#what color is Florin's hair anyway?

[tlozypaka-tina]

Rejuv v13.5 teaser observations and theories! (Before public release)

First of all, I want to put out there I was not a Beta tester so I don't know how right or wrong I am about any observation made here. I could be overthinking things! But that's half the fun in theorizing!

Second of all, I implore every single one of my followers who happen to see this post but haven't played Rejuvenation: This huge post will contain HEAVY SPOILERS for v13!! I don't want to ruin your experience of the game so please try it out once 13.5 releases!!

Anyway time to word vomit an essay:

Prelude: Abbreviations and concepts to be used later on.

OA: Original Aevium. Before the reset (Revealed as of v13)

(to be added)

Part 1: Trailer themes and iconography.

Archetype symbol: The center of it all.

Core symbol/Interceptor: Appears at the end. The colors associated with the Core are Blue (Active) and Orange (Inactive)...which can be seen when the butterfly flies away at the midpoint. Something to keep in mind.

EDIT: The butterfly in question! Could be attributed to "Butterfly effect".

Karma (?): 1st image is the Karma indicator in game, 2nd and 3rd are trailer images with different details added and removed. 3rd one is speculation and could have different meaning.

Alright, now that I've established the most prevalent images that constantly come up in the trailer, I can start discussing the contents themselves and what the overall theme seems to be.

A big point in the trailer is the diagram depicting a pathway and connections, which all seem to be connected to an entity. The first 4 characters we saw are our core friend group: Ren, Aelita, Venam and Melia. There are 2 types of dots present in this first instance alone: A simple black dot, and a dot with extra layers. The simple ones are assigned to Aelita and Melia, while the other ones to Venam and Ren. Is this coincidental or is foreshadowing something??

I can only conclude, aided with the name of the update being .karma files, that the Main theme of this trailer is Karma and Connections. Are the consequences of our choices and actions going to finally unravel?

Part 2: Characters present, points in common.

The Theolia family (except Maria/Marianette)

Amber, Kenneth, Kreiss, Talon, Venam, Alice* and Allen* (Gym leaders)

Tesla (Elite 8)

Spacea and Tiempa + Kanon, Melia and Jenner (Stormchasers)

Hazuki is the only Protector of Aevium present of Nymieras' time.

Ren (Outlier 1 in these subgroups)

??? (Outlier 2)

Mr. Luck (Outlier 3)

Part 3: Missing faces and inconsistencies.

Ren's positioning in the trailer makes it so he is the only character in the trailer without a title on the upper right corner.

Mr. Luck. What does he have to do with all of this? All of them?

No team Xen admins...at all. Not even Madame X.

Gym leaders missing: Martin, Crawli, Valarie, Adam, Saki, Lavander, Texen, Flora/Florin, Spector, Narcissa, Souta, Ryland, Erick.

Damian and Alexandra.

Nymiera.

Elite 8 + champion missing (except Tesla).

No interceptor hosts or Ana.

Nim absent.

No signs of Nancy.

Garufa inc. is supposed to be defunct at this point in time, yet the interface we access to see all these files is from garufa inc...

Of course, the characters omitted could be simply because of space and the briefness of the teaser, but then the question would turn into: what do the characters that were included have all in common?

Part 4: Elephants in the room - Jenner, Melia and Corrupted File.

We got 3 hidden details as sneak peaks for 13.5! Seems to be 1 new character and 2 new looks for existing ones: those being Melia and Jenner who look....quite different.

Looking at all official art of Melia as of v13 (redesign of second iteration omitted but the hair is the same), it seems her new look could fit in after her 3rd iteration (going to the past arc, or the stormchasers arc, whatever we wish to call it) but before her awakening and current attire (4th pic) although the way the sidebang is positioned and her clothes are....off.

It doesn't quite feel like the Melia we know- the only time she has shown her shoulders has been in her 1st iteration, when we met her, afterwards her outfits are more conservative and white is the dominant color. This time, it's black.

Of course, this is a sneak peak of the outfit so we don't know anything else, but it's curious to see such a drastic change...also, it seems to be longer than her stormchasers fit, but shorter than her current version.

EDIT: This doesn't take in account the fact that Zumi's artstyle and way of drawing Melia's bangs may have evolved, but as an artist myself, I do find the choice veeeeeeeeery curious.

My friend Vance pointed out that she both looks a bit like Amber and that her expression resembles Melanie's VS battle sprite. Hm...

EDIT: The comparison!

Also! @spar-kie has pointed out that Melia is wearing eye-shadow in this image! That's definitely out of character for her!

As for Jenner, a recent ask answered by Zumi threw into question the possibility of this being a Past!Jenner...so is this an alternate version of him, or a change in appearance after he was trapped in Nim's pocket dimension??

As for the mystery character...I can't say anything about them because the name tag is glitchy, has an error and there is no picture to give us and inkling of who they are. Regardless, they seem to be very important this version for it to be teased this early.

Part 5: Crack theories and conclusions

The trailer is from the perspective of the Interceptor accessing the information from Zeight as it was teased at the end of V13. Would fall in line with the way the characters are shown as Data and Files. They are also the center piece that connects all these characters together and fits the theme of Karma and Connections.

Related to above...but different. The information shown is from OA, not current Aevium, which is why the trailer is Glitchy and has a corrupted file...maybe a character that shouldn't exist persists in Zeight's data despite the reset? Would also explain why Melia and Jenner look different as they may have had different fates in the OA. (Observation made by my friend Vance!!)

These are all my current observations after analyzing the trailer like a normal person!! After one day!! There are things I haven't quite touched but I'll edit this post after I get home because there is a lot of things I want to improve and I need to let this thoughts into the world before I forget and this week passes by-

Feel free to discuss in the tags, by rebloging and adding into the post or replies!!!

I'm so excited for v13.5!!!

[leonthecardboardunicorn]

[mariegreythepoet]

Eighth Sister

Part 1: The Girl With the Fire Token

Chapter 1: In Which a Crazy Girl Fights a Mage

“Adjust, Elle!”

“Now?”

“Better.”

“Good,” Elibeth Everton kept her eyes closed, resisting the urge to laugh. Ben was too much of a perfectionist for his own good. In fact, he was sometimes so perfect that Elle resented him for it. She’d never say something like that to his face though. Not here at least, where other Guild mages could eavesdrop.

“Careful,” Ben chided, touching the edge of her arm, “I could topple you in two seconds. A stance like this will never last against the Seventh Sister.”

Elle rolled her eyes, “Yeah right, the Seventh Sister.”

“I’m serious, Elibeth.”

“Serious as a clown.”

“The Seventh Sister is real…”

“Sure she is,” Elle relaxed, lowering her practice sword and stepping out of her ready position. She’d never once believed the stories about the Seventh Sister. They were all too wild, too crazy.

A girl who can call shadows to her hands. A monster who can topple empires. A demon who has come to claim her power.

Each story was more ridiculous than the last.

Ben stepped in front of her, unwilling to give in yet, “But Elle, what if she’s the one who took your father?”

“What interest would she have in my father? Besides, he disappeared months ago,” Elle twirled a small piece of hair around in her fingers.

It was true. Her father had left two months ago on a business trip to the Florin Empire and had never returned. Elle still didn’t know why. Was he done with her? Had he decided to just leave her by herself - alone? Elle supposed it would make the most sense.

After all, she’d been adopted as a young child from a difficult home. Maybe all that time she’d been a burden on him, a burden that eventually grew too large to handle. That was not the Seventh Sister’s fault.

“Elle…”

“My life isn’t your concern anyway, Ben.”  Elle said.

She marched around him and moved towards the door, drawing glances from other trainees around her. Joining this dumb Guild was a mistake.

The large, oak wood doors opened easily for Elle, allowing her to walk through. On her way out, she left her training sword near the entrance.

“Elle, wait, I’m…”

“I decided I’m done for the day,” Elle muttered. And then she slammed the door behind her.

~~~

Elle leaned back on the small park bench. Her short, silvery white hair fell down into her face as she examined the bright blue sky above her. Only a few more days. Then she could leave this skies-forsaken kingdom and move to Elemen - a beautiful place with no bad memories and no fake rumors. Elemen was the place to be. The place for her to be.

She smiled.

And just like that the moment was gone, broken by a small flash of color that flew over Elle’s vision, distracting her. She let out a low sigh. First Ben and now this. She sat up. Her eyes wandered to where the colorful thing had gone.

A tall girl was standing a few yards away, her arms crossed defiantly. By her feet, a small cat with a blue collar was sniffing the grass. The cat must have been what Elle saw.

“I am not a liar! In fact, I am offended that you’d even say such a horrible thing! My name is Violet and I know the Seventh Sister!” the girl screeched.

Elle rolled her eyes again. This one was worse than Ben.

“Seventh Sister…”

“She’s horrid. I can’t stand her, honestly,” the strange girl waved her hand in the air, as if in an act of dismissal.

Elle scoffed. This girl had no idea what she was doing. She’d probably end up getting herself killed.

“You know nothing, little girl,” a tall man growled. His face was contorted into a look of anger. Apparently he couldn’t handle the strange girl’s cockiness. Whatever. Elle turned away, making up her mind not to care. Instead, she focused on a tall fountain near the middle of the park.

But then the girl spoke again.

“All I want is the man called Philip Everton.”

“Everton? And you say you have information on the…”

“Who are you?” Elle stood up, an angered expression on her face. She stepped in between the man and the strange girl.

The strange girl locked eyes with Elle. It was only at this moment that Elle noticed the girl’s left arm. The arm hung limply at her side, unmoving, immobile. Almost as if it wasn’t real at all. Elle shuddered and the girl noticed her look.

“My name is Violet. Who are you?”

“Elibeth Everton.”

“She’s all yours, Elle. Good luck,” the tall man glared at Violet in disgust. Then he walked away. Almost as if nothing had happened at all.

“What did you say about my father?” Elle’s voice was a hoarse whisper.

Violet blinked. Then she smiled, “I see I’ve found a…”

“My  father, idiot. What do you want with him?”

“I want nothing to do with him. Selene is the one who…”

“Selene?”

“Selene Corlan! My sister! Ah!” Violet yelped as Elle shoved her up against a tree. Their small green space in the park was empty by now, having been completely vacated after Violet’s fight with the tall man.

Violet stared up at Elle, a mix of fear and determination in her blue gaze.

Elle said, “Selene Corlan is currently fighting a war against the Florin Empire. Selene Corlan is a powerful mage under Lord Draven. And you’re saying she’s your sister?”

“Yes,” Violet whispered. Tears glistened in her eyes, “She’s a force of nature. And she’s the Seventh Sister.”

“There is no Seventh Sister.”

“But I know there is! She came with me from the past,” Violet said urgently, “If you are truly Philip Everton’s child, then you must come with me! I know where he is.”

“You’re too trusting,” Elle retorted.

Violet frowned. Her gaze leapt to her bad arm, “I know and I’ve paid for it in full. I’m sorry.”

Violet grabbed a tree branch and began to turn it around and around in her hands - a nervous tick most likely. Whatever. Elle chose to ignore it. She slowly let go of Violet and the girl dropped to the ground. Elle turned around and began to walk back down the sidewalk. This conversation had gotten her nowhere.

“You don’t know what she was like, Selene,” Violet whispered from behind Elle.

Elle stopped in her tracks. Selene. Not the Seventh Sister. Information about Selene Corlan, regardless of any Seventh Sister connection, was hard to come by.

“Was she ever kind?” Elle didn’t know why she bothered to ask.

“No, she was a monster! She was always a monster, but she was a monster with a sweet face, perfect demeanor, and powerful magic. She was hard to dislike. A true Golden child,” the twig Violet had been holding snapped in her good hand.

Elle flinched. That was unexpected.

“That’s why I need your help, Elibeth Everton. We must save your father because he is the only one who ever stood up to Selene.”

“You mean…”

“He came with us!” Violet said urgently, “He was our escort into the new world. And I know where he might be.”

“He came from no other world! You’re crazy! You’re insane,” Elle screamed.

“Yes he did, Lady Elibeth. He came from the past alongside me, Lilly, and Selene. He came to help change the course of the future!”

“Do you even hear yourself?”

“Shut up and listen to me!” Violet yelled, matching Elle’s fury with her own, “Shut up and listen to someone else for once in your damn life!”

“I don’t want to have to fight you,” Elle held up her hands, “I see now that I want nothing to do with you. Leave me be and I’ll be on my way.”

“But I see now that I want you,” Violet responded.

Elle glanced up just in time to see Violet throw something at her feet. She yelped, jumping back, only for a fog of blue-grey smoke to billow up around her. She cursed under her breath. From behind her, she heard a stick break.

“I’m going to kill Selene Corlan. And I need your help,” Violet whispered, right before she slammed a jolt of power into Elle, knocking the girl into unconsciousness.

Now, finally, she could begin.

Elle Everton (Picrew)

To whoever stuck with me through all that: thank you! I promise next chapter will be more exciting!

Tag List: @thespianlesbian100 :)

[kewltie]

The blood hasn’t dry from his sword yet when he comes for Izuku’s head next.

Izuku doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even hesitate as he looks up and meets the gaze of the man who is called the Scourge of the West. Blond hair spun from gold, red eyes akin to the most precious rubies, defined cheekbones that cut across his face and a tall well-built physique framed by several scars of past battles; he is a magnificent figure to behold.

His towering and ominous figure is dyed in color of those he had killed on his way here like pigs to a slaughterhouse but the holy flames of Zcar that surround him is nearly blinding. Blessed by the Light, but forsaken their grace, Bakugou is a godless heathen who had sinned enough for even the gods had abandoned him.

He’s a monster. What a beautiful wretched creature, he is. He has absolutely no right to look like that and commit such atrocities. Even the staunchest heart might fall into temptation for him.  

“You won’t kill me,” Izuku states, his words are grounded in an unshakeable certainty that even heaven couldn’t move.

Bakugou’s footsteps falter right in front of Izuku as he cocks his head in interest. “I won’t?” he muses. “Do you want to test my blade then, priest?” His tone is mocking and full of derision. “I already drew enough blood on this holy ground so why would you be the sole exception?”

“Because I saw it,” Izuku answers him dutifully from the floor. “You were in my dreams. The northern campaign, the siege of Llamus, the subjugation of Florine. I saw it all as though I was there myself when you laid waste to those places. So, I know you, milord, more than I know anyone else.”

Bakugou’s eyes darken to a muted red that reminds Izuku of dried blood. “You’re an oracle,” he says flatly, the tip of his sword is raised toward Izuku’s neck. “The Voice of the Nines. Child of the Gods.”

Izuku lowers his head. “I am but their servant and messenger in this mortal realm,” he says solemnly.

“And what did they tell you about me, Oracle?” Bakugou smirks. “Do you think your measly gods can do anything to stop me?”

Izuku smiles and it’s a brittle one. “I do not wish to harm you.”

Bakugou snorts in disbelief. “You--? Harm me?! Ha!” Shaking his head ruefully, he glares at Izuku. “You’re not the one with a blade pointed toward your throat, Oracle,” he says heatedly. “So chose your next words carefully. I bow to no man, no kings, and especially to no fucking annoying deities who are all absolutely useless.”

Izuku doesn’t flinch, but it’s a near thing. “You won’t kill me,” he says again, voice steady and even as his heart rattles behind his ribcage, “because you need me. I see all, not just you, my lord. The world is laid bare to me.”

For a brief second something too quick for Izuku to catch in time flashes in those fiery eyes. “You’re offering your service to me,” Bakugou says, and it’s not a question.

Izuku’s eyes drop to the floor as he takes a long shuddering breath. His head jerks up once more and he touches the cold bloody blade in front of him.

The sword doesn’t sing. It screams at him. Voices of so many lost souls who were all cut down by this blade are warped into an amalgamation of resentment, anger, and sorrow lashing out at him. Touching it alone hurts Izuku like several thousand needle pressed against every inch of his flesh.

But Izuku perseveres on anyway, holding the tip of the blade between his fingers. “I know you want to unite this continent under your rule and I can make it happen,” he says.

Bakugou raises a brow, lips pursing in displeasure. “You think I can’t do it on my own?!” he demands.

“I think,” Izuku pauses briefly, catching his breath as the sting from the sword resonates deep inside him, “you will conquered this continent in your lifetime and by the time you’re done all that the sun rests on will be yours. But your journey there will be arduous. Dangerous. Wrought with many hardships.”

“There will be many deaths. It may not be yours,” he continues, keeping his voice steady, “but death will come for your people. For your closest friends and allies. While many will fall under your blade, many more will lose their life trying to make your dream come true. Death stalks you, my lord. It won’t come for you personally, but everyone else in your inner circle is fair game.”

Bakugou rips the sword away from Izuku’s grip and he stomps forward, grabbing Izuku’s wrist with his free hand. “Is that a threat?!” he roars.

“It’s your future,” Izuku explains, holding his gaze even as Bakugou’s grip on him turns painful. “I see all and the path you walk is bloody and filled with corpses. Many of them are your enemies, but there are also your friends and allies among them.”

Izuku doesn’t struggle against Bakugou’s hold. “You may be the scourge of this land, but to your beloved people you’re their god and king and they would die for you,” he tells Bakugou. “Let me help you and there will be fewer deaths in your future.”

Bakugou’s eyes narrow. “With my army, I’d stormed your sacred temple, killed your Divine, and spit on the shrine of your gods so why do you want to help me?” he asks, suspicious clear in his voice. “What do you get out of all this?”

Izuku drops his gaze for a moment, breathing in every drop of confident he doesn’t quit feel. “Because I believe I can change you,” he breathes. “That I can salvage your wretched soul from damnation and that alone may save the world.”

Bakugou leans his head back, his entire body trembling. It’s not from anger. It’s laughter. “Save me?!” he demands incredulously. “You think you can save me? Fix me up like I’m one of your broken dolls?” He sneers, squeezing Izuku’s wrist for good measure. “Oracle, you have too much faith in your gods. Or is it because you think too highly of yourself?”

“No,” Izuku shakes his head, “I have faith in you. In your capacity to love.”

Bakugou’s lips twist as his eyes glow with something akin to fire, but Izuku cuts in before he can open his mouth. “I know, without a doubt, of your deep love for your people and your homeland,” he asserts, holding back a grimace as his wrist starts to bruise under Bakugou’s forceful grip, “so if you can even spare a drop of it to the world then there will be fewer deaths in the future.”

“You--“ He drops his hold on Izuku, turning his crimson eyes on Izuku with a burning intent, but somewhere there is also a curious interest. “You’re fucking crazy. But.” He pauses, considering. “I don’t want to kill you, yet, just so I can see you fail and fail.”

“Let me tell you this, Oracle,” he continues, stepping forward right into Izuku’s space, “you can try but all your efforts will amount to nothing. You will live and breathe beside me as you watch everything you love and know burn to the ground. Not even your gods can help you then.”

He extends a hand out and touches Izuku’s cheek. It’s hot. Searing to the touch as if flames are licking his skin in a mockery of a caress. “Know this, by giving yourself to me you’re mine now, Oracle. I will have you until you breathe your last breath.”

Izuku covers Bakugou’s hand with his own, pressing both their hands to his cheek as though he can brand Bakugou’s touch on his skin. “Then, I will make sure I live a long and prosperous life,” he says, staring right into Bakugou’s unforgiving gaze.

A smile is wrung from Bakugou’s face, softening the severity of his looks. It makes him young. Wholesome even like someone Izuku would pass on the street and stop for a moment to look back. It’s the first smile Izuku had seen from him and just for a breathless moment, Izuku’s heart waver ever so slightly.

Tonight, the temple had bled and fell to a man who the gods had long forsaken but to Izuku, Bakugou meant redemption. He knew that this day would come since the first time he had first dreamt of a boy spun from fire and brimstone many years ago. Their path was destined to cross.

But it is Izuku who chosen not to raise a sword against him. Blood begets blood. Death will only bring more death. Izuku’s choice is not pure or kind. His heart is too soft and malleable to cut a man down. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone even if that mean he have made a deal with the devil.

Perhaps he is making a worser choice in the end by not taking the dagger hidden in his sleeve and stab it right into Bakugou’s heart right now in order to end his march of tyranny, but Izuku had took his chance and hope to the gods that this is the right choice for him and the world.

When is a monster not a monster? Oh, they never are.

[amediesrobloxblog]

LONG READ: Blue and Red Puppet AU: The Beauty and the Beast (JOKERP RELATED)

Hello everyone! Before we begin, I would like to mention this is JokeRP related! This involves my blog ( @shards-and-clouds​ ) and Florin’s blog ( @rescueteamrp ), which involves her au known as the Blue and Red Puppet AU. Check out her post on the Blue and Red Puppet AU for an understanding of her AU! However, since my AF3 AU was involved with her AU in JokeRP, she brought up a cursed line in a voice call regarding a recent (well, currently recent) fight between Shard and a HEAVILY corrupted Celesteal/Yawgate Puppet.

I went nuts with the AU.

Anyways, enjoy this cursed story!

Trigger Warnings: Manipulation, Forced Eating, (implied) Stockholm Syndrome

Yawgate, a puppet.

Shard, a Savior.

The two were duking it out in the first level of the troposphere, though redone for a battle. Yawgate’s body and outfit changed to have the signature blues and red stripes of Celesteal racing up his body, a sign he was not in control. Black cracks ran across him as well, indicating the corruption was alive and active. Shard was enraged, her hair white and her body showing the brilliant reds and blues of the stripes her Celesteal had given her. 

However, she refused to lay a hand on Yawgate. She could not bear to lay harm onto him. Why? 

She had viewed her Yawgate as a father figure and she was enraged when Celesteal took the hero’s Yawgate away. She thought she had lost her own father at that point.

But there was no time for such trivial thoughts. She needed to get through to him, but how? She attempted to get close to the puppet that was taunting her in Celesteal’s tone, though the voice was that of Yawgate’s. Reaching out to his head, surely the symbol-shattering that she saw hero Stratosfear do frequently would work.

But it did not.

She would be shocked by this, soon jumping back before the puppet could land a hit onto her.

“Wh..What..?” Shard stammered, staring at her hands. The puppet simply laughed, seeing Shard’s fear.

“Oh, did you think it would be that easy? For me to release a tool?” the puppet asked, though in a taunting manner. Shard would look up to the puppet, wide-eyed and in disbelief. “I would not do such a thing! After all, he always thought of himself as lesser and nothing more than a tool...”

Shard would soon become enraged once more, hating the term “tool” to describe an individual. Cracks would appear in her arms now but would spread into the reality around the two. The puppet would chuckle a bit, easily fixing the cracks in the reality with corruption.

“I really admire your willingness to.. Well... Interrupt my narrative... It’s certainly something I would want...”

“I only interrupt your narrative when you INVOLVE MY WORLD IN IT!”

Shard would try to charge at the puppet again, only to miss the puppet when it jumped above her. Time seemed to slow for Shard as she turned towards the puppet, preparing to strike her. Suddenly, Shard felt a sharp pain in her neck, causing her to gasp, seeing the puppet strike her with the side of their palm. She would tumble down, landing on her side. The puppet would land next to her, grinning, as the world went black.

----

Jolting awake, Shard would sit upright and grip her neck. She would wince when her fingers brush up against a bruise where the puppet had hit her. She would pull her hand back, staring at it until noticing where she had awoken.

The room, though mostly colored in deep grays and blacks, had sparse blues and reds to accent the room itself. Most of the room was filled with ornate and detailed sculpture and decor, and the bed could easily fit four people, yet she was alone. The canopy bed was covered with a light cloth, filtering some of the light out from outside. Shard would remove the comforter off of her, taking in the scene around her. She was a prisoner, right? Why was she being treated like this..?

Shard would crawl over to the edge of the bed, moving the light cloth out of the way to step out. Almost immediately, she was met by two Cherubs, one carrying an ebony wooden tray with a plate of confectionaries, a bowl of assorted berries, tea with the kettle, and a small vase with a rose that was mixed with blue, red, and white. The other Cherub would force Shard to sit down, pinning the light cloth up so it would not dare fall while Shard was eating, while the one carrying the tray would set the tray down in Shard’s lap and force her to eat. 

Shard would resist at first but would give up trying to resist when the food entered her mouth. Wonderous flavors would take her by surprise, distracting her from the second Cherub currently brushing her short hair. The Cherubs would be chittering, though Shard would be overwhelmingly distracted by the food. She would only glance up to the Cherub forcibly feeding her when they mentioned her name.

“Shard, you will be meeting Celesteal in the Grand Library,” the Cherub spoke. Their voice was that of a young woman, likely Stormy. Shard would become lightly paler, swallowing what bits of food she had in her mouth at the time.

“We know how uncomfortable you are, but we have no control over our actions... He wants to see you personally, as far as we are aware,” the second Cherub would speak up, placing a six-pronged symbol into the back of her head, soon bringing out extensions to hopefully elongate her hair once again. Shard would be fearful since she would have to personally meet the mastermind behind this, but, oddly, was thankful he did not place her into a dungeon where she wouldn’t be able to see the light of day... or be turned into a puppet. 

The first Cherub would take the tray away, seeing as Shard had completed the meal. They would leave the rose and its vase behind, but Shard would soon realize that the first Cherub allowed two other Cherubs to enter. She would be pulled to her feet, soon forced behind a curtain to change into a different outfit. 

A dress. One with light airy colors, too, accented with gold. Shard hated the concept, but she didn’t exactly pack a bag for this situation. Reluctantly, she would slip on the dress, hanging her old clothes over the curtain which would be taken away by the two Cherubs, likely to be washed. Or Shard hoped. The cherub that was tending to her hair earlier, being another female, would slip behind the screen with Shard to help get the dress on.

Shard would soon look over to a mirror, seeing the outfit complete. The six-pronged star behind her head made it seem like she was wearing a crown of some kind, and the dress made her seem ethereal, perhaps divine. 

Despite her hated for dresses, she actually... Liked this one. Everything was seemingly made for her, down to the size of the dress itself and to the accents. She gently traced one out, which formed the shape of a fluffy cloud. The Cherub that was attending to her would walk up to Shard in the mirror, gently taking her hands.

“Despite this all being his doing, he made sure it was perfect for you...”

Shard would look down a bit, a bit of color appearing in her cheeks.

“..I still don’t know why he’s doing all this... I’m his prisoner, aren’t I?” Shard would question, looking to the Cherub. The cherub would sigh slightly.

“Perhaps he will explain everything in the Grand Library,” the Cherub would respond, much to Shard’s dismay. “But you simply look divine, Shard.”

Shard would murmur thanks, soon stepping out from the curtain. The Cherubs in the room would surround Shard, making sure every detail of her was correct. Shard would let them do their jobs since she might ultimately have to appease Celesteal to get out of here... 

‘Sure, he’s done terrible things, but... This feels oddly genuine...’ Shard would think, letting one of the Cherubs do just a bit of makeup on her cheeks. ‘It feels... It feels oddly like a warm hug from him. Just like the soft smile he had when I had freed Ploque...’

Shard would place a gentle hand on her forehead, trying to remove the thought. The Cherubs, now finished with their task, would back off as a Puppet appeared in the doorway. Ulipse, despite having the signature stripes and pale white skin of the Puppets, would have a calmer look to her eyes. Shard would look over to Ulipse, soon spotting the gentle look.

‘It’s that soft look again...’ 

“Hello, dear Shard. Are you ready to meet me in person?” the Ulipse Puppet would ask, causing Shard to become flustered slightly. Ulipse would hold out a hand, beckoning Shard to come closer. Mostly out of fear of what could happen if she resisted, she would walk to the Puppet, who would take her hand gently to lead her down the black hallways. 

-----

The Grand Library. It was certainly grand in scale, as Shard would soon feel quite small compared to how high the ceiling is above her. Celesteal would be next to a large cyan orb, depicting many of the worlds he still controls, staring intently into it. Ulipse would bow, soon leaving Shard and Celesteal alone, their task complete. 

Shard would watch Ulipse leave, now knowing she’s at the mercy of Celesteal...

Celesteal, who is completely corrupted, would still be wearing his signature outfit from 300 years prior, though tainted with black in some areas. He would turn to face the Savior, a soft smile appearing.

“Ah, dearest Shard... Lovely to see you here.”

Those lines would cause Shard to become flustered once more. Celesteal would chuckle, walking up to her, and gently taking her hands. Shard would look up to Celesteal, who would meet hers.

“I..”

“Wondering why I did not... End you? I had the perfect opportunity to let you sleep indefinitely... Well, Shard..” Celesteal paused, bringing up one of her hands to gently kiss it. “I would say that I was wrong about you. I had dismissed you as nothing more than just a side character, but once you revealed those brilliant stripes... I was stunned, to say the least.”

Shard would become flustered again, seeing not only his gentle gaze but his calm, non-insane tone in his voice. He was being genuine in front of her! 

“Be my Queen, Shard.”

These words would catch Shard off guard.

 “W-What?” she would stammer, not completely believing these words. Him? Wanting HER to be his Queen?! Nothing seemed to add up. And what of the puppets and her friends?! Celesteal would chuckle, seeing the fear and unwillingness in her eyes.

“Oh, don’t worry, my dear...”

“I’m not worried about you...”

“Then what are you worried about, Shard?”

Shard would look down but would look back up to Celesteal. She would take her hands out of his hands, keeping her hands close to her body.

“The others. The Points you’ve decided to strip free will from, the rescue team... My world! I don’t think I can ever your queen if they are not left alone!”

Shard would turn around, trying to keep her emotions inside of her. Celesteal’s smile would waver.

“Especially Yawgate...”

Celesteal would sigh, smiling once more.

“Oh, so it’s a deal you want? Well... I promise to free them all and to leave them all alone... If you become my Queen.”

Shard would widen her eyes but would look away when Celesteal walked up to her and held out his hand for her to take. She now had to decide what to do.

From the perspective of Shard, she knew all the horrid things this Celesteal had done: revive himself with corruption, puppet the points who had been unable to shatter their symbols, turn the second savior into Verfection with a ruined memory, hunt down the post-points, trick her into giving him a viewpoint into how Stratosfear can shatter symbols, abduct Iruelien for more corruption, abduct Yawgate and turn him into a puppet... And now abducting her. Yet, for some reason, treating her nicely since she is, by all logical means, Celesteal reborn proper. 

Truth be told, Shard wanted to deny this but knowing how she doesn’t want anyone to be harmed and that she has, so far, been treated like a Queen in her own right appealed to her. Her Savior self wanted to save them all, but everything pointed to not believe him. But, why would he have the friendliest tone towards her if it was not genuine? Shard would become flustered again. Maybe she can be a Savior of something more than a shattering reality...

All these thoughts ran through her mind. She feared what would happen if she denied him, being a far more capable reality-bender than her. She would turn to Celesteal, soon raising a hand to his, and gently placing it upon his.

Celesteal would smile, placing his thumb on top of hers, sealing the deal. Shard looks up to Celesteal, soon smiling with a faint blush dusting her cheeks now.

“My Sharp Queen, Shard.”

“My Radiant King, Celesteal.”

[fakexface]

Chapter I

Prologue [ x ]

Ten Years Later

The sun was high in the sky, a horridly hot, blazing thing that made sweat gather upon his brow and drip down between his shoulder blades. But that didn’t matter; his skin wouldn’t blister, only tan. Before him stood a man twice his size with a sword that could cleave him in half, and a smile that promised blood. Turning the xiphos in his hands, he raised the blade before him. He licked his lips, tasting iron and salt, and grinned.

The man lunged, and the crowd around them cheered.

He ducked, turning, leg sliding out to catch the man by the ankles. A quick jerk sent him tumbling forward, and he turned, watching him fall. He wasted no time, lunging forward, the blade poised for the base of his neck, where the spine was weak. A yell surged free as he dove, knees hitting the other’s back, pinning him down, as he brought it down quickly-

“Do you yield?” He asked, panting, as the crowed fell silent. When he received no answer, he let the tip of the blade ghost along the back of his neck, beneath the shock of red hair.

“… I yield.” The man finally spoke into the dirt, pain lacing his words as the crowd roared to life.

A chant began, one of the title the boy had gained. “Songbird! Songbird! Songbird!” Over and over, and the boy let his head fall back, drinking it in. He let it go on for another minute before his lips opened, and he released a single, piercing battle cry that echoed around the small fighting pit, like an eagle crying out. The crowed seemed to grow louder with the sound.

“That’s enough, that’s enough! You’ve all work to be done, still!” A booming voice broke up the cheering, which quickly turned to lighthearted booing. The man on the ground groaned as he rolled over, staring up at the clear blue sky with obvious distaste. “Up, up, Durgin. Go clean that blood off of your face.”

“Mihai, you buzzkill,” Durgin grumbled as he pushed himself up, red hair falling into his face as he doubled over and groaned once more. “Matthias, next time, don’t go for my stomach. You know that’s my weakest point!” He complained, lip jutting out in a pout as he righted himself.

Matthias let out a laugh, shaking dark locks wet with sweat out of his face. “Then it wouldn’t be a fair fight, my friend!” He replied, gaze drifting towards the captain who approached with an amused grin. “Mihai, perfect timing. Care to spar?” A mischievous grin curled his lips as he slid the xiphos back into its sheath with a pleasant hiss.

“Afraid not, my friend,” Mihai replied, shaking his head. He’d recently gotten a haircut, Matthias noticed; the dirty blond strands that had been drifting to below his shoulders had been cut short, bangs falling upon his forehead despite the evidence of him styling them back, cut shorter on the sides. A common haircut among the warriors of Kashim. Still handsome, the cut did nothing to hide the high cheekbones or the vivid blue of his eyes. “I’m here on official business.”

“Official?” Matthias echoed, perplexed.

“Business?” Durgin added, sounding just as perplexed as Matthias.

Mihai nodded, holding out a rolled piece of parchment. “You’ve been summoned, Matthias. The Jor himself wishes to see you.”

The Jor, the reigning King of Kashim, was a man of fierce reputation. Florin the Fearful was what the people of Kashim called him due to his strategic movements during the War of the Songbirds. He had been known to cut down his enemies with little more than a glance and was a terror to face. Matthias would know.

After all, Florin had been the one to abduct him from his home in Cruimore ten years ago.

“Right…” Matthias drawled, taking the parchment and opening it with little grace, tearing the wax seal. The summons was true, it seemed. The message gave little away to what, exactly, this summons was to be. That annoyed him, but there was nothing the captive prince could do. Slowly folding the message up before holding it aloft in his hand, he made sure that Mihai and Durgin could both witness his next minor act of rebellion. Blue flames erupted from his palm, causing the parchment to turn to ash in a matter of seconds.

Mihai let out a soft chuckle beneath his breath. “You truly do have a death wish, don’t you?” Matthias only gave a wink in response. Clearing his throat, Mihai straightened his shoulders and jerked his chin. “Move it, I’m missing dinner with Emrie for this.”

“How is she, anyway?” Matthias asked as he grabbed his shirt, tugging the ivory piece of cloth over tanned, dirt streaked shoulders. “I heard that the pregnancy was taking a toll on her.”

“It is,” Mihai affirmed, lips set in a grim line. “She wakes with sickness each morning, and she complains of small contractions. She is nearing the end, at least.”

Matthias hummed, gaze sweeping the training courtyard as they slowly made their way through it. So many men and women, each with their own story. Some more similar to his own than he’d like to admit. “Will the Jor allow healers to tend to her when the time comes?” He asked casually, hands slipping into the pockets of his muddied trousers.

Mihai’s lack of a verbal answer let him know that it had already been discussed- and denied.

The walk to the throne room was quiet; Mihai had told him all those years ago, when they had just been boys, that the walls had ears and eyes. The only safe place to ever speak of anything of importance was outside of the city- a luxury two boys from separate kingdoms, both stolen from their homes, did not have. Instead, they created a way to speak without words- hand signals, each one meaning a word. They perfected it during their studies, making sure to keep it out of sight of the Master of Words.

No one knew, and that was exactly how they liked it.

The halls were long and pristine, onyx stone carved and polished to a gleaming, smooth perfection. The first time he’d seen the palace, he thought it had been carved from the night itself. The entire exterior was a deep, endless black, with golden trimming and ivory marble columns. The interior gleamed, the onyx intertwined with gold flecks and splashes of rich, deep sapphire, like the cosmos themselves had been pulled from the sky and spread across. Even the floors were a rich black tone.

But the true masterpiece was the throne room.

The doors were huge, carved from ivory and inlaid with gold. Beyond that sat the throne room, a space easily the size of the amphitheater in the Lower Districts. The ceiling stretched high above in a dome, with a great chandelier of sapphires, emeralds, and diamonds dripping down. The steps leading up to the throne were gilded gold, polished daily. The floor was black marble, and the walls were ivory marble. The throne was a giant, terrifying thing, easily spanning the height of two grown men, and came up to a deadly thin point. Carved from onyx, it held the faces of the Five Gods- the Father, the Mother, the Sinner, the Healer, and Maiden Death at the very top, directly over the Jor’s head.

The Jor was a terrifying sight, too. Pale hair that swept long and flowed free, reaching the small of his back, frame a face that seemed to be carved from marble. A strong jawline that held a deep scar on the right side, high cheekbones, an elegant nose and brow, and eyes the color of a stormy sky. He was a tall man, breaching six feet easily, and a mountain of pure muscle beneath armor of bone and black. He bore no crown, for why would a man that was known far and wide require such a thing?

Matthias lowered himself to a knee and bowed his head low, though his gaze strayed from the Jor to the pair that stood either side him. A smile curled his lips at the sight. To the Jor’s right stood his trusted Spymaster, a woman with hair cropped short and skin that rivaled the onyx of the walls. Her eyes were a vivid sky blue with a starburst of brown in her left, and her lips were always painted a shade that rivaled fresh blood. She wore no jewelry aside from a single ring on her left thumb, a simple silver thing. Her clothing was perfect, as always, a rich maroon gown that rose high upon her neck and fell in layers to the floor. Her name was Zoya Kathiu, from the kingdom of Kaalee Ret to the Southeast of Teoterra. She was a terror in and of herself; a master of poisons and the art of the blade, she could take down an entire kingdom with little trouble.

To the left stood Luca, the Jor’s son. He took after his mother in temperament and moral, but his father in his looks. Long hair the color of starlight fell to his waist in an intricate braid that was tossed carelessly over one shoulder. His eyes were a light blue that turned stormy when he was angry, and his lips were a rosy pink. His skin was a shade darker than his father’s, holding a healthy glow to it due to being outside with the soldiers. He wore armor of silver and bone, standing tall and proud. His belt held the broadsword, Sineater, a weapon forged of blood and bone and tears- or so they say. He was a year older than Matthias himself, the oldest of Florin’s three children, and the most mischievous.

“Rise.” Florin spoke, deep voice echoing within the room dramatically. Matthias managed to keep his snort in as he and Mihai rose to their feet in near unison, both standing at parade rest. Florin studied them for a long moment, disgust evident as his gaze swept over Matthias. ‘Good’, he thought to himself, ‘let him be disgusted.’ “There’s whispers of an uprising within the border towns. Have you heard of this act of defiance?” The question startled the prince, and he found himself staring at the Jor in confusion for a solid minute before finding his voice. Did he suspect that Matthias was part of this uprising- or the sole cause?

“I’m afraid I haven’t heard anything of this uprising, your highness.” He answered carefully, brows furrowing as the Jor rose from his throne, onyx and bone armor shining in the sunlight that filtered through the stained glass on the peak of the ceiling, directly over the throne. “I assume you’ve summoned myself and Mihai for a reason pertaining to these… Whispers?” Temper, temper; he could feel Mihai tensing up beside him. But Matthias wasn’t worried- no, the Jor saw him as a weapon, and wouldn’t dare harm a finely crafted tool that could turn a battle to their favor far too easily.

Florin hummed, hands loose at his sides, as he slowly made his way down the ten steps that created the dais upon which his throne sat. High enough to be above all the court, but not too high to become and easy, open target. “I do,” he agreed, thin lips curling into a cruel little smile. “I wish for you to take,” he paused, a finger pressing to his lips. Matthias reigned in the urge to curl his lip at the sight of the black, pointed nail which resided on that finger. “I wish for you to take ten of your best men, along with Mihai here, and squash any signs of rebellion that you find.”

Squash, as in kill. Mihai grimaced, but nodded. “Of course, your highness. Is there anything else you would require of us?” He asked, head tilting to the side, feigning innocence and loyalty. Matthias had to cover the chuckle that rose with a cough.

“That will be all. Dismissed,” with that, the man turned on his heel and retreated- not to his throne, but past it, to the dark doorway that lead to his own personal chambers beyond, and Gods know what else. Matthias couldn’t remember what horrors lay beyond, only the ever-consuming darkness. It still made his skin crawl regardless. Dropping down in a low bow at the waist, the pair held their position until Florin was out of eyesight, and then a moment longer before raising.

Luca had climbed down the stairs, while Zoya had simply vanished into thin air. Mihai turned, slowly, looking for the Spymaster as if she could be hidden within the shadows. Then again, she just might. The thought made Matthias suddenly question every single thing he’d ever done when he thought he was alone.

“He’ll want you to take off first light,” the petit prince spoke, voice softer, more melodic compared to his terror of a father. He took after his late mother in so many ways, Matthias noted with a tinge of melancholy. “You’ll need to prepare for the journey tonight. Your horses should be being tended to currently…” Trailing off, Luca fidgeted with his sleeves, an old habit he’d had since he was but a boy, apparently. Mihai had pointed it out.

“What aren’t you telling us?” Mihai pressed, watching as the prince shifted, armor clinking. Armor that had been styled after his fathers, silver and black and just as horrid. Matthias crossed his arms over his chest and waited, watching as Luca looked around the room before stepping even closer- close enough that, if he wanted, he could reach up and tuck some of that long, white blond hair behind a delicate ear.

Luca worried his lip before meeting Mihai’s stare. “Father intends to use this as a show of force- not just for here, but against the other nations. Against Cruimore.”

The sound of his home country made Matthias pause, brows furrowing. Against his home? Why? Sapphire hues studied Luca carefully, reading his every movement, looking for the telltale show of lying- but he found nothing. A cold chill crept along his skin as he let the words sink in. “Why against Cruimore?”

“Because your sister has ascended to the throne.”

“My sister?” Matthias echoed, disbelief painting his tone. “How? Father was on the throne, not Thea. Thea wouldn’t take the throne unless…” Unless something had happened to his father. Unless something had caused him to abdicate the throne. Unless something had…

He didn’t realize he was running until he burst through the throne room doors and was halfway down the hallway when Mihai managed to catch up- but didn’t stop him. He ran beside him, a hand on the pommel of his blade. Their footsteps echoed like war drums, a staccato against the silence of the palace. No servants were in their paths, no noblemen or women, no courtesans. Empty. They turned, racing down the stairs, taking them three at a time, towards the courtyard.

He couldn’t be dead. He couldn’t, could he? He wasn’t. There was no way- they would have sent word, right? Why wouldn’t they have sent word?

‘They think you dead, little prince.’ A viscous voice hissed at him from within his mind. No. They couldn’t. He was alive! He was here, breathing, alive!

They swept across the courtyard, barely slowing to leave the gates, before Matthias turned and slowed his steps, speed walking through the crowds of the Upper Market. “Kaith will know.” He hissed, hand curling into a fist before uncurling and curling once more. He could feel his nails bite into his skin, the sting a reminder that he was alive. Mihai didn’t answer, instead using his bulk to slide in front of him and clear a path. For that, he was grateful. Broad shouldered and taller, with a severe jawline and a dangerous glint in his eyes, Mihai made for a terrifying sight that made crowds part like waves around a rock.

The Upper Market was always busy, especially on sunny, warm days. Shopfronts were lined with the finest of dresses, made from silk or velveteen with lace appliques. Others held pastries and decorative cakes, the smell of sweets wafting into the street, covering the smell of sea with their sugar. The cobblestone was clean, no cracks, nothing that could cause you to stub your toe or trip when drunk. Speaking of, there were no taverns, not up here. No, those were below.

The Low District was their destination. Or, more accurately, the Barnacle, a port-side tavern that was popular with sailors and held the most information. Where Kaith resided. It was obvious when one passed from the Upper to the Low; the cobblestone gave way to dirt roads, the shops were no longer white and pristine, and the smell of sea salt crept into every pore and crevice, sinking into your clothes, your skin, your hair. The shops and houses here took the brunt of the sea’s wrath, the high waves and torrential downpours. Their walls weren’t of the pretty wood and stone, but of brick and rock, made to weather the sea.

Matthias began to jog, speed slowly picking up as he picked his way down the empty alleyways, startling fat rats and skinny cats. He didn’t care; he could hear the roar of the sea, the laughter of drunk men, the calls of women to lure men into their brothels and enjoy themselves. None of that mattered.

Not when Kaith slipped out of the shadows directly into their path, causing both Matthias and Mihai to nearly slip in the mud. Kaith stood still, dressed head to toe in black, their dark hair tied back in a loose braid. “You’re in a rush,” they noted, brow raising as they studied them.

“I need to know.” Matthias panted out, hands on his knees.

“Know… What?” Kaith pressed, words no more than a whisper.

“I don’t have time for games, Kaith!” He exclaimed, straightening up and leaning close. “I need to know what you know about Vatis.” Kaith’s dark eyes gave nothing away; endless pools of obsidian that could swallow a man whole and make him beg for mercy. He didn’t look away. “What happened to my father.”

Kaith didn’t answer, not right away. Instead, they looked around, gaze sweeping for peeping eyes and listening ears. The Shadow of Istis, that’s what they were called. And the Shadow could see things in the Shadows that others could not. “Come,” they spoke finally, turning on their heel to make their way towards the docks. “Malekai will tell you.”

Malekai, their… Boss? Keeper? Lover? Matthias wasn’t sure what the relationship was between the Shadow and the Pirate. But if Malekai had information, then he would gladly go to the ship. Even if it meant forfeiting secrets he was not fond of giving. That’s what Malekai and Kaith traded in; secrets.

Everyone in Istis had a closet full of skeletons, and a chest full of secrets.

“Lead the way,” Mihai spoke for Matthias. Kaith nodded and turned, braid swinging with the movement. For as long as Matthias had known Kaith, he had never figured them out. They were masculine, but feminine. Strong angles and soft curves. Long hair and longer knives. Their clothing gave nothing away- he would know, he’d stared. And stared. And could never see beyond the baggy pants and loose tops covered with a heavy leather jacket. Within those layers were weapons of all kinds hidden: stilettoes, daggers, switchblades, Rettan smoke bombs, Eastern Isles poisons. Dangerous, in so many ways.

The port was busy, sailors calling here and there, merchants making last ditch efforts for sales, wives kissing their husband’s goodbye and husbands waving their wives off, gone to sea for another few months. And at the very end, flanked by two of Florin’s Royal Navy ships, sat the Crimson Grace.

It was quite a sight, something that could take anyone’s breath away. Its black sails were furled, hiding the crimson bird that decorated them, anchors dropped, but despite that, it was still marvelous. The entire ship was doused in a color far too close to fresh blood, with black and gold trim work. The figurehead was of a woman, her arms outstretched towards the horizon, her hair a deep ebony and skin a vivid gold. Her dress was crimson, just as the rest of the ship.  

Kaith wasted no time in leading them on board, not needing an introduction. The crew knew them well, stepping aside for the Shadow and their companions. They opened the door to the Captain’s Quarters after knocking once, sliding in and gesturing. Inside lay all sorts of treasures; a large map of the seas upon one wall, a mahogany desk with golden trinkets and another map and ships and other strange wooden figures stationed atop.

And leaning against that desk was the captain himself, Malekai the Malicious.

When Matthias first met him, he wasn’t sure what to expect. Some old, weathered sailor with scars and missing teeth and maybe a missing limb or two. Instead, he was met with a handsome, young face that vaguely reminded him of a wolf, or perhaps a fox. Golden blond hair that fell to his shoulders in gentle waves, mischievous blue eyes, and a kind smile. Nothing compared to what he had been expecting.

That had been four years ago.

Malekai hadn’t changed much in that time; he still fancied extravagant suits tailored to his figure and pure red wine and remained as mischievous as ever. Except for now- now, that mischief lacked from his gaze, the corners of his lips were turned down in a deep frown, and he wore a loose, white shirt that was unbuttoned clear to his sternum and high waisted, black leather trousers. The shirt revealed a tattoo of a sun over his heart.

“Malekai.” Mihai greeted, and a beat later, Matthias spoke up.

“What do you know?”

Malekai eased himself from the desk and gestured to the two chairs that were situated before it. “Sit.” It wasn’t a suggestion. Slowly, the pair lowered themselves into the plush seats, sinking down. “There’s really no easy way for me to say this…” He began, hands gripping the edge of the desk. Matthias noted how his knuckles whitened, how his jaw clenched. He leaned forward in his seat, gaze locked on the pirate.

“Tell. Me.” He managed to grind out, heart hammering in his chest, blood pounding in his ears.

Malekai sighed, slowly crouching down before Matthias. “There have been whispers on the winds and lips of traveling merchants from the North. Whispers that… There has been a change.”

“A change.”

Nodding, the pirate studied his hands, the scars that crossed his knuckles. “There is no easy way to say this,” he repeated, looking up from his hands to the captive prince before him, “your father was killed in an attempt to overthrow the royal family. Your older sister has taken the throne and crown, and has been declared Queen of Cruimore, with your mother as the Queen Regent.”

A moment passed where it felt as if the world dropped out from beneath Matthias, as if the ocean had suddenly swelled up and crashed over him, leaving him to float with no sign of surfacing. “What?”

[clarenecessities]

The Dread Pirate Ladybug, Ch 11

Chapters: 11/13 Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Implied death, may contain horses

Chapter Summary: how’s our hero gonna get out of–oh. oh god. Chapter Warnings: ASSAULT, actual violence, blood tw, blade tw, attempted murder, successful murder, psychological torture, character death, needles (okay, a precursor to needles), comparatively mild rage

Read on AO3

Adrien paced from one end of his chambers to the other, his head slightly bowed, his hands clasped behind his back. He wished he could scowl, but since his return he had been appointed a ‘face choreographer,’ who expressly forbade the display of emotion, lest he give himself wrinkles. The only thing that surprised Adrien about this was that he hadn’t already had one assigned; although having only recently reacquired the ability to feel a full range of human emotions, it was distinctly possible he just hadn’t deviated from his moping default over the past few years.

As it was, he contented himself with watching the patterns in the ornate rugs over the ornate floors, walking along invisible lines he drew between pieces of furniture. Despite his new training, and the surge of festivities since his return (there had been no fewer than eight balls thrown), Adrien looked a mess. His hair was wild, tossed carelessly over his eyes despite his groomers’ best efforts, a rats’ nest of golden silk around a waxy, pale face. His summer green eyes, no longer glassy but sharp and bright, were ringed with purple bags, which admittedly did bring out the color, but were hardly acceptable for the so-called Most Beautiful Man in Florin.

Adrien found himself growing resentful of his appearance, watching his reflection in the mirrors that littered the castle, staring at the fake smiles in his portraits, upending any bowl of water that dared cross his path. His mother’s eyes were no longer enough to stay his hand; his was the face of a betrayer, a heartless monster who cared only for himself. It should look as ugly as the soul it contained.

His hands tightened behind his back as he thought of Marinette, and the look on her face when he had chosen to leave her. She hadn’t even looked surprised. She’d just been… sad.

He had tried to make it easier for her, to downplay what he would be enduring. He’d expected her to look shocked, or angry, or even heartbroken—he’d rather break her heart than lose her to death yet again—but she had stared at him like she saw right through him, just as always.

She must have been so disappointed in him.

He groaned, whirling on his heel as he reached the window, the curtains flapping in his wake. How could he? Didn’t he have faith in her? She must be so upset. He’d taken her choice away from her—but she was so stubborn! She would have chosen to fight, to the very last, and she wouldn’t have been able to make it out. Not that time. Not torn apart by smoke cats and worn out from saving him left and right. She had kept him safe, not just in the fire swamp, but for the entire kidnapping ordeal, and how did he thank her? He married someone else. All because he was too selfish and cowardly to lose her a second time.

He’d never see her again. She would be back on her ship by now, sailing across oceans he could only dream of, conquering whole worlds now that she was free of him. He’d been holding her back, keeping her centered here in Florin while she watched over him and her family. Well, her parents were out now. Adrien was no longer her problem. Marinette was finally free.

He stopped his pacing for a moment, swaying slightly as he closed his eyes, picturing her. Raven hair loose on the wind, the vast sky echoing the blue of her eyes, freckles and sea spray tossed with abandon…

Even in his imagination, she didn’t smile. She just looked out at the horizon, that same sad expression in place.

Prowling his rooms like a caged animal, Adrien didn’t smile either. He had done all he could to save her, but it came at the price of his future.

He wished he had more to give.

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Alya had awoken to an empty clifftop, her hands bound, Trixx loose at her feet, and had immediately realized she was (to put it delicately) absolutely screwed.

She’d been beaten. She, Alya Césaire, renowned across the world for her skill, her unrivaled expertise, had been defeated by a pirate named after a bug.

If that had been all, she might have been able to bear it—it was even a little exciting, to think that there was someone out there who could still pose a challenge. She hadn’t had a duel like that in years. No, it was more the matter of her employment that weighed on Alya as she flipped Trixx close enough to her waiting grasp to slice through her bonds. Papillon had hired her because she was the best. If she were no longer the best, then he had no use for her. If she dared show her face, he would know that not only had she lost, but she had lived to tell about it—and that was inexcusable.

With a heavy heart, she’d headed south. Or at least, what she assumed was south. Frankly, she was just following the coast until she could find a city. Guilder wasn’t exactly a hotbed of criminal activity, but maybe she could wrangle some kind of guard job. It didn’t pay as well, and it wasn’t as interesting, but it was about time she moved on anyway. The six-fingered woman obviously wasn’t in Florin, so she needed to look elsewhere for her quarry.

As it happened, the first city she came upon was a harbor. A small merchant vessel was looking for protection from pirates—an irony Alya couldn’t resist. Maybe she’d even get a rematch with Ladybug.

It never hurt to get in some practice.

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The first thing Marinette noticed was the smell.

It was a dank, musty smell, like a humid room had been left in the dark too long, and was just on the cusp of growing mold. The room she was in didn’t feel humid—it was large, and cool, but from the feel of the air probably underground, like a cellar.

She opened her eyes.

Or a dungeon.

She was laying on her stomach, her arms hanging loosely over her head, her hands and feet bound to the table she had been placed on. Her hair was down, fanned out behind her, but pulled off of her injured back, which felt as if it had a bandage applied but was otherwise exposed to the cool air. Though her boots seemed to have been emptied of concealed blades, and her belt and baldric (and associated weapons) had been removed, she was largely wearing the clothes she had passed out in. Her ruined blouse had been taken, but they’d left her undershirt and some semblance of modesty—though the strap had been pulled down to facilitate the bandage, and she couldn’t feel the familiar weight of her necklace.

Her cheek was resting on lacquered wood, and from the size and number of buckles she gathered the table was designed to restrain prisoners. The straps were loose enough for her to rotate her wrists and ankles, but not so loose that she could bend her knees or elbows to any real degree.  

She licked her lips. First aid was unusual for a dungeon. The wounds themselves didn’t feel any worse, so it was unlikely to be a form of torture in itself. It could be that they intended to brand her somehow, something requiring a blank canvas that an infected wound would ruin—although her arm seemed to have some kind of salve applied to it as well, so maybe not.

Whatever they were up to, it couldn’t be good.

“Ah,” came a pleased voice, and dim lamplight flared and moved closer to Marinette’s exposed back. “You’re awake! We had to sedate you, your head might feel a bit muzzy. Just try not to move too fast, it will wear off soon.”

“Why?” asked Marinette, surprised to find her voice wasn’t the least bit hoarse.

“Well, even unconscious you were reacting to your wounds being cleaned,” said the voice, still outside her range of vision. Its owner seemed to be checking her bandages. “It was primarily to keep you still for the stitches.”

“No,” said Marinette, “Why heal me?”

“Oh! The Countess insists on it. You see, she loves breaking things, taking them apart—but, as she puts it, where’s the fun in smashing an empty egg? This is to put your yolk back in place, so to speak.” The owner of the voice finally moved to where Marinette could see her, and the prisoner blinked in surprise.

The girl she was faced with looked about her own age, with dull copper hair and a pinched look around her chalky skin. Her eyes were pale, a washed out blue that nearly faded into her sclera, and her pupils were dilated unnaturally in the flickering lamplight. She was small, and seemed somehow brittle; though obviously well-muscled, her stature and knotted fingers gave Marinette the impression that she would snap at the slightest touch. It was apparent that she hadn’t left this dungeon in a very, very long time.

“And when my yolk’s back in place?” she asked, wary.

“Well,” said the wraith, “you’ll be scrambled.”

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Nino had awoken with a pounding headache and a pounding heart. He surged to his feet, swaying dangerously when the blood rushed to his head, and looked around wildly for Ladybug.

Bile rose threateningly in the back of his throat, and he staggered backwards to lean against one of the boulders as he took stock of the situation.

He was alone.

Truly, completely, bitterly alone.

He’d been defeated. It seemed impossible, but it must be so. His last memories were of Ladybug’s arms around his throat, and the old and familiar taste of failure. He could hardly believe that he was even capable of being matched, let alone bested, and yet here he found himself, alive for a reason he couldn’t imagine.

Papillon was going to be so angry.

Nino swallowed nervously at the very thought. Papillon had made it perfectly clear that Nino was only valuable because he was the strongest, an immovable mountain of a young man—who realized suddenly that he had been moved.

He scrambled up the side of the down, desperate for a chance at catching up to Papillon—he had to at least make his case against rejection—but at the crest of the slope he slowed, his feet heavy with dismay.

Papillon wasn’t going to be angry. Papillon was dead.

Numb, Nino approached the corpse, checking it for signs of life despite its obvious state. He shook it wordlessly, even slapping it around some—but there was no response.

Nino mulled over his options, considering going to check on Alya—Ladybug had said she was alive, hadn’t she?—but as he turned his head towards the coast he saw a column of hounds swarming across the moor.

Swallowing, Nino turned and ran.

He only stopped when he reached the coast, his pounding headache worsening into a debilitating throb that was a cold reminder of his limited supply of medicine. Without Papillon, and his stock, Nino’s days were numbered. While this headache was not a symptom of his size, it was only a matter of time before those returned, leaving him useless and, worse, a burden on whatever establishment dared take him in.

What had Papillon said to do? Head back to Florin? Stay in Guilder?

He’d said to kill the woman in red, and Nino hadn’t, and now he was dead, and Nino himself was as good as. Why did he never listen? Why did he try to think for himself when all it ever did was leave him stranded and alone, a stupid boy with stupid muscles and a stupid brain and no friends?

Nino groaned, holding his head in his hands. He’d really done it now.

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Fortunately (or perhaps unfortunately) for Marinette, the healing process was a slow and laborious affair. Her bandages were replaced twice a day, and the salve reapplied wherever it was deemed necessary. She was given water after each of these occasions, as well as along with her thrice daily meals—bread in the morning, a thin soup in the afternoon, and some kind of meat in the evening. It was impressive fare for a dungeon, and when the unearthly guard asked if it was satisfactory she could reply honestly that it was.

She was unshackled several times a day and advised to exercise, to prevent clotting in her blood. Though her hands and feet were bound together with metal cables, Marinette used these occasions to unabashedly explore the dungeon. She ran her fingers along the stone walls, inspected the tree roots running through the rough-hewn ceiling, rattled at the grate over a small channel of water. When she had exhausted the smaller avenues, she turned her attention to the dungeon as a whole.

It was respectable, certainly—the narrow stream gave Marinette the impression it had once been a natural cave, expanded by someone or something to better fit human inhabitants. A huge tree’s root system formed the bulk of the ceiling. The markings in the stone were made with two different kinds of tools, and the fixtures were placed nearer one kind of toolmark than the other. The devices were rudimentary dungeon fare—her table, a whipping post, stocks, a rack—the only unusual thing was that everything seemed new. It led Marinette to believe that either the dungeon itself was new, which was unlikely given the condition of the wraithlike guard, or none of its prisoners lasted long enough to wear things down.

It was a mutli-leveled chamber, the biggest and lowest tier being the one where Marinette spent most of her time, containing the channel and the majority of the fittings.

The second level, up a few stairs, maybe at chest height if she were to stand against it, was where the wraithlike woman dwelt. She never left the dungeon, as far as Marinette could tell—she spent most of the day copying data meticulously into a huge, leather-bound book. Her bed was under the roots, near the fire, where she prepared the food. She ate the same as Marinette every day, though indulged in some wine here and there. She never drank enough to incapacitate herself, and had in fact offered to share, but Marinette thought it best not to partake, under the circumstances. She needed her wits about her.

The third level was much higher, up a narrow staircase to the only door, entirely iron and bolted from the outside. There was a sliding window in it that was always kept shut, except for when food was passed through.

Marinette’s primary concern was biding her time. She needed to heal before she attempted an escape with so many unknown variables—as it was, she could take out the wraith, but then what? She’d have a few more hours a day unshackled, a soft bed, and no food. There was no lock to pick on the inside of the door, and the hinges were inaccessible, so unless she could devise a plan to circumvent the exit without her usual tools, she needed to be at full strength.

The channel which ran through the cavern seemed to be her best bet, although there was a grate on both ends. Where the water entered the cavern, she could see a ways up into a tunnel of sorts, presumably leading to a source. Since there was air above the water, she was confident she wouldn’t drown along that avenue, even if it should happen to only lead to an underground spring. Worst case scenario, she’d get stuck in a cave and they’d have to come in after her, which would presumably present other opportunities for escape.

Or they’d just leave her in there to starve to death.

Could go either way, really.

She focused what time she could on filing away at the grate with the woven wires linking her wrists together. It was difficult to do without drawing suspicion from the wraith, and she inevitably became soaked by the water, but it was the only plan she had, and with every hair’s breadth filed away she grew closer to freedom.

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The doors to Adrien’s chambers were mahogany, carved with vines and flowers around inlaid panels of gold foil. The hinges were well-oiled, but the doors were heavy enough that the posts creaked under their weight when opened, thereby alerting Adrien to any intrusion.

He had retired to his bedroom following a long afternoon of being paraded around Florin City, waxy skin bronzed in the beaming sun. It made Adrien feel rather like a piece of chicken that had been sent back for being undercooked, so it was with no small amount of irritation that he lifted his head from the window frame at the sound of an unwelcome visitor.

“I would appreciate it if you knocked—” he began, pushing himself off the wall he’d been leaning against, walking into his sitting area only to stop abruptly when he saw the Countess running her six blade-thin fingers over his desk.

There wasn’t anything in that desk that was his—frankly, there wasn’t much of anything in the castle that he felt a connection to—but his irritation flared at the sight. He wasn’t especially prone to being territorial, but seeing his least favorite member of the court sifting through his belongings like she owned the place made him feel belittled in a way her snide comments rarely did.

“Is there something you want?” he asked stiffly, years of etiquette training quashing his instinct to tell her to get out.

The Countess looked up at him, her sharp features impassive. She abandoned his trinkets with a disinterested air, rounding the couch between them with leisurely, narrow steps.

He watched with wary eyes, stock-still as she prowled around him, circling him like she were inspecting an animal. She stopped uncomfortably close to him, so near he could feel her breath on his collar. She was tall compared to most, nearly Adrien’s height, and what she lacked in inches she made up for in force of personality. He glared at her, unwilling to back up despite his discomfort, too tired and irritated to give her that measure of satisfaction.

“Is there something you want?” he repeated through gritted teeth.

She smiled coyly, leaned forward, and kissed him.

His first reaction was shock. He went rigid beneath her, hands clenching into fists at his sides. Maybe it was just because he wasn’t responding, but the feeling of her lips against his was too forceful, too harsh.

Too sharp.

Everything about her was too sharp. Adrien finally tried to pull away, only to be reeled in by six fingers against the back of his neck, sharp nails scraping the base of his scalp, a second hand pressed too firmly into his chest. His mouth curled away in disgust, his own hands pushed futilely against her shoulders—he didn’t have the leverage he needed—and when he made a noise of protest, she bit him.

The pain helped clear his head, lancing through the shock and confusion with a sudden dose of fear. He shoved with all the strength he could muster, not budging her an inch, but breaking her grip on his spine. He staggered backwards, putting as much space between them as he could in a few short steps, chest heaving as adrenaline coursed belatedly through his veins.

The Countess didn’t appear perturbed in the slightest that he’d escaped her clutches; in fact, she looked rather smug. Her breathing hadn’t changed at all, and the only visible evidence of her assault was his blood on her lip.

“I wanted to remind you of your circumstances,” she said smoothly, her tongue running along the stain, returning her completely to her usual appearance.

“…What?” asked Adrien, voice hoarse with stress. His pulse throbbed in his lip, leaving him hyperaware of just how fast it was running. Though he was breathing harder than ever, it felt more difficult, like a weight was sitting on his chest. Like her sharp fingers were still biting into his ribs.

“Your circumstances,” she repeated, gesturing around the room. “You see, everything around you is a privilege. A gift from Her Highness Princess Chloé, to ensure you live in comfort, wanting for nothing. She—and to a lesser extent, I—have saved you from a life toiled away in obscurity and squalor. Your former employers were given the very best, you were educated, clothed, fed—and yet, it’s not enough for you, is it?”

He stared at her, speechless.

“Ever since that kidnapping business, you have ceased to be her Highness’s perfect doll. You have become insufferably emotive, spoiled countless occasions with your sullen conversation, and you’ve let your appearance—the only necessary thing about you—go fallow. I have had quite enough of your ungrateful attitude. You know—and I know—that what transpired in the Fire Swamp was not enough to put that woman from your thoughts, so let me make this perfectly clear: You are never going to see her again. You have chosen this life: Rich, pampered, with a beautiful fiancée who will one day be Queen, and anyone would envy it. The Dread Pirate Ladybug wants nothing more to do with you.”

Adrien’s breathing, still heavier than it ought to be, hitched in his chest.

“She made it perfectly clear how she felt about your betrayal, and made no secret of her contempt. She not only renounced her claim, she renounced you. If you decide that a life of luxury isn’t enough for you, there will be no Ladybug waiting for you beyond those walls,” said the Countess, chartreuse eyes flat with distaste. “You are alone here, Your Highness. With the removal of your former employers, you have no one. Either you behave yourself appropriately, or privileges will be removed accordingly.”

She returned to his desk, plucking a single orange lily from one of his vases, and left without another word.

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Marinette didn’t stir as the door to her cell opened. She was restrained at the moment, and until she knew the identity of this mysterious visitor, it was in her best interest to be quiet and unobtrusive.

“I trust things have been going smoothly,” said the intolerably familiar voice of the Countess.  

“Oh yes, Lady Rossi,” the wraith answered, sincere and proper as anything. Marinette could practically see her scattered curtsy. “Her wounds have healed enough to begin tonight, if you wish.”

“Excellent,” said the Countess, “make the necessary preparations. I’ll have the prisoner brought down.”

Marinette stirred in spite of herself. The prisoner? Wasn’t she the prisoner?

The Countess relayed slightly muffled instructions to someone (presumably a guard) stationed outside the door, then approached Marinette where she lay strapped to her table.

“I do know you’re awake,” said the Countess, pulling Marinette’s shirt away from her skin to examine the mostly-healed injury on her back. Though the scratches had been deep, the wounds themselves were narrow and closed quickly.

Marinette fought the instinct to tense beneath the ministrations. “I wasn’t exactly pretending,” she said instead. “There just isn’t much point in opening one’s eyes when one happens to have a choice between ‘view of table’ and ‘view of rock’.”

“You’re right,” agreed the Countess, and to Marinette’s surprise, she produced a set of keys. “We had better adjust you. It looks like your back can handle it.”

She unlocked Marinette’s hands, and the urge to attack her flared powerfully—but the wraith was standing by with a fierce glare, and as slimy as the Countess might be, she wasn’t foolish enough to unleash Marinette with no plan.

“Thank you,” said Marinette, turning and rubbing at her wrists. “I take it we’re going to be making use of one of the other devices?”

“Oh, no,” said the Countess, with a small smile. “Not for you. You’ve caused quite a bit of trouble, you know.”

“Have I?” Marinette asked idly, as she was pressed back against the same table, this time facing out into the room. Her arms were bound by her sides now, hanging loosely on either side of her. A belt of sorts was fastened around her waist, and her ankles were secured; the entire table ratcheted downwards, so that it was almost vertical.

“Oh yes,” the Countess confirmed, sounding almost bored as she adjusted everything. “That boy has become downright insufferable.”

“Kidnapping will do that to you.” Marinette kept her voice and expression carefully neutral under the Countess’s narrowed gaze, leery of revealing too much. She still wasn’t certain what was intended for her, but if Adrien was at any risk, she had to downplay her feelings.

“It wasn’t the kidnapping,” the Countess disagreed. “It was you. I have it on good authority that he was behaving perfectly well until at least your little tea party with Papillon—well, barring one awfully thoughtless escape attempt.”

“Was he supposed to just sit quietly and—” Marinette’s dry retort turned to ash in her mouth. “…Whose authority?”

The Countess only smiled.

Marinette lunged, as far as her bonds would allow her, getting within a few inches of the Countess, who didn’t so much as flinch. She strained against the cuffs on her wrists, leather straps creaking from the sudden abuse, but to no avail. “Countess,” she rasped, voice shaking with ill-suppressed rage and desperation. “Whose authority?”

“The proper form of address for Her Grace is Lady Rossi,” said the wraith, looking mortally offended, a white shadow behind her smirking benefactor.

“Oh, there’s no need for all that formality,” said the Countess, turning her smile over her shoulder. “After all, we haven’t been calling her ‘Captain,’ have we?”

Marinette’s eyes darted from the wraith to the Countess, struggling against her rising panic.

They knew who she was.

It could be worse, right? Piracy was executable sure, but from the sound of things she was in for a lot more than just death as it was. Yeah. It could be worse. It was really more how they knew that she was concerned about. Was ‘the prisoner’ one of Papillon’s henchmen? She hadn’t thought they would talk. They had both been so willing to help her for honor’s sake.

Her confusion, however, paled in comparison to her captor’s apparent connection to the team hired to assassinate the love of her life.

“Did you hire him?” she managed, as calmly as she could.

“Whom?” asked the Countess, the picture of innocence. “Papillon? Who’s to say? Certainly not him. You took care of that, didn’t you?”

“He took care of that himself,” said Marinette, gritting her teeth.

“Have I touched a nerve?” asked the Countess, smiling again. “Here I thought the Dread Pirate Ladybug was renowned for taking no prisoners. Or have you changed your tune over the past twenty years?”

Marinette didn’t answer.

“Did you think no one would notice?” asked the Countess, turning away from her and walking to the wraith, who passed a sheet of parchment obligingly on. “For the past… two years and four months, the Dread Pirate Ship Boucles has attacked exclusively vessels of the state.”

“Wow,” said Marinette, “That’s quite a coincidence. Perhaps she was going for the ships with the shiniest hulls.”

“This is after an eight month period of attacking mixed vessels, following a seven year period of exclusively mercantile victims.”

“So what you’re saying is, she’s going senile.”

“What I’m saying is, the DPS Boucles is no longer sailing for profit, but to further a political agenda.”

Marinette laughed breathily, meeting the Countess’s eyes with an almost daring smirk. “And what has this to do with me, Lady Rossi?”

“Well, the punishment for treason is of course, execution,” said the Countess. She didn’t so much as turn when the door to the cell opened, and a middle-aged man in shackles was escorted down the staircase by a guard easily half his age. “As is the punishment for piracy. So for you personally? Not much. If, however, you possess as large a role in this little rebellion as I suspect, it means your crew is out there scrambling to piece things together without you. Why, there hasn’t been a single attack since your capture.”

“Capture is a strong word,” said Marinette, watching the new prisoner be tied the wrong way to the whipping post, his arms behind him, bewildered face pointing in their direction.

“I suppose ‘surrender,’ is probably more accurate,” said the Countess, with a simpering smile.

“What makes you so certain that the Boucles is a part of the rebellion at all? Perhaps the merchants have simply upped their security, while the state hasn’t.”

“Oh, little things,” said the Countess. She unfurled a bit more of the scroll in her hands, which evidently contained statistics. “I’ve had Sabrina here keeping an eye on things, and it is primarily a matter of timing. The Boucles strikes like clockwork, just as the ships get into open waters, having apparently had prior knowledge of the vessels’ departure. Even in cases where the journey is kept only amongst high-ranking government officials.”

“So—a spy, looking to make a quick buck.”

“A spy, looking to weaken Florin from within.”

The guard, a burly youth with no helmet over his dark hair, finished securing the man to the post, saluted, and left the chamber without a word.

“There is also the matter of the periods without attacks,” the Countess continued, nodding at the wraith—‘Sabrina’—which set the latter scrambling off to her table. “They coincide remarkably with assaults on Florin City itself, and unrest in the countryside.”

“Unrest?” echoed Marinette, voice caught between innocence and confusion.

“Revolts. Uprisings. Royal agents being attacked while on duty; their posts raided and emptied, their assets distributed illegally amongst the people.”

“Are you suggesting the crew of a pirate ship is using its free time to do charity?”

“I’m suggesting the crew of a pirate ship is using its free time to incite a rebellion.”

The wraith returned, bearing a small canister which appeared to be fashioned from a quill and some kind of bladder, offering it to the Countess on an open palm. The Countess accepted it, unclipping a small copper vial from her belt and holding it up to draw a thimbleful of liquid. It gleamed tar-black in the lamplight, thick as quicksilver; it did not stick to the inside of the quill, which was left filmy but transparent against its illumination.

“The incident with Papillon was akuma powder, no?” asked the Countess, recapping the vial while the wraith held the peculiar instrument gingerly in front of her.

“It was,” said Marinette, keeping a wary eye on both women.

“One of the deadlier poisons, certainly.” The Countess took the instrument from the wraith, lips quirking upwards in amusement. “Perhaps even the deadliest the natural world has to offer.”

“Is this the part where you dramatically reveal you’ve created an even deadlier poison, killing me instantly?” asked Marinette, deadpan.

“No, this is more of… a venom, I suppose. To be injected intravenously,” said the Countess.

“What, like a snake?”

“Or a spider,” supplied the wraith.

“I’ve been calling it Cataclysm, myself,” said the Countess, as though confessing a great secret. She turned to the restrained man behind her, whose shaking was visible even from Marinette’s vantage. “It’s an apoptoxin I’ve been working to develop. You see, we’ve been conducting trials here and there, and they’ve all been satisfactory—but at the end of the day, one can only learn so much from an animal. Well—I suppose we’re all animals, in a way. Wouldn’t you agree, Xavier?”

The prisoner trembled. “Y-yes, Your Grace,” he managed, “I—that’s what I’ve been trying to tell everyone. They’ve every right—”

“Xavier here was arrested for feeding birds in Florin Square,” the Countess explained, looking back at Marinette over her shoulder. “He’d been told not to, you see, but the poor dear couldn’t help himself, could you, Xavier?”

“No, Your Grace,” said Xavier. He licked his cracked lips. Marinette saw a spark of hope spring to life in his eyes at the Countess’s evident understanding. “They were terribly hungry, Your Grace. No creature deserves to starve when there’s food enough for all.”

“And they arrested him!” said the Countess, as though she couldn’t believe it. “For sharing his own bread with a few pigeons. When he couldn’t pay the fine, they sentenced him to community service; and here we are.”

“You conduct your community service in dungeons, Lady Rossi?”

“I conduct most services in dungeons, Captain Ladybug.”

Xavier started at the name, looking to Marinette with wide, curious eyes, and the Countess approached him with a conciliatory pat on his shoulder.

“We’re just going to do a little experiment. Please do be honest about how this feels,” said the Countess to her prisoner, whose eyes were now shining with relief.

Marinette stiffened.

“Wait—” she began, leaning forward, “wait, there’s no need for that, you know how it works—”

“—Sabrina here is going to make a small incision in your arm… Yes, just there, thank you Sabrina—”

“—Countess, this is meaningless, you can’t—you can’t do this! Just for feeding birds?—”

“Oh, Ladybug,” said the Countess, looking up from Xavier’s arm with apparent surprise. “This isn’t to punish him. Think of what we’ll learn! The things we’ve been discovering about apoptosis are extraordinary.”

“Then… then this isn’t just… it’s not you breaking eggs?” asked Marinette, sagging a little in her bonds. Perhaps she had misunderstood. The word toxin had made her jump to conclusions. It was strange that they should conduct their business here, but…

The Countess smiled. “How I feel about the experiment is irrelevant. The important thing is, we’re taking notes.”

She squeezed the bladder, and Xavier went rigid. His face flashed white, then red, and finally settled on washed-out green.

“You see, Ladybug,” she said, her voice prickling like the hair on the back of a neck, “this isn’t to punish him. It’s to punish you.”

Xavier screamed.

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“I can’t do this,” announced Adrien, bursting into the room without preamble.

“I beg your pardon?” asked Chloé, her hair whipping behind her as she wheeled around to face him. She was dressed in her usual flowing white, holding a cornucopia brimming with flowers in the crook of one arm; he’d interrupted her in the middle of one of her portrait sessions.

“I can’t—uh—” he stammered, looking between his fiancée and her bewildered painter. She wouldn’t even hear him out if he embarrassed her. “I… I beg a private audience, dear Princess. You… look… beautiful?”

It sounded more like a question than a compliment, but the Princess preened all the same, flashing the painter a simpering and apologetic smile. “Do excuse us, won’t you?” she crooned. “It seems the Marquis can no longer contain his affections.”

Blushing, the painter stammered his canned words of parting and showed himself out in a flurry of half-formed bows.

The instant the door closed behind him, the smile dropped from Chloé’s face.

“What on earth could be so important?” she snapped, setting the cornucopia with more force than strictly necessary on the table behind her, which was laden with similar tokens of wealth and power. “I’ve told you not to interrupt me!”

“I… I know, and I’m sorry, I just… I can’t do this,” he said lamely.

It had all seemed a grand idea in his room, sweeping dramatically into the royal chambers, tendering his resignation as prince-to-be, riding off into the sunset to find his true love, or at least her family—but here, presented with the stark reality of a very spoiled princess who was occasionally rather fond of him, he felt… almost guilty. It wasn’t Chloé’s fault he was in love with someone else. True, she was something of a brat, but no one had ever taught her any different. She wasn’t malicious or anything.

“Do what? Let me sit through a modeling session in peace for once?” asked Chloé, though her irritation seemed to be fading to resignation. “What is it now, Adrien? Have you recalled some other woman you’re madly in love with?”

“Just the one,” he supplied with a weak attempt at a smile.

The Princess loosed a heavy sigh, turning from the table and crossing the room to the abandoned easel, staring almost forlornly at her unfinished portrait. Adrien came to stand beside her without a word.

“They never can capture it all, can they?” she asked him after a long moment. “The opulence, the radiance. I’ve thousands of portraits now, and none of them are ever as beautiful as they’re supposed to be.”

He looked at the canvas. To him, it seemed a good likeness: The fullness of her lashes, the haughty tilt of her chin, the elegant waves of hair.

“I’m never as beautiful as I’m supposed to be,” she said, and he felt almost sorry for her, despite the petty dissatisfaction in her voice. “No one can really capture it, can they? How beautiful I am?”

“I suppose not,” he said at length, when she turned to him for an answer.

“No one can ever capture how beautiful you are, either,” she said, sighing again, “You see? You’re the most beautiful man in all of Florin, probably in all the world, and that’s why you’re the only one good enough for me, and I’m the only one good enough for you. Whatever idea is rattling around in that handsome head of yours, lay it to rest, Adrien, please.”

“I just can’t go through with it,” said Adrien, grimacing. “I can’t, Your Highness, and you shouldn’t. You have to see that we’re… that this isn’t worth it.”

“I told you when this all started that I didn’t expect you to love me,” she reminded him, “That I didn’t even want you to.”

“And I told you I would never love another, and I meant it. Even when I thought she was… was dead, I loved her, and I love her now, and I always will. It’s useless to even pretend anymore. I love her. That’s—that’s how it is.”

Chloé’s face twisted into something unpleasant and bitter. “I told you I didn’t want you to love me, but I’m beginning to change my mind on that, if we’re being honest. What’s so great about her, Adrien? What has she got that I haven’t? I’m rich and powerful and beautiful, and she’s… what? A shabby little sailor?” She raised a hand when he opened his mouth to object. “No, don’t. Don’t tell me it’s her heart, or her mind, or whatever. I can’t do anything about that and you know it. I’m talking about assets. I have everything.”

“It’s not about assets,” said Adrien, shifting uncomfortably beside her. “It’s… it’s not about anything. I love her as much for the things she lacks as the things she has. She has a good heart and a good mind and a good whatever, yes, but it’s… it’s stuff like the way she makes decisions too quickly, or how she holds her fork weird, or how she flails her arms around when she’s panicking.”  

“You love her for being less than you deserve?”

“I love her for being her,” he corrected. “I don’t deserve anyone. No one is entitled to another person.”

“Well, I am,” said Chloé, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “I deserve the best, and you’re the best, so you’re mine.”

“You don’t even like me,” said Adrien.

“I like you better than most men,” she disagreed, “although granted, you’ve become even worse since that kidnapping business. Here I thought the moping was annoying.”

“But you don’t love me. You’ll never love me, and I’ll never love you. You want to live the rest of our lives like this? Ranging between tolerating and being irritated with one another? Forever?”

Chloé didn’t say anything.

“What about when we’re married?” he asked, plunging recklessly on. “You can’t tell me the prospect brings you any joy. The wedding, perhaps; you do love parties. But look me in the eye and tell me you want to kiss me, for anything other than show. Tell me you want to spend the rest of your life trying to find a painter who can make me look the way I’m ‘supposed’ to. Tell me you want children with hair like crystallized honey and faces like angels’, whose parents can’t bear to look at them.”

“It’s not like I have a choice, Adrien!” she snapped at him. “I have to get married. I have to have an heir. It’s the law. It’s my family’s lineage. I have to.”

“It doesn’t have to be with me,” he said quietly.

“What, you just don’t want to be dragged down with me?” she spat. “You think I’m going to be unhappy? I have everything I could possibly want! It’s you who wants to drag me down. You’re so set on pining and mooning after that silly girl that you’re refusing to see how much better off you are without her. With me.”

“So cut me loose!” he shouted, rising to the challenge in her voice, “If I’m so annoying then just break the engagement, find someone else who will appreciate you. Someone who would be thrilled to marry you and love you and give you an heir. It doesn’t have to be me!”

“Yes it does!” she insisted. “You’re the best, and I only take the best! Lila looked all over the country, and—”

“That’s another thing,” he growled, fists clenching at his sides at the mention of the Countess. His tongue ran over the cut in his lip. “If I ever see her again, I’m going to cause a scene. Mark my words.”  

“What do you mean ‘if,’ of course you’re going to see her again, she’s going to be at dinner tonight—”

“Then I’m not. I mean it.”

“Adrien, stop being a child! I know you two like to harass one another, but—”

“Harass?” he repeated incredulously. “She full-on assaulted me this afternoon! She bit my face!”

Chloé’s expression darkened. “I’ll have a word with her. She knows better than anyone to leave your face alone.”

Adrien stared at her in mounting disbelief. “My—What about the rest of me?” he demanded.

“What?”

“Do you not care that your best friend kissed your fiancé against his will?”

“She wouldn’t do it if you didn’t rile her up like that,” said Chloé, frowning.

Every drop of sympathy Adrien had for the Princess evaporated instantly.

“I can’t marry you,” he said, biting back the desire to shriek his frustrations to the ceiling. He couldn’t talk about this anymore. He couldn’t do this anymore. “I would… I’d rather die.”

“Fine!” snapped Chloé. “Fine. We’ll… compromise.”

“A compromise between marrying you and not marrying you?”

“Yes,” she said through gritted teeth. “We’ll go and find this woman of yours, wherever she’s gallivanted off to without you, and we’ll find out if she still wants to be with you—”

“She does.”

“—and if she does, fine, fine, you can go off and get married or whatever, but if she doesn’t, you marry me. Alright?”

“Even if she doesn’t, I don’t—”

“Consider marrying me, then. As an alternative to death.”

Adrien considered. The Countess’s words rang in his ears.

She not only renounced her claim, she renounced you.

There will be no Ladybug waiting for you beyond those walls.

He knew it wasn’t true. He knew. The Countess loved to lie. It was probably her second favorite hobby, after causing pain. Yet her voice stuck in his mind like a smoke cat’s claw, hooked and sharp as the rest of her.

This is true love, he reminded himself, closing his eyes. Marinette will always come for me.

“Deal,” he said at last, blinking down at the Princess. “Deal.”

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It took Xavier a long time to die.

By the end of it, Marinette was exhausted. It had become rapidly apparent that there wasn’t anything she could do for the man, but she had persisted in struggling against her bonds on the off chance she could at least provide him some comfort.

Her wrists were chafed and bleeding from the biting edges of her cuffs, and her legs could no longer bear her weight, leaving her sagging in defeat and despair as she listened to his pained, rattling breaths.

Through it all, the Countess watched. She took notes and passed them to the wraith at intervals, presumably to be copied into the larger book. Her eyes bore into Marinette like drills, leaving her feeling raw and exposed and far too vulnerable.

Finally the only sound in the stone chamber was the scratching of her captors’ quills. Slowly, Marinette raised her head from where it drooped against her chest, staring with dull eyes at the lifeless corpse across from her.

“Well,” said the Countess, from her seat at the desk, “that was illuminating.”

Marinette turned her head to look at her. Her eyes wouldn’t move the way she wanted them to; everything felt heavy.

The Countess got to her feet, walking leisurely down the stairs to where Xavier lay sprawled. His face was still twisted in a ghost of the agony he’d spent hours screaming to end.

There were few apparent indicators of what had killed him; everything visible he had done to himself. There were long scores in his arms from where he had raked his fingernails, as if trying to claw the apoptoxin from his veins; his neck and shoulders were bruised from thrashing against the floor and whipping post; the whites of his eyes, most chilling of all, had been stained crimson—he had burst several blood vessels with the force of his screams.

Marinette watched the Countess catalogue what injuries she could find, six narrow fingers almost caressing the dead man’s face as she opened his mouth, lifted his eyelids, turned his jaw this way and that, and allowed herself to feel what little she could bear.

She felt responsible. She knew it wasn’t her fault, not really—the Countess would have killed the man anyway, and she would have experimented with Cataclysm anyway. Her being there had likely changed only the location of the execution. And yet, what if? He was an innocent man, guilty only of caring too deeply for the local vermin. What if her coming here had facilitated his selection as guinea pig? What if it was her fault?

She felt sick. Sick and hurt and so, so tired. Her whole body ached from her attempts to reach Xavier, and tremored from aftershocks of witnessing the incident. Her pulse throbbed in her wrists, and dried blood stuck to the inside of her elbows in an irritating crust. She longed to sleep, but dreaded the terrors that doubtless awaited her.

She felt angry. Furious, even. That she, the Dread Pirate Ladybug, should be reduced to a spectator of whatever gruesome horror this vicious creature could conjure up—she wanted to rip free of her bonds and throttle her, watch the life drain from her eyes like she’d watched it drain from her victim’s.

And, despite her best efforts, she felt confused.

For all that she loathed the Countess, the woman certainly did have a way of getting into people’s heads. To track the attacks of the Boucles, and to interpret that data with such accuracy… it was like facing everything she had feared Papillon would be.

Discovering Marinette’s overdeveloped sense of justice had probably owed more to instinct than facts. A pirate renowned for being merciless would hardly strike anyone as the ideal candidate for a ‘punish by killing people in front of’ experiment, yet the Countess seemed to have stumbled upon it all the same.

The silver lining was that the Countess had overplayed her hand—Marinette was now certain she had orchestrated Adrien’s kidnapping. She was somewhat less certain of whether the Countess had planned his assassination, as she had to have been aware of Papillon’s bumbling bravado—but surely even she couldn’t have accounted for Marinette’s own intervention. She may have intended for Adrien to escape, or be rescued in some other manner; why she would want Adrien dead, Marinette couldn’t decide.

In any case, the Countess’s motivations were unlikely to have an impact on what she did to Marinette, so it was all secondary to her main concern: Escape.

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Adrien hesitated to even go to dinner the eve of the wedding, but hunger won out in the end; the kitchen staff had been sneaking him food for the past few days, but tonight had been forestalled by the installation of a bodyguard at his door, a hulking but entirely silent man who glowered at anyone venturing too near.

So with a growling stomach, Adrien lingered in the doorway of the royal dining chamber, peering with unabashed suspicion into the room.

“Sit down,” the Princess told him impatiently from the head of the table, where she sat in her father’s place. The aging King had been seated at her right hand, and his attendant (the congenial butler whose name Adrien still didn’t know) beside him. She gestured impatiently to the empty chair at her left, usually occupied by the Countess, who seemed mercifully absent. Perhaps Chloé had actually listened to him for once.

“You’re in Lila’s place, she’s working late tonight,” she added, when he didn’t immediately comply. “She says she has a lead on the rebellion, but I don’t know that I believe it, to tell you the truth.”

Gritting his teeth, Adrien took his seat without a word. Chloé prattled on, oblivious.

“I suppose she’s more qualified than I to identify rebels, what with all those ridiculous accounts she keeps of everything, but she doesn’t know what to do with them, the silly thing. She gets so excited about her little experiments that she loses her head entirely, and then we’re back where we started.”

“Lose her head!” the King chimed in, smiling in excitement towards his daughter. She sighed impatiently at the interruption. “Are we having a beheading?”

“No, Your Majesty,” said the butler, “at least, not a public one. You know how the Countess gets on.”

“Is—is she killing people?” Adrien asked, drawing back in surprise.

“Of course she is,” said Chloé, rolling her eyes. “What did you think I meant by experiments, Adrien? Try to keep up.”

He swallowed thickly, looking between her and King Bourgeois, who looked enchanted at the possibility of an execution. He supposed it wasn’t really… a shock. He knew better than most what the Countess was capable of, and yet—he hadn’t expected that the royal family would be so emphatically on board.

“It’s only ever criminals, anyway,” said Chloé, waving a hand in dismissal. “Rebels and pirates and things. Nobody important.”

“…Pirates?” Adrien echoed hoarsely.

Chloé blinked, seeming to catch herself. “Well yes, but not your pirate, obviously.”

“Obviously,” he repeated, staring at her. She frowned uncomfortably under his scrutiny.

“That reminds me. We’ve, ah—that is to say, I arranged for our ships to scour the Channel,” she told him. “I do hope you’ll forgive me for thinking it of her, but I didn’t imagine she’d stray far. Either the woman had disavowed you entirely and fled the armada, or she was so stubborn she’d be lurking quite nearby for a chance to steal you away, despite your stated hopes.”

“Of course,” said Adrien. He looked away, down to his hands, folded neatly in his lap. Marinette wouldn’t flee from an armada, he knew, but she might well have fled from his cruelty. If—if he was right, and she did still care for him, then she would be as close as she dared, regardless of his hopes. She’d stay until she was assured this was what he wanted. She wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

Would she?

“…Adrien, the ships have returned,” said Chloé, with what passed for gentleness. He raised his head sharply, staring into her cold blue eyes. He imagined for a moment he even saw a glint of sympathy. “I was right about her staying nearby, but… She wouldn’t come.”

She pulled something from the folds of her dress and laid it on the table with a soft click.

Adrien stared down at the necklace he had made Marinette when they were children, and the room seemed to narrow to that single point.

“I’m sorry,” said Chloé. Her voice sounded far away, or maybe it was just that Adrien’s head was suddenly full of cotton.

He didn’t feel the emotions he knew she was waiting for, not out of spite, but because they simply weren’t there. It sort of felt like he wasn’t there—but it was his eyes and no one else’s locked on the smooth, dark stones, tracing the schiller as it flickered with the candlelight.

He focused on finding his lungs and took a slow, mechanical breath. He felt the wood of his chair against his fingertips. He listened for the sound of his heartbeat, abnormally loud against his muffled ears.

He was almost queasy, with a thick film sitting along his tongue, but as he came back into himself all he really felt was acceptance. He was almost reassured.

“No, you aren’t,” said Adrien, when he could speak. “But it’s alright. She’ll come.”

“Adrien—”

His hand closed over the necklace, and he stood from his chair without waiting to be excused. “You don’t get it,” he said simply. “Marinette will always come for me.”

“Adrien, don’t be a fool,” she snapped. “She’s told them she doesn’t want you anymore.”

“No, she didn’t.”

“Adrien, sit down—”

“Why?” He barked out a cold laugh, without a drop of humor. “So you can lie to me? Try to break my heart and snap me up when I’m in pieces? It won’t work, Your Highness. You can craft all the stories you like, give me all the evidence you can produce, but I won’t ever believe it. Marinette will always come for me.”

“She won’t!” said Chloé, exploding to her feet with a stamp of her golden slippers. “I’ve just told you she won’t! I am the one in charge here, Adrien! I sent the ships! And I am telling you, she doesn’t want you anymore! So you are going to marry me tomorrow, because I am rich, I am powerful, I am beautiful, and most importantly, because I said so!”

Adrien stared at her for a long, measuring moment. He took in her perfectly styled hair, the color of crystalized honey, and her intricately embroidered gown that drew out the color of her eyes like sapphires held up to the sky. He looked at her clenched fists and her pearl-white teeth, bared in a snarl.

“You are rich and powerful,” he allowed, “but if this is how you live your life, you’ll never be as beautiful as you’re ‘supposed’ to be.”

He walked out without another word.

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Marinette had never been one to idle. Even after she heard the news of Adrien’s engagement and was overtaken by a wave of listless apathy, she had kept herself busy managing the affairs of the ship. She forced herself into action wherever possible, resting only when pressed by her crew, determined to work off whatever emotion was most recently troubling her.

So in the wake of Xavier’s death, she was galvanized into officially attempting her escape.

The body was removed following the Countess’s examination, though whether for disposal or further study had yet to be decided. The Countess apparently wanted to observe the effects of Cataclysm on decomposition, citing some experiment she’d done with mercury and arsenic.

Luckily for Marinette, this meant a guaranteed day or so without her intense scrutiny, and she intended to take advantage of it. While the wraith studiously copied the Countess’s notes into the leather-bound book on her desk, Marinette put every fiber of muscle in her body into sawing at the grate in the channel.

It was slow, grueling work. She fought to keep her breathing quiet and even, glancing over her shoulder every minute or so at the diligent wraith. Marinette was being allowed extra time unshackled to keep her from being a distraction, which worked just fine for her.

In the dark of the dungeon, the only way to tell time was to keep track of how low the fire burned in the hearth. Marinette had been filing away at the grate for two and a half logs before she made it most of the way through the first bar; three to make it through the second. The third bar she sawed through even less than the first, and after resting her arms for half a log or so, she began to pull.

It would have been faster to kick it in, certainly, but she couldn’t risk that the clanging would alert the wraith to her activity. She was lucky that there was only one crossbar, likely to have been added to the grate for spacing rather than bulk.

This was their own fault, really; if you furnish a dungeon with shoddy equipment, you’re going to lose a few prisoners here and there.

The bars were made of a more flexible metal than she had anticipated from the oxidization—she had expected iron, but it was closer to tin than anything. Snapping the rest of the way through was the work of a moment.

Slowly, trying not to make a splash, she bent the grate upwards around the crossbar, peeling it back as if skinning an animal. Her shoulders, sore from straining against her restraints yesterday, screamed in protest, but she persevered. The metal bit into her hands, her cuffs bit into her wrists, the rock bed of the stream bit into her knees, but she was doing something. She was taking action.

Marinette levered out and lowered herself into the water, having to turn her head to keep her mouth clear, and began to wriggle through—until six blade-thin fingers caught in her hair and pulled.

The Countess hauled Marinette bodily from the water, keeping her off balance with a few well-placed wrenches of her skull, yanking on her loose black hair like a misbehaving dog might get its leash wrenched.

“You sneaky thing!” she laughed, genuine humor coloring her normally frigid tone. “Why, another minute or so and you’d have been off like a fish!”

Marinette was, to put it mildly, exhausted. She’d spent the better part of yesterday trying to get to Xavier, gotten less than a wink of sleep, and then close to a full day of sawing through solid metal. She was soaking wet, chilled to the bone, and weary as only a captive can be. So she didn’t really think to check her surroundings; all that mattered in that moment was the Countess, and escape.

“Never much cared for fish,” said Marinette conversationally, breathing hard through her nose to dispel the water she’d been dunked in. “They’re a little too slippery.”

It wasn’t that she was desperate—she was just very cranky.

She twisted suddenly in the Countess’s grasp, jabbing an elbow into her ribs and turning to face her, bulling immediately into her diaphragm, knocking them both sprawling. The Countess half released her, wheezing, still tangled in her hair but no longer clinging, and Marinette took the opportunity to pull free, aching muscles falling automatically into familiar holds, knees pinning the Countess to the floor before either had even caught their breath.

She drew back like a cobra, grabbing the Countess’s hair in turn and using the purchase to slam the back of her head into the cold floor of the dungeon, teeth bared in a snarl as she fought to deflect flailing arms.

The Countess writhed savagely beneath her, her own teeth stained red where they’d sliced into her lip, her eyes wild and wide, but without a trace of fear.

Marinette punched her in the face.

Distantly she remembered she was supposed to keep her head during a fight, supposed to breathe through the surge of adrenaline and think about what she was doing—but all she could think was that she wanted to see the Countess be afraid. She wanted to hurt her. Kill her, not for the greater good, but just to watch her die. She wanted her to suffer like Xavier had suffered, like dozens—maybe even hundreds—of others had suffered at this woman’s hands. So she didn’t really care about keeping her head.

Maybe that was her mistake.

As she lifted the Countess’s head to slam it back into the ground, a stout fist buried itself in her kidney, and she relinquished her hold with a cry of pain, turning to her attacker.

The wraith.

Swearing, she staggered to her feet, kneeing the Countess in the stomach as she went. The wraith didn’t give her time to find her balance, launching herself in a full tackle that caught Marinette around the shoulders, forcing both of them back into the stream. The wraith came out on top, trying to force Marinette’s head under the water, and the fear in her eyes was so unmistakable it cleared Marinette’s head.

She didn’t have time for this.

For all that the wraith was built like miner, she was clearly inexperienced at fighting. Marinette slackened her grip, swallowing a lungful of air and letting her face be pushed under, and when the wraith began to relax, she struck.

With her full strength, she pulled her knees up to her chest and kicked the wraith away, flipping over and scrambling for the bent grating, intent to escape and return with weapons, or a plan, or something—

But the Countess barred the way, and she was anything but inexperienced.

Marinette ran her tongue over her upper lip, wiping water from her eyes with the back of her hand. It was tricky to do wearing the cuffs, one hand spread awkwardly wide in a warding gesture no one would heed. She needed a moment, just a moment, to come up with an angle of attack.

Then the wraith was on her again, wrapping a cord around her throat and forcing her back out of the water, back towards her shackles, and Marinette bucked wildly to throw her, to no avail. She slammed her elbow back into the wraith so many times she lost count, stamping for her feet and attempting a very poorly executed head-butt that failed to connect.

The wraith held her in place, absorbing the abuse like a sponge, unflinching, and the Countess hooked her back up to the table, dodging (most of) the flurry of blows. Her arms were pinioned to her sides, the cuffs dangling from her left wrist, and the Countess swore when they hit her in the struggle.

“That’s enough,” she hissed as they finally restrained her. “That’s enough!”

“Tapping out this early, Your Grace?” Marinette panted through a fierce grin. “Too bad. I’m just getting started. What do you say? Ever wanted only ten fingers?”

“Your circumstances are not as secure as you seem to believe, Captain,” said the Countess, and her eyes were smoldering with fury.

“Your cell isn’t as secure as you seem to believe—”

The Countess silenced her with a punch to the face, in the same place Marinette had punched her earlier.

“The only reason you were kept alive,” she spat, “the only reason you were fed, and doctored, and allowed free roam, was to keep you in the best of health, so that you might prove interesting. You are an experiment, and as such, will only be tended to in the event that you are useful. Do you understand?”

“Well, I guess the experiment’s failed, then,” Marinette spat back. “I don’t care what you do to me. I’m never going to help you. You are the most despicable creature I have ever had the misfortune of encountering, and I should have killed you when I had the chance.”

The Countess’s eyes gleamed. The anger in them faded to a dull resentment, replaced by a vicious sheen. Marinette glared back at her.

“Well now,” said the Countess, “you have a point.”

“Your Grace?” the wraith asked in evident concern. Her face was a mess of blood and sweat, and the color made her cheeks look almost ruddy under her pallor.

“A wise combatant does not grant clemency to a formidable opponent,” said the Countess. “Fasten the auxiliary restraints.”

The wraith obliged immediately, while the Countess turned on her heel and strode to the desk. Marinette clamped her teeth around the building panic, counting her breaths, measuring her heartrate. She may have misunderstood. It may not be too late.

The Countess returned with the small chest containing the quill and bladder canister, passing it to the wraith and drawing the vial of Cataclysm from her belt, setting it atop the chest while she turned to Marinette.

There was a short knife in her six-fingered hand, and Marinette almost wished she would just kill her like a common criminal. She almost wished she could just die here, now, instantly, rather than face what she knew lay ahead.

But she couldn’t wish that; she had to live. She couldn’t die here in grimy dungeon, soaking wet and trussed up like a roasting ham. She had to get to Adrien.

She didn’t flinch as the Countess’s blade opened the crook of her elbow, but she did glare balefully at the woman. Marinette had always thought, privately, that Princess Chloé was too good an actress. That she couldn’t be half the evil mastermind the inner workings of her Kingdom revealed. She had a malicious streak, certainly, and she was well on her way to bankrupting the royal family with her exorbitant purchases, but she had not yet demonstrated a fraction of the cunning required to exploit and oppress an entire nation so thoroughly.

It had been easy to hate Chloé, thinking of her as someone who simply played the fool, who had stolen Adrien away and ruled in luxury with no regard for her people—but watching the Countess fill the device with her poison, more than five times as full as she had for Xavier, Marinette realized she had been right all along. The true evil of the Kingdom had been lurking in Chloé’s shadow from the beginning.

“Have you any last words?” asked the Countess, smiling as if they were sharing a joke.

“Only this,” said Marinette evenly. “One day very soon, justice will come again to Florin, and you will be stopped.”

“What a pity you won’t be here to enjoy the spoils,” said the Countess. “I’ll take good care of the Marquis for you, shall I?”

“His name is Adrien,” she answered, closing her eyes.

The Countess made her injection.

Marinette screamed.

She couldn’t help it. The hot pulse of her own blood running down her arm was eclipsed instantly by the feeling of Cataclysm coursing through her opened vein. Her hand went numb for a moment, stunned into an unfeeling haze before it caught ablaze, every nerve ending stabbing and shocking and tearing away at her. Her stomach revolted at the feeling, bile forcing its way into her throat as she contorted what little she could around the wound.

She stared at her hands in consternation when she could finally wrench her eyes back open. She couldn’t believe there was no external indication of her agony. A thousand needles forced their way through every inch of her being, and her flesh melted like candle wax over the searing heat of bones that had turned to molten lead.

She had to get out of here. She had to end this, to find Adrien and run as far from the Countess as they could get. There was too much left to do. There was too much left to see.

It wasn’t fair.

Her thoughts grew slow and heavy, circling the memory of Adrien’s face like a drain, and quietly, sluggishly—Marinette died.