‘This Nameless knows the selection is meager,’Lu’ma signed.‘This Nameless will not allow this negligence again. Batcher observed. Plan in motion.’
Small hands reached out to stopLu’ma’s words in mid-air. Her Radiance shook her head, eyes fierce.
“No. You must not risk yourself on account of meals, linens, or anything of the sort. These small discomforts do not trouble me.”
Small discomforts?
Lu’ma’s eyes noted the way Her Radiance’s breath fogged the air. How her hands were colder than the stone beneath the Attendant’s feet.
‘A discomfort is a bruise, Your Radiance,’she signed.‘This is dishonor. The Sokâr’s wellbeing was entrusted to This Nameless.’
“I am well. Not ill. Not injured. I am…safe…” Her Radiance insisted.
‘His Quintessence must know of this,’Lu’ma signed.‘He must know that the Sokâr is not treated according to the sacred Law.’
Her Radiance paused at that. Her hands returned to her lap. She glanced at the tray, her brow furrowing, her fingers once more stroking the golden braid at her shoulder.
“This comfort, too, he bought with his memories,” she said. “And it is for that reason that I must endure. Until he returns. Until I know if the magic has erased me from his heart…”
She did not finish her thought, only picked up the spoon and began to eat. Lu’ma’s knees would have softened had she not been kneeling. Relief. Aching relief. Each bite Her Radiance took brought overwhelming gratitude.
Safe to report: Duty carried out. Host consuming sustenance.
Not safe to report: The name persists, and This Nameless can no longer deny its pull.
Lu’ma.
It echoes.
Hands do not have names.
But thisHand answers.
And somewhere beneath the choker on her neck, something tightened.
Not magic.
Not Doctrine.
Something else.
Something that would not be silenced.
1
In Reckoning
On the last Starwake of the year, Iridias Savarax—the Resh’Agar—returned home to Krystopolis after an absence of fifteen years. He and his Kelvasari crossed the vast expanse of the Maw using the Arc of Mourning, a single narrow bridge which crossed the bottomless chasm and ran up to the only gap in the city’s Shields.
Once, the Shields had encompassed the entire Maw. Then, it was known as the Mar District. Living souls had called it home — thriving, praying, trading. Until, one day, the Shields began to shrink. Century by century, the magic dwindled, contracting and leaving whole Districts unprotected from the elements.
Rifts devoured some during Cycles of Dark. Others froze during Ice and never woke again. Most recently, a Cycle of Growth birthed roots from the deepest part of the earth. They grew until they filled the Daesa Major. Only the Shields kept the city from their ravenous fangs and acidic blood.
But the Ræ District had been swallowed whole, and once the plants were finished with their feast, they withdrew to hunt elsewhere. In their wake, the earth collapsed, forming the Maw. Years were spent recovering. Building the Arc of Mourning; finding a way to stop the Shields from withering.Yet centuries later—even with the Resh’Agar to feed the Shields' magic—the Lattice had no answer to the threat.
“Your Quintessence,” a rough voice called behind Resh.
Thrassus, his loyal second. A Reskala with lineage and prowess that could have rivaled Zarrek’s once.He wore a thick fur coat to protect him from the last vestiges of the Cycle of Ice.
