hello? Yoohoo, is anyone there?” Two bright eyes belonging to an aged face peered at Josephine, who didn’t so much snap to attention as she returned to it.

The courtesan smiled. “Here. Sorry, could you repeat the question?”

There was a twisted form of sympathy on the crone’s face as she put a gnarled hand on Josephine’s face. Gods. Goosebumps appeared under the courtesan’s clothes as disgust reared its ugly head again, a shiver threatening to roll its way down her spine, but the courtesan forced it away as she always did, smiling as she looked at her superior.

Nails dug into Josie’s cheek as Efcháristi did repeat the question, slower: “I was asking you whether or not the Ecstasy deal went through, Josie.”

The pain wasn’t bad, the former marquis’ daughter thought. Just another digging poison, something to tolerate, something to play along with.

It would leave scratches, though.

“It went through,” answered the courtesan, simply. “No hitches.”

Some hitches.

But they were expected to be taken care of, and mentioned only when asked.

The claws still dug in her skin, but they relaxed just a bit.

“Good.”

The crone leaned backwards, hand retreating, but Josie didn’t relax.

“Good,” Efcháristi repeated. A hand was waved. “Dismissed.”

The girl inclined her head and exited the parlor.

Her face felt dirty.

Disgust coiled in the courtesan’s hand as she shook the man’s, repeating empty courtesies as the fool blubbered on and on about how he’d like to see her again. Josephine took the Ecstasy package with a forced silent smile and exited the warehouse.

The streets gave a small berth as she walked, which she’d gotten accustomed to over the six years she’d been here. Being the ‘lieutenant’ of the person who ‘ruled’ over most of the Pleasure District gave a strange type of prestige in the way that Josie never got any more trouble than the occasional fool.

Her nook in the cellar of the ‘tesan-house had been upgraded into her own room, and life was— not good, but not as bad as it had been, back in that dark piece of home.

How many times had she had to suck up to Efcháristi, that shrivelled monster? She’d lost count.

Josephine’d done many things that she hadn’t wanted to do. Of course, she drew lines at some things—she’d adamantly refused administration over the Carnival, and, after some convincing, Efcháristi had let Josie appoint the new abbess: a kindhearted but business-savvy person who she’d struck a deal with under the table to drug most of the clients and scam them into paying.

Efcháristi knew, of course, but the old witch had ignored it.

Dame, her ass.

It was a leftover title, from when Efcháristi had been favored by the last Emperor—of course, if she’d had children, the courtesan would’ve been immediately slaughtered along with said child; which really was a tricky game—but it was a title nonetheless.

If Josie bided her time, she would rise and take over the old witch’s position, soon enough.

Efcháristi liked her, at least enough to take her in and shape her into being a supposed ‘successor.’

“Josie.” A warm face welcomed her at the door she’d stood in front of. “You’re here.”

Josie wordlessly slipped the Eck pieces into the abbess’ hands—only a piece of Efcháristi’s package—and squeezed. “Be careful with the incense,” muttered Josie. “Don’t let her catch on.”

Play along.

Everyone knew how to do that.

If they didn’t, they wouldn’t survive.

And everyone wanted to survive, didn’t they?

“‘Course,” replied the abbess, voice low. “The children are alright. I’ve taken in a couple of new ones, escapees from those Gailbraith nuns. Especially when that Jason—was it his name or his son’s name?—razed that building to the ground all those years ago, the missionaries are still holding a grudge against us. Gods, it’s been thirty-two years, and they still won’t cut us some slack.”

Josie shrugged, a smile growing on her face. “Temperance doesn’t apply to pissed nuns, I guess.”

The abbess sniffed haughtily in return, and after a few more words, they parted ways and Josephine returned.

It was nightfall when she heard the voices. It wasn’t really a collection of voices, as it was something singular: sounds bottled up into one statement. Somehow she knew that the fluttering of wings at the corner of her hearing belonged to a dove (which was ridiculous because she’d never seen a dove before, let alone memorized how their wingbeats sounded). As if a conch shell was covered over her ears, distant waves roared at the shore, chittering sparrows on myrtle trees echoing at the same volume.

A single statement that she couldn’t understand.

Of course, Josephine’s first thought was that she was going insane, or that she was hallucinating from lack of sleep: but then again, she’d slept far less before.

Yeah, she was hallucinating.

Sleep.

Go to sleep, an enchanting voice whispered in her ear.

It was siren-like, beautiful.

Josie could feel invisible hands on her cheek and head, as if someone was behind her stroking her hair. Immediately she turned around at the sensation, thoughts jarring and muddled as she saw nothing but air. The sensation of another presence remained, but the hands were gone.

Oddly enough, Josie didn’t feel tainted by the feeling, the alarm inside her head dulling.

Just a bit, just enough for it to be subtle.

The bed was just right around the corner. She didn’t feel herself stretch and get up from the small desk in her room, but she still did, walking over to the bed. Her eyes closed as soon her head hit the pillow, and darkness slowly consumed her vision, consciousness weighed down by a fog that wasn’t there before.

You can’t blame me for being impatient, can you?

Before Josephine even solidified a thought, a voice cut through the abyss.

Even if she wasn’t given enough time to process it, the former noble still understood it, the same way she knew the sounds of the doves and the myrtles—she felt the heat from the words settle in like a shawl around her shoulders, a cool warmth.

Greetings, said the Voice, pleasantly.

My Chosen.

She hadn’t wanted to go to the Queen’s Isle.

But Fate had driven her there.

She had got up one morning and went to check on the boats—because, coincidentally, that day Efcháristi needed to check a potential Eck shipment (or was it imported perfume?). Josephine doubted that the old witch had conspired with the Gods to make her life miserable—even though she wouldn’t put it past her, really—but now, reflecting on it, there were too many things chalked up to coincidences.

The sky was blue.

That wasn’t premeditated.

It was a beautiful day. That made her raise an eyebrow, because usually at this time of year it rained shitloads: the Daycycle during the Cage’s opening usually did, an added dramatic flair as the calm before the storm.

There wasn’t a distinguishable pattern to the Queen’s Isle opening. Usually, it was after the year ended and the next began—Josephine hadn’t really cared all that much back then, since the Emperor generally sent out a decree when it was confirmed that every Chosen had been selected and the Cage was now closed.

It wasn’t a momentous occasion, really; rather something that just...happened. Back in the days when she’d been a noble, it had been a source of anticipation: political favor and Glory Prince and all that. The Marquis and Eleanora had been hunched over a table and she, a three-year-old, had listened quietly in the back. Her memories were fuzzy.

When she was thirteen, a year or two after she’d run away... now that she remembered.

“He’s a halfie,” people had breathed. “And a bastard, and that.”

But no one had ventured further, because, even though Imperial Anothen weren’t especially devout, no one wanted to bring (more) bad luck on themselves.

His name had been Cyrus, Josephine remembered.

Had he gone willingly?

The sky was blue. Josephine recalled the exact shade, a blue bluer than blue, a kind so impossibly vivid that you wondered if you were seeing things.

The waters beneath the harbors had also been blue, a rolling dark blue that lapped at the end of a fall.

She’d leaned forward to properly see the shade—

—and then she’d fallen into a boat and the ferryman had somehow silenced her.

Josephine remembered a haze of blue and distant green, until gold had appeared on the horizon and she’d—as if she’d been teleported—found herself in the Bars.

She hadn’t wanted to go to the Queen’s Isle.

But she had no other choice.

And so she found herself here, laying with a boy whose smile was brighter than the sun. He was a fool, Josephine thought. One who had fought for her until the end, one who wanted to test the limits of the Gods’ patience and live together—with her—because he could, because no one had told him not to do impossible things. No one had told him not to pluck the stars, and because he wanted them, he tried.

She envied that.

Who knew whether the stars were something he couldn’t have?

He was a fool, and he loved her.

He was a fool because he loved her.

She shifted her position on the grass.

The night stretched across the sky like a streak of dour paint, dark in all its misery, as the green beneath her dug into her back and hands. He was staring at her, smiling, as if she were the brightest thing in his—undoubtedly small—world. As if she’d charmed him with her Ability, and the funny thing was she hadn’t.

“You’re such a fool,” she said aloud.

His eyes crinkled as he smiled. “Why?”

Scarlet was scattered on his knuckles as he reached for her face, fingers rough and warm. Sticky red came away from his fingertips, but the touch wasn’t disgusting.

It...left her hollow as he withdrew. Empty.

Blood on the side of her face, she looked into his eyes.

“Gods, you’re such a fool,” she repeated, with less anger and more wistfulness. Not affection, but close (who was she kidding? It was affection).

He had done bad things.

Terrible things, in fact.

Slaughtered because she told him to, maimed because he could.

Was it her place to forgive him? Of course it wasn’t.

But that hope—the hope of a new horizon, a new day—lingered within her, and it left her with an undeniable—

Pain.

Her heart wasn’t dropping, it was falling, and she was the one who’d chucked it off the cliff.

It was her, not him.

It was her, from the beginning to the end, it was her.

She’d manipulated people into protecting her, because she was, after all, such a lovely, helpless maiden who couldn’t possibly do anything wrong—and at the end of the day, when she asked herself why she’d done it, the answer wasn’t enough. The ends were a hollow definition for the means. The excuse was feeble, but she just—

She just wanted to survive.

Why wouldn’t the Gods let her?

Before she knew it, she felt tears streaming down her face and she embraced the Chosen quietly.

“I’m so sorry,” she kept repeating, whispers. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

The other was concerned. “What are you crying about? There, there—hush, it’s alright.”

It was approaching midnight when they slept.

When it dawned, she said her final apology and saw the sun.

Alone.