It's surprisingly difficult to say goodbye to my face.

I'd never had strong feelings about it before. But now, on the cusp of losing it, I see precious traces of my parents in every curve and contour. The amber glow of the lanterns suits me well—lighting to perfection all the features I'm about to lose.

Tears track down my cheek, and I don't bother to wipe them away.

"Please tell me you've given it more thought since our last consultation," says Laven, coming up behind my chair to pull my hair back. But their gray eyes soften somewhat when they meet mine in the mirror. Their vitei is sour today, lemony undertones layered beneath the flavors of lavender and clove their residual energy usually gives off.

"Not for a moment."

They sigh. "Of course not." Outside, the rain picks up, pattering at the water-palm fronds.

"I trust your taste more than my own." I add. "Just change me enough that they won't recognize my face, but make sure I'm still as good-looking. Not any more than that though. That wouldn't be fair to everyone else."

That earns me a smirk.

"So be it then." Spinning on their heel, Laven steps sideways and whips open one of the hundreds of drawers set into the walls.

A heartbeat later they're slamming a piece of parchment down onto the low countertop at the base of the mirror. "But you're signing away your right to complain. Don't like the results? Doesn't matter. No refunds. No freebies. No bad reviews. "

I skim the paperwork, lip quirking upward in spite of myself. It's every bit as bluntly thorough as I'd expect of them. Reaching into one of my pocket belts, I pluck out my pennatella, prick the ring finger of my left hand, and press it to the open space at the parchment's bottom corner.

Giving the document a few gentle waves to dry the blood, I pass it off to Laven before settling back and closing my eye.

"I'm ready. Let's get this over with."

"Eye open," snaps the sensari. "It's important that you watch."

Turning from me again, they bustle about, flinging open cabinets and drawers as they assemble their supplies. I twist in my seat to watch—enthralled by the way they move about their space like a piece of it come to life. Mirroring the studio itself, they're outfitted in an array of mismatched materials and subdued colors that shouldn't look good together, but do.

Wheeling over their work trolley, they move some of its burden to the counter across from me before tying on a paint-covered apron. Then they take up a length of translucent refined hide, unrolling and affixing it to the hooks on the mirror's frame. Finally, they light incense in the burners to either side of it.

The room fills with haze and the heady scents of honey, pink peppercorn, and dreamwood. Laven stands back for a long, silent moment—regarding me with eyes narrowed and arms crossed. Then, like a statue coming suddenly to life, they sweep back their tousled lilac hair. Taking up a brush, they position themselves just off to the side, leaving the ghostly blur of my face unobstructed. As they set to work, they outline the changes to my features in deft, decisive strokes.

They've kept the high angles of my cheek bones, but tweak the shape of my eyes, giving them an almost fox-like quality. With a few practiced flicks of their brush they replace the deep mahogany color with gold-flecked green, topping it off with a playful glint. My elegant, aquiline nose loses its arch—becoming a puggish button of a thing. Stepping back for a moment, they purse their lips as they eye their work in progress. Swooping back in, they refine it—making it a touch wider and smoothing the transition from bridge to brow.

Using copious amounts of pigment—mostly umber and ochre—they mix the colors for my hair. My curtain of straight, blue-black locks becomes a mane of rich brown and honey gold waves. My face they soften to a rounder shape, the plushness of my new cheeks balancing the vulpine mischief in my eyes and the slightly sardonic slant of my full lips.

Though they repaint my skin in its true shade of cool brown, they add a rose-tinted flush to my cheeks before layering a constellation of freckles over the top of it. When all of that's done, they dig into a pocket to withdraw and unfold a stained bit of parchment—the one I'd given them at our last consultation. Recreating the design inked into it perfectly, they paint it over my clavicle and upper chest in a color just a few shades darker than my skin.

When they step back again, it's with an air of finality.

"Well?" They prod, turning to raise a sculpted brow at me. "What do you think? If you want any changes, this is your last chance to say so."

I shake my head. "It's perfect. Well, aside from the nose—but that can't be helped." My nose had been ideal as it was before, but it'd also been the most distinctive, most obvious feature I shared with my father. It had to go.

"Good. I'll be needing the blood, then."

"Of course." I reach for my pennatella again while Laven holds out a small bowl. This time I drive the blade deeper, producing a few spoonfuls. As I return the tool to its place in my belt and rummage around for healing salve, Laven dips another brush into the blood. In five fluid strokes, they paint a curling sigil directly over the still-wet portrait. I take a deep breath. In their sixth and final stroke, they enclose the glyph in a circle.

The instant their brush lifts from the canvas, every cell of my body ignites. Searing, gut-churning, stabbing, aching—every type of pain there is overcomes me in a sudden hellish explosion. It feels like my bones are cracking. Like my veins are shot through with hot magma. Like my flesh has turned to shards of grinding glass.

I curl forward, shrieking, nearly toppling from my seat. But Laven braces me with a steady hand, talking me through the pain in a gentle hush. When it finally clears they step away, their usual manner returning before the shock's even worn off. I'm still breathing hard, my heart still battering my ribs. They reach for the mirror frame, beginning to unhook the portrait. I'm not sure I'm ready, but I can't bring myself to say anything to stop them, either.

They've got it down in seconds. Holding the painting delicately by the corners, they disappear through a door at the other end of the room, returning shortly after without it.

But I'm only vaguely aware of them on the periphery of my vision. My gaze is locked on the person in the mirror.

The first thing I feel is disorientation. This face—which I can no longer deny is my face—has no history. Its features recall none of the people whose blood brought me into the world.

And yet...this is the work of someone who's known and, whether they'll admit it or not, cared about me for almost my entire life. And they've made me a face that manifests my true self in a way that no random happenstance of blood or birth could ever bring about.

After allowing me a brief grace period, Laven trots back over, wiping their hands on their apron.

"Come back for the painting in the morning, and remember—"

"Keep it safe, damage undoes the casting. I know, I know. We've been over this—how many times?"

They scowl, snatching my cloak from the back of my chair and thrusting it over at me as I get up.

"The more you look at yourself, the quicker you'll adjust."

I can't help but smirk. "That won't be a problem."

"Good. Now get out. I have another client coming in soon."

"Oh, just a moment" I reach for one of my pocket pouches, but they wave a hand at me as if batting away a fly.

"Don't worry about the final installment. Use the rest to enjoy the last week or so of your life."

At that I look up, surprised, to meet their gaze. Though they're around the same age as my father, they don't usually show it much except around the eyes—and only when they're feeling something deeply. The years are showing now as they regard me, searching my fresh new face.

"Are you sure? I really don't—"

"I said keep it." Their tone's sharper than a chef's knife, broaching no argument.

"Fine. But I'm going to make it through. And once I do I'm sending you the rest whether you want it or not."

"Hmph," they grunt dismissively, but one corner of their lip curls up in the barest trace of a smile. Then they open the door and shove me out into the steady rain. Hefting my umbrella, I whistle for a gondola and climb down the mussel-encrusted stair to the water. Within seconds, an ancient specimen of a boat covered in glyphs breaks from the others to veer my way.

"Where might I take ye, miss?" The gondolier, impractically resplendent in layers of pastel lace, studies me with cheerful curiosity.

"The Cinnamon Rose, please."

With no signs of reproach, she smiles and bobs her head—making the hand signal for gracious ascent. "So you'll have it, miss." Hefting her oar, she turns us about to make our slow, soggy way to Saltra Flat's finest brothel.

~~~

Even at this time of day, the Rose is packed. I wind through the crowd, moving fast and avoiding all eye contact. My last night on the job had been the one before last, and since then I haven't been able to step foot outside my room without the replacement cook sending someone to chase after me with questions.

Things like "How did you glaze the eel you used for Duke Carrow's erectile disappointment?" or "which variety of juniper was best for preventing conception, again?"

Somehow, though, I manage to make it back without anyone getting their hooks into me. Breathing a sigh of relief, I shut the door and lean against it as I slide to the floor, skirts pooling outward. For a long time, I just sit there. Staring ahead at the small chamber that's been my home for the past five years.

The worn, oily wood of the floor. The patchwork quilt made from cuttings of brothel girls' discarded dresses. The uneven and—in some places—mossy stone walls.

The candle wax all over everything because lantern oil's too expensive.

I breathe deep of the scents of mingled perfume, food, sweat, and sex, then I hold it while I listen to the sounds. Sex, again. But also laughter and music. Even the chaotic and clashing song of the kitchen makes it way up through the thin floors. And then there's the flavor of its vitei, for places have a core essence just as people do—and the Rose tastes of caviar and figs and cheese with just a touch of mold on it. Crusty bread and sweet smoked meats.

It's hard to believe it's my last night in this place. The plans are laid, the documents forged, the tickets purchased. Now, with my new face, I'm well and truly ready.

Ready to return to the palace where I was born. Where my father served as head chef to the king for almost twenty years. Where he was falsely accused of poisoning the queen, and then executed.

I'm prepared as I'll ever be for the month ahead, for the work of earning my place among the elite sensari and competing for the position of head chef to the king. I'm even prepared to face the grisly death that awaits if I slip up.

But I can't help but feel as though I've been set adrift at sea, and I'm bleeding into the water.

~~~

I rise well before the sun, grumbling to myself and the gods at the necessity for it. I've already sold off whatever I didn't need or treasure, leaving me very little to pack. As I shove everything into my lacquered trunk, I whisper a prayer of thanks to Lutra for the rain. With the tiny window flung open, its steady rhythm soothes my nerves as nothing else could.

Everyone in the Rose is asleep, making it easy to escape without having to endure awkward goodbyes or worse, another interrogation on the testicle-firming properties of powdered mothfish.

Snatching one of the many abandoned umbrellas from the foyer, I take a deep breath. My gaze travels, taking in every last detail as I say my silent farewells to the brothel and its inhabitants. Then I head out into the early morning darkness, determined not to look back.

I never saw myself becoming attached to Saltra Flats when first exiled here ten years ago. But in spite of everything, I've grown to love it. That love wells up stronger than ever now as I look out over the lowland town for what might be the last time. I'd like to think anyone would see the beauty here in this moment, with the blue darkness broken by the occasional cluster of backlit seaglass windows, the moonlight reflecting off the still waters and shingled rooftops, the tree frogs' song occasionally broken by the long, mournful call of a wader loon.

It's true that it smells of salt, slop, and fish...but you get used to that quickly enough.

Even this early, there are plenty of gondolas lurking around. After picking up my portrait—now rolled up and encased protectively in a metal tube—I head to the ferry station. From there, it's a few hours' journey to the northwestern quarter of Aijur's Ring, the crescent of mountains surrounding the swamps, salt flats and shore waters of the lowlands.

Along the way, we pass out of the rain and into a gathering mist. By the time I finally step off the ferry, it's become a milky shroud so thick I can't even see the end of the train station dock. With a sudden sense of dread, I drag my trunk through the white nothingness towards the indistinct glow of lantern light.

The man at the admittance booth frowns as he inspects my ticket, gaze flicking upward occasionally to fix on my eyepatch. Around here, as in most other places, missing bits usually mean you're on the wrong side of the people who matter.

But he stamps it and signals me through regardless, vitei bitter with suspicion and eyes narrowed.

My stomach growls as I board the train, and I curse myself for not remembering to eat. It'll be a few hours still before the dining car even thinks about opening. With food on my mind, I dig out my gatorhide notebook and start scratching down recipe ideas. Conspicuously planted in the observation car, my beaded eyepatch and glaringly fuchsia, low-cut dress catch more than a few looks—but I just smirk to myself. I've never been one to turn down free things, and the girls at the Rose were always casting away their old dresses.

Besides, bright colors and shiny things make me happy.

We travel south along the curving mountainside, winding between peaks and rumbling through tunnels as we climb steadily higher, breaking up out of the dissipating fog. After a while the tracks level out just above the lush, wind-whipped tree line. Huge heaps of clouds are building in the bowl of Aijur's Ring, weeping sheets of heavy rain just out range. But as the wind blows them closer, a faint teal light flickers at their core.

Several of the passengers begin to shout, dragging down the iron window covers even before the speakerhorn starts blaring instructions. The last of them locks into place just as an immense clash of thunder breaks, so loud it could be right above us. There's a flurry as everyone fumbles for their earplugs. I jam mine in seconds before the first tortured wail rends the air.

Even with my hearing muffled, the noise is sickening. Gut-wringing. Unreal.

There's nothing that sound won't pierce.

To see the Reapers means death, either immediate or shortly thereafter. To listen to them too long without barrier means madness. Sometimes I wonder if that effect isn't entirely mitigated by our earplugs and window-covers. Maybe we're all going mad, just more slowly than we might've otherwise.

It would make a lot of sense, honestly.

The tension in the observation car is thick as chowder while we wait, most people adding layers to their ear protection as the storm drags on. Earmuffs, scarves, coats, hands. I'm three layers in myself, and still I can hear the screams.

Someone to the other end of the car curls forward and vomits.

Then one of the other passengers—a young woman with rose-gold curls, bronze skin and dark eyes—begins to sing. Softly at first, building gradually into something both strong and gentle, grounding and soothing. Her voice doesn't drown out the Reapers, but it counters them. A cool, thrumming sense of calm flows into my flesh, seeps into my bones. The strained energy in the cabin eases noticeably as more than a few people begin to unclamp their hands from their ears, sighing in relief.

After a little over half an hour, the Reaper storm ceases as abruptly as they always do. Within minutes, window-covers and tension alike are lifted. Outside, the thunderhead of clouds has dispersed into an even gray haze, the rain turned to mist. Chatter fills the empty air once more as the conductors bustle about, cleaning up vomit. More than one person approaches the sensari to thank her, but she keeps her lips pressed together in a smile—nodding and accepting her well-earned praise in silence.

It takes a while for my appetite to return after that. By the time I finally make it to the dining car, we're not far off from our destination—but I'm entirely too hungry to wait. This far into the journey, there's only a handful of other passengers here, all finishing up their food. The menu's expanded since the last time I rode, but it's still not much to boast of. The meal I end up with is a passable orange curry duck made by an ordinary chef.

But I've no ordinary palate.

The sweetness of the orange brightens my mood, the tart and spicy flavors of that and the curry together heightening my senses just a touch as they liven my mind. The fatty gaminess of the duck grounds me, gives me strength.

Before I can finish, a speakerhorn in the car's upper corner announces our imminent arrival in Amoralutra. With the remains of my dinner packaged up and tucked into my largest belt pocket, I make my way back to the passenger cars.

Rows of carriages for hire await outside the train station, ready to cart us up to the palace. I squeeze into a shared coach with three other hopefuls, the cheapest option. None of them seem overjoyed with my company, turning pointedly to face one another in a closed circle as I take the remaining spot.

"So Lex, you decide on how you want to spend your last night on this side of the veil?" The biggest one prods the one beside them with an elbow.

"Oh, right," pipes up the one sitting next to me. "You still think you're gonna find yourself a last-minute lay?"

"I know I will," scoffs the third, shoving the big one right back as he throws an elbow out to dig around inside his brocade vest. Withdrawing a small vial of golden liquid, he holds it forward just enough for the others to see. But as the one beside me reaches for it, he snatches it away, sliding it back into a hidden pocket.

"You didn't," breathes the bigger one.

I can't pretend to ignore them any longer.

"Lover's Luck? You deserve what you get if you actually use that."

The others twist their heads to look at me, but only briefly. The one with the vial curls his lip. The bigger one scoffs. Then their little circle closes in again, and their chattering resumes.

Sucking my next breath through my teeth, I turn my head. Just leave it. There's nothing you can do. But I make a silent note to say something to someone who can once we arrive.

Turning my attention to the window, I watch the decadent, rain-wet sprawl of the city rolling by. As the road climbs higher, the buildings grow sparse—replaced by fern-drenched conifers, waxleaves, and palms. Every thirty paces or so, we pass a tall stone sculpture crowned with moss and flowers or entwined in wisteria, embraced as much by the old growth forest as the trees themselves.

Light drenches the carriage and pours in through the windows as we eventually leave the trees behind us. My heart-rate speeds up, pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs as my former home comes into view. Then that distinctive combination of scents blows in through the window—grass clippings, roses, moonfruit, woodsmoke, stables...the flavors of home. They fill my lungs, drenching me in unwanted memories and warring emotions.

The Palace Amoranti is even more damnably beautiful than I remembered it, cupped between three lush peaks overlooking the rest of the lofty city. Painted lavender by the failing daylight, its pale facades look ethereal amongst the fronds, vines and flowers of the abundant plant life that surrounds it. Twining, intricate reliefs of gods and beasts look out from the walls, peering through the greenery as if from another world.

Of course, that's just what I can make out from my rat's-eye vantage point, downhill from the palace and its surrounding outer wall. The carriage slows as the road begins to wind, working its way up the steep incline. Traffic crawls to a stop as the first carriage reaches the gatehouse, and the admittance process begins.

Almost two hours later, I've left the cramped coach behind. Nerves still wracked from the process, I remind myself to breathe. You're through. Your documents held up. They didn't recognize you. The next part's a piece of cake.

I don't let myself think too hard about any of that. Even false, half-assed assurances are better than none at this point.

The palace grounds have changed much since last I saw them. The labyrinth—a large swath of the outer crescent dominated by shrubs, fountains, sculptures, and pools—has grown. What's more, tents have sprung up all over like a mutant patch of mushrooms to accommodate the trials and the rest of the Fête.

The other prospectives are all staring slowly around like they've lost their brains, save a few who've obviously been here before. Then, blowing out from the nearest and fanciest of the tents, a pair strides towards us—dressed all in heather, black, and an air of authority. The closer they get, the harder pounds my heart. Because these must be the Trial Directors, and if I lose the trial—well, it's best I don't dwell on that right now. I won't lose. I can't. I'm too amazing.

Instead, I focus on them—the faces of these two arbiters of fate swooping down like a pair of ravens upon a fresh corpse.

They're beautiful.