Heed me. It will come to pass.
Let down your walls.
Let me roam free.
When I bathe in this city’s blood, I will leave a piece of her for you.
I will give you her eyes as a gift.
For your loyalty.
For being my prison for so long.
17
Woven
The Turning of the Mirrors became a source of gossip in the Lattice, and even days after the event, Auryn could not be certain whether it worked in her favor or not. For the most part, things remained unchanged. After decades, she was used to the reproachful and disgusted glares of Councilors and Attendants.
But now, she worried as to whether the People's unexpected show of devotion to the Sokâr would somehow bar her even farther from the Axis Hall. Her list of alliances was strained. Thin. Though Kailorien told her not to fret over it, she couldn't help but do so.
More days passed without reprieve from the strange heat, blurring together until one morning—eight days after the Estâr—Lu’ma walked into the Resh’Agar’s wing carrying a perfumed scroll tied with zerani blossoms. Though Auryn hadn’t been active in the Jade Lattice’s social sphere for decades, she knew the moment she saw those pink and gold blossoms what the missive was about.
“An invitation to the Grace,” she said, and Lu’ma nodded.
The Pouring of Grace was a ceremony held in honor of the Companions once a Cycle, particularly after the completion of Estâr. It was an afternoon of leisure, rare tea, and heavy conversation. Councilors of influence were invited. District representatives, too. Anyone with ties to the Companions who wanted to bask in the glory of their achievements.
Auryn had never attended it. Even if she’d received an invitation, she would not have gone. Sitting on a balcony for hours while sipping tea that was likely poisoned as she tried to ignore the glares of Councilors, Companions, and other political figureheads seemed like self-inflicted torture. She didn’t have the political standing, influence, or reputation for the benefits to outweigh the risks.
But this time was different.
It was time to stop running.
Time to stop wondering how much influence she had.
Time to start building from scratch, if she must.
When Lu’ma extended the delicate scroll to her with a neutral expression, Auryn nodded.
“I will attend.”
Lu’ma’s brown eyes hardened. She raised her hands to sign, ‘Your Radiance, please allow this Nameless to go to the Servitor. There are gowns there. Reserved.’
“For Grand Festivals and Processions,” Auryn sighed. “Not for social calls.”
Lu’ma frowned. ‘Your Radiance. His Quintessence placed the order for new gowns only two days past.’
Auryn smiled. “And Zeera knows it. That is precisely why I have been invited. Either I decline and lose face, or I come to the event wearing a torn dress.”
She opened the scroll, admiring the impeccable penmanship and artistry of the invitation. The paper was thick and scented, the ink fine and sharp. This invitation alone must have cost several Gleams; an entire Cycle’s stipend for the Sokâr.
Setting it aside on Kailorien’s worktable, she padded to the dresser. Her one single gown hung there, the seam at the hip still crooked. Once,it had been white and pristine, but time had painted it a yellow hue. Its long sleeves, which had once trailed behind her like floating blossoms, now sagged—limp and lifeless.
Beside it hung one of her few remaining shifts and her glowshawl, the one luxury she’d allowed herself since arriving in this city nearly fifty-four years past.
As her mind churned, Lu’ma stepped in front of her. She was shaking her head.
‘Your Radiance, the look in the Sokâr’s eyes unsettles this Nameless. Your Radiance is ill. Please. Do not act in haste.’
