The road west wound through shadowed forests where spirit influence already crept like ivy. Trees whispered secrets in languages older than man. Moist rode at the head, posture regal despite the fear gnawing her insides. Zebedee rode beside her on a steady mule.
"Tell me again of the old days," she commanded softly as the moon climbed high. "When my children loved me without question."
The priest obliged, his voice a low rumble weaving tales of miracles: rains summoned to end drought, plagues turned aside, barren wombs quickened. Moist drank the words like the sacred water earlier, letting them bolster her resolve.
By dawn they reached the edge of contested lands. Here the air hummed with raw spirit energy. The blazing fire wall towered high, blocking the path.
Moist dismounted near a clearing where ancient standing stones formed a circle, the main boundary between the human nation and spirit kingdom. She bid her retinue wait at a distance. Alone, she stepped into the center and raised her arms.
"Aliadam!" Her voice rang out, carrying on winds that bent to her will. "King of the Spirit Kingdom! I, Moist, Goddess of the Ever-Living Wells, seek parley! Not with blade or deceit, but with open heart and honest tongue!"
The blazing fire answered with silence at first. Then the ground trembled. Fire tendrils uncoiled from the towering flames like waking serpents. A figure materialized from the heat, crowned with a halo of blazing phoenix plumes wreathed in living fire, body clad in smoldering obsidian and flowing rivers of molten light. His eyes burned with golden fire.
"Betrayer," Aliadam growled, voice like deep roots splitting stone. Yet beneath the rage, something else flickered. Recognition. Memory. Hunger not yet slain.
Moist lowered her arms, letting the gown shift to reveal more of her form in the growing light. She stepped forward, hips swaying with deliberate grace, lips parted in a smile both inviting and vulnerable.
"My king of spirits," she breathed, close enough now to smell the flames and grace upon him. "I come not as enemy, but as one who would mend what was broken. Listen to me. Let me show thee the truth of my regret… and the promise of what we might build together."
She reached out, fingertips brushing his chest where light met flesh. The contact sent a spark through them both—old fire, banked but not extinguished.
Zebedee watched from afar, hands clasped in prayer. The goddess had begun her final gambit. Upon its success or failure rested the fate of nations, and her own immortal thread.
The sun rose higher, painting the clearing in gold and green. Moist leaned closer, voice dropping to a silken murmur meant for his ears alone. Tales of unity spilled from her lips—shared prosperity, protected borders, nights filled with passion rather than war. She spoke of human ingenuity complementing spirit wildness. Of children born of both bloodlines. Of herself, bound willingly to his side.
Aliadam stood unmoving, but his breathing deepened. His hand rose, hovering near her waist as though torn between crushing and caressing.
The game had begun in earnest. And in the north, the lamentations of her people waited for word of salvation—or the final crumbling of all she had wrought.
"What do you say, Aliadam?" Her grey orbs fastened upon his hazel ones, striving to keep that unyielding gaze. She hoped the look would bind him to her will. "Consider what we might accomplish together—what blossoms our alliance might bear." She bit her lower lip, a practiced, languid motion meant to enchant.
"I know thou can scarcely bring yourself to hate me, Aliadam," she went on, each word oiled with insinuation. "And I—have learned my loathing is mirrored. I cannot endure to hate you either. Is that not a sign we should cast off the past and begin anew? In truth and trust. Together we would be a force none could fathom—mightier than Lucifer and Sheba." Her throat fluttered when Sheba's name touched the air; she swallowed hard and steadied herself, lest he glimpse the blaze of hatred that scorched beneath her civility.
It was no secret she harbored a burning for Sheba, though she strove to keep that fire hidden. Better that Aliadam's mind dwell on her offer than stray to rivalries that might weaken her case.
"All Cullen and the five races shall bow beneath our feet," she purred, "and above all, our love shall flourish." She reached for his hand—
—and an arrow cleaved the space between them. It struck true, parting the air with a whisper and embedding itself in the tree trunk steps away. Moist flinched back, fury white on her face. She whirled toward the projectile's origin. A jagged hole gaped in the wall and there she stood.
Moist's eyes met hers. The newcomer's face was strange and plain in a way that repelled Moist; disgust tightened her mouth.
"Vile spirit!" she spat. "How dare you?" Her hand rose. The air around her exhaled a silvermisted breath that unraveled into a thousand luminous threads. They coiled like living filament, seeking purchase on Vesper's meridians and stance.
Aliadam moved as if to scorch the threads with flame, but Oran stepped between them as a blade of wind. With swift, clean motions his swords sang and severed many of the glowing strings, shortening their reach.
"Are you well?" Oran turned upon Vesper, his amber gaze sweeping her as though to test every tendon and bone.
She nodded, cheeks warmed by the heat of his scrutiny.
Aliadam felt an unfamiliar burn when Oran intervened—a strange inversion of his usual dominion. He was the one who brought the fire; to feel it returned inwards unsettled him.
"How dare you save her from me?!" Moist's cry snapped through the courtyard. Rage soaked her tone.
"She dared assail the human goddess," she declared, fixing Oran with a gaze like ice. "Consider the gravity of your offence." Her voice sought to cloak contempt under righteous outrage.
Oran's mien did not flinch. He was of the spirit realm, and though Moist's fury simmered, she measured him with caution. He might be of high rank upon the council—perhaps one whose word Aliadam obeyed. She curbed her ire; better to be courteous for now.
"I care not for your judgement," Oran said, his voice cold as autumn stone. "I serve the spirit-kingdom, and to me she holds greater regence than you can boast."
"Nonsense!" Moist scoffed. She narrowed her eyes, closing them for an instant as she probed Vesper with hidden senses, seeking the crest of her origin. "A mere…" She hesitated, and then spat, "tortoise spirit." Laughter curled from her lips like poison.
"Even the weakest priest of my sanctum bears more power than she," Moist continued with hauteur. "She is of no consequence—no nobility. How dare she break upon my counsel with the spirit-king? Is this the standing of your king you spirits?" Her voice rose; she wore victimhood like a gauntlet and flung blame as if it were a shield.
Aliadam's patience thinned like parchment near flame. His eyes grew stern until they thundered.
"She is my Hand!" he boomed. Moist's tongue stilled as if struck. The air held its breath.
"She is the second most reverend spirit in all the spirit-kingdom after myself, and you have most utterly disrespected her." Aliadam's voice was iron; each syllable hammered the point home.
"She—she is your Hand?" Moist stammered, the surprise breaking her practiced composure. "H-how?"
"I made her my Hand," he said simply. The answer carried no flourish; the weight lay in the action.
Moist's lids flicked at the news, shock altering the countenance she displayed to the world. She recomposed herself as swiftly as a learned actress.
"Well." Her smile was saccharine. "She should have been more polite to me, then. Typical of the lowborn. I expect little from such stock." She cast a disdainful look at Vesper and again attempted to steer the scene back to her designs. "Now—let us return to my proposal, Aliadam."
"I must first consult with my Hand," he answered, calm and resolute. His voice was a banked hearth—steady and implacable.
"The tortoise?!" Moist's finger jabbed at Vesper in sheer affront.
"Yes, Moist." He nodded once, as if that settled the matter.
"This concerns us—our union, our love. What great deeds would not spring from such a bond? She has no right to be privy to it." Moist's words dripped with wounded entitlement.
"She is my Hand. She has every right," Aliadam replied. "Besides, I remember well what befell the last time I set aside my Hand's counsel." Pain laced his tone, a remembered wound that made Moist avert her face.
"I will discuss it with her—and that is final." His will was a closed gate.
Moist swallowed a sigh and yielded for now. She had anger enough; patience, for the time being, was her sharper weapon. There would be time enough later to weave him back to her as she pleased.
"When may I expect an answer?" she asked, voice smooth as polished marble.
"My Hand shall decide," Aliadam replied curtly. He reached for Vesper's hand—no ceremony, no pretense—took it, and led her down the cleared path into the kingdom. Oran fell into step at their heels. Once they slipped from sight the flames folded and sealed the way behind them.
"What insolence!" Moist's cry clawed the air. Her pride writhed like a trapped beast. Aliadam's disregard, shown to her in favor of a mere tortoise, gnawed at the roots of her control.
"Temper your wrath, great goddess," Zebedee and the others bowed in haste and fear. Their obeisance was a balm she scarcely felt.
"He tries my patience, Zebedee. I must contrive a way through this." Her hand clenched so tightly her knuckles blanched.
"What would you have me do?" Zebedee asked, dread tucked behind duty.
"To reclaim my place within Aliadam's heart, I must slay the tortoise." The words left her like a blade. There was no tremor in them—only the hard, cold promise of murder disguised as remedy.