"They waited for the Sokâr. For the Resh'Agar to find their prophesied chosen. His sacred consort. But notme. They do not approve of me. They never have." Her hand tightened, crumpling a wad of parchment in her fist. "But I am not a blade to be tempered. I am not stone to be hewn from its mountain and sanded into the shape of Doctrine. I am myself, Lu'ma."
The Attendant stayed silent, unable to find words to comfort her Host. So, she asked questions instead.
'And Your Radiance believes the ceremony with His Quintessence was held to silence them?'
"Yes," the Sokâr answered. She tossed aside the crumpled paper in her hand and lifted a large tome into her arms. "The Rite of Scars is a privilege granted to the Resh'Agar to overrule the Council, even the Sovereign Flame. A break in the balance of power. Most tomes speak of price paid in blood, but this is all surface conjecture…"
She flipped through the pages, an unhealthy glint in her eyes.
Obsessive. Fierce.
"This is the only place it is mentioned. The truth of it. That there is magic. That ittakesfrom him. Because the Void must be impartial.Hemust be impartial. And anything that affects that is erased." She bent forward over the book, pressing her forehead to the pages. Her shoulders shook.
"It took his memories…I cannot say how much…"
No words came to Lu'ma's tongue. Not even questions. The grief in Her Radiance was so profound that Lu'ma flinched from it as she did from all emotion.
Hands do not feel. Hands do not reflect. Hands only serve.
This Nameless must serve the Host.
Safe to report…
Safe…
But nothing came.
She took a breath.
Not safe to report: Her Radiance has found the answer she has searched for. More than two decades of reaching for relief, only to find pain instead. Trusted this Nameless with truth. With her fear. That if His Quintessence returns, he will not remember his Sokâr.
Reflection: How can this be? The Sokâr is the Resh'Agar's sacred counterpart. How can they guard the Shields together if one does not know the other?
Safe to report…
Safe…
But still, nothing came.
Hands do not disobey. The Choir Mother’s orders demand the condition of the Sokâr. A report must be made.
Hands give reports. Pass information.
But…
Hands do not have names.
And this Hand isLu’ma.
The silence stretched long between them until Lu’ma shifted the tray closer to Her Radiance.
‘Please. Eat today. Your Radiance must eat.’
The Sokâr looked down at the food, still warm and steaming in the enchanted tray. Her silver hair was tightly braided and pinned atop her head beneath an ivory diadem, save for a single thin braid of gold threaded with a violet ribbon. This strange thing that did not match the rest of her moonlit strands. This bit of hair that Lu’ma was never allowed to touch. Always at her shoulder, carried like a scar.
Her Radiance touched it now. Stroked the soft gold strands, the violet ribbon threaded into them.
Safe to report: The Sokâr touches the golden braid when emotionally compromised. This ritual remains unchanged.
