The rain had begun again. It tapped gently against the glass panes of Mary's bedroom, a soft rhythm that usually soothed her.
She sat on the edge of her bed, eyes half-lidded, brushing the edge of a leather-bound journal, with gold embroiled on the spine, with her fingertips. A candle burned beside her, untouched. Its wax had dripped down into a small crater by now, flickering as if uncertain whether to die out or not.
She had been writing, or at least trying to. But her mind was elsewhere - still stuck on the events of the past week. The ceremony, the heretics, the dreams that wouldn't leave her.
A voice caught her attention outside her door - two servants murmuring just down the hallway.
"...Regent's calling for his personal guard. Got a distress signal from the Inner Rim."
"I heard Lord Arthur sent it. They say it's serious. The soldiers are already assembling-"
Mary shot up.
Damian.
The name shot through her mind before anything else. She didn't even bother slipping on her shoes as she threw the door open. The two servants jumped as she burst into the hallway, wide-eyed and breathless.
"Where is the Regent? Tell me - now."
One of the servants - an older man with thin hair and a worried expression - stepped forward cautiously. "My Lady, you've been ordered to remain in your quarters. The Regent gave specific instruction-"
"Do I look like I care about his instruction?" she snapped, her voice cracking with raw panic. "Where is he?"
"My Lady, please-"
"No! Something's happened-I can feel it!" Her hands trembled as she grabbed the younger maid by the shoulder, shaking her slightly. "Is it Damian? Did something happen to him?"
The servants exchanged glances, then - perhaps out of guilt or fear - relented.
"He's at the western gate. Preparing deployment."
Mary was gone before they could say another word.
---
Cassian was halfway through organizing some men when he saw her storm toward him through the heavy courtyard rain, eyes blazing with fury.
His face tightened. The Regent doted on his niece a lot, but now was not the time for affection.
"You disobeyed a direct order."
Mary didn't even slow down. "Tell me what's happening."
"You were told to stay in your room."
"Tell me."
Cassian's jaw clenched, and for a moment he looked like he might refuse - but then he exhaled sharply, as if realizing how pointless it was. He turned and signaled to one of the officers behind him.
"Get my niece a coat. Shes coming with us."
---
The Garden of Yarrow was smoke and cinder.
The glass walls of the nearby greenhouse had shattered inward, shards crunching under the soldier's boots. Burnt vines twisted along the marble path, and petals from blackened flowers floated gently through the air.
Mary rushed ahead of the men before anyone could stop her.
She found them quickly.
Arthur - bloodied, barely conscious, slouched against a broken pillar.
And Damian.
Sprawled on the ground. Pale. Eyes closed. He looked more like a corpse than a person.
She knelt by his side instantly, her hand flying to his chest.
"Sano."
A soft golden light glowed beneath her fingers. But nothing changed.
Arthur stirred weakly behind her. His voice was a low rasp.
"Don't bother. He's... not hurt."
Mary's eyes flicked to Damian's face. Sweat beaded across his forehead, but he was breathing. Faintly. His skin had gone clammy.
Then she saw it.
A faint black pattern etched across the right side of his face, spiderweb-like lines that shimmered faintly before retreating beneath his skin, like ink bleeding backward into paper.
Her breath caught.
"What... what is that?"
Arthur said nothing.
She turned to him slowly.
"What the hell is that?"
He didn't speak.
Her jaw clenched. She stood, walked over to him, and slapped him across the cheek.
Arthur blinked slowly - as if the hit hadn't hurt, but merely annoyed him.
"What happened to him?" Her voice trembled now. "What did they do to him?"
Arthur stared at the ground. Then at Damian.
"It's not what they did," he said quietly. "It's what we did."
Mary's expression collapsed.
"...What?"
"You wouldn't understand."
"Then help me understand." She clenched her fists. "You all act like he's a tool. Like he's disposable. But he's not. He's..."
She trailed off, words catching in her throat.
Arthur studied her for a long moment.
"You care for him." It wasn't a question.
Mary looked away.
Arthur let out a tired breath, rubbing his uninjured temple with the back of his wrist.
"Young people always throw their hearts into things faster than their minds can follow," he muttered. "Especially when it feels like no one else is listening."
Mary didn't answer.
"...You should keep your emotions in check, you'll scare him off." Arthur's voice had softened, more human than before.
She gave him a surprised look.
He offered a faint shrug. "That kind of truth comes with a cost, and that boy doesn't like paying anything that isn't transparent. You don't want to give him something he's not ready to carry."
She nodded slowly.
"Don't tell him how I acted tonight."
Arthur smirked faintly.
"My lips are sealed."
---
Light.
It was warm against my face, like a soft press of comfort that refused to be ignored. It filtered in from the right, where thick, heavy curtains swayed in the wind like lazy dancers. The chill of the breeze met the heat of the sunlight in a perfect mix that, for one damn second, made me believe the world outside wasn't falling apart.
I exhaled slowly.
The bed I lay on was disgustingly soft. Like clouds dipped in silk. My back was cradled, and for the first time in what felt like years, my limbs weren't tense, and my mind wasn't clawing to stay awake.
I blinked a few times, the haze of sleep still clinging to my thoughts like cobwebs. I pushed myself up with a grunt, wincing at the dull ache across my ribs and spine. My throat was dry, and my body reminded me it had been through hell - but all things considered, I should have been worse off.
Much worse.
As my eyes adjusted to the amber morning light, I spotted a small chair beside the bed. Ornate wood, the back shaped like curled vines. A leather-bound journal rested on the cushion, spine embroidered with thin strands of gold, like it had been touched by nobility.
Next to it sat a pen, thin and sharp-looking, as if it might stab back if misused.
Huh.
I squinted at it. The journal had clearly been placed there intentionally. Which meant someone had been in here with me. Recently even.
Gods, hear my prayers...
I let out a groan and flopped back onto the mattress, my body melting into the softness again. I stared at the ceiling. Gold-lined crown molding, no cracks or water stains in sight. Fancy as hell.
Figures. The rich even bleed in silk.
My thoughts drifted back to the greenhouse. The bishop. The Hierarch. The words. His smile. The ash.
I rubbed my eyes with the heel of my palms, pushing the sand out of my eyes.
It wasn't the physical pain that got me. It was the mental weight. Like I'd walked halfway through death, seen a little too much, and left a part of myself behind.
"You're special,"? I doubt it.
That wasn't comforting. That was terrifying. The last thing I wanted to be was special.
My thoughts scattered like leaves in wind. I didn't want to dwell on it right now, especially in such a comfortable environment.
Hell, what I wouldn't give for a television. Or a movie. Or just a stupid video game. Something with flashing lights and explosions and a nice safe plot line where I could sit on the couch and press buttons instead of being the button.
I yearned for dopamine, and a planned lifestyle where I knew exactly what my day would entail. Simple modern luxuries seemed all the more out of reach each day I lived here.
"Maybe even a microwave burrito," I muttered to no one, staring blankly as my stomach rumbled.
The door clicked open.
My head turned lazily, muscles too comfortable to panic.
Cassian stepped in.
His coat was folded over one arm, and he wore a simple dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the forearms. No armor. No medals. No cane. No death-glare.
Just him.
Casual.
Or, well... as casual as someone like Cassian could look.
Bastard.
He paused when he saw me awake. Raised an eyebrow slightly.
"Good," he said, his voice more neutral than usual. "You're not dead."
"Don't sound so disappointed." I muttered, moving my arms behind my head so I could look at him without sitting up.
"You sound suspiciously nice, whats the catch?"
Cassian looked at me, and replied like it was obvious.
"You got injured under my orders. "I'm cutting you some slack", as they say. Enjoy it while it lasts, since it won't last for long."
I rolled my eyes a bit, and stared at the ceiling.
"Thanks, your lordship."
Cassian didn't reply to that. He glanced at the chair beside me, spotted the journal, and gave it a brief once-over before sitting down across from me.
"That doesn't belong to me," I said, nodding to the book.
He tilted his head slightly, one brow arching.
"No, it doesn't." He picked it up delicately, inspecting the spine. "Someone left it behind when they visited."
I raised an eyebrow. "I had visitors?"
He didn't answer.
Just placed the journal back where it had been.
Subtle bastard.
I sighed, slumping again against the headboard.
"So. You're here to check on me, or interrogate me?"
"Both."
Fair.
He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped. His face got more serious, and he kept eye contact with me.
"Tell me everything, don't spare a single detail" he said. "The fate of this city lies in what you tell me now."
I closed my eyes for a second, dragging a hand down my face. I already knew I couldn't tell him everything. Hell, I probably couldn't tell him half of it.
"Where do I even start…"
I gave him the short redacted version. The greenhouse. The Bishop. The Heirarch. His words, minus the nobles conspiring with the eastern Empire. The fire. The fact I was exposed to the Veil. I didn't mention Charlotte - obviously.
Cassian listened quietly, his face unreadable. Only the occasional flicker of his fingers or twitch of his jaw gave anything away.
When I finished, he leaned back, exhaling slowly through his nose.
"You're lucky to be alive."
"Feels more like a shitty prank than luck," I muttered.
His eyes drifted again to the journal beside me, then back to mine.
"You made an impression."
"On who?" I asked. But the answer was already obvious.
Cassian didn't smile, but something in his expression shifted. Like he wanted to say something else - but didn't.
Great. More unspoken riddles.
He stood up, brushing nonexistent dust from his pants.
"I'll have food sent up. And someone to look at your shoulder."
"It's not my shoulder."
He stopped at the door.
"Still. Get some rest."
I watched him go.
The door clicked shut, and silence returned. My eyes drifted again to the journal, sitting neatly on the chair like it had been placed with care.
Gold. Clean spine. Fancy pen.
I sighed again, dragging a pillow over my face, suppressing the urge to scream into it.
"Don't tell me I've got the attention of Miss Batshit."