empty thrones (ch6)

[lunecat16]

Title: empty thrones
Rating: Mature
Major Warnings: Body horror, graphic violence, familial abuse, other warnings included in fic
Genre: Canon Divergence

Reid stepped forward, his shoes echoing on the marble floor. He took a deep breath, taking in the cold, stark air of the family home. It was familiar, but where he’d once felt reassured, now the air was harsh, putting him on edge. He knew it would have felt the same way even without the scattering of guests in the foyer.

Almost as if he was the outsider here.

The middle-aged couple who’d noticed when he entered were still staring at him. There was an older man standing near the entrance to the right-side hall, his brow furrowed in deep concentration as he looked down at his phone. Looking down the hallway, he could see a few more figures standing about.

He turned back to the couple.

“Reid Musser,” the man said, still sounding startled. “The Green family gives our condolences.”

Green family. He felt like he’d seen their name in the family dossiers when reviewing which names to take note of, but he wasn’t certain. The pages had become a blur at some point, and the pain that constantly shot through his face had made it difficult to focus.

“It’s appreciated,” he said, offering little else in the way of a reply. He spoke up slightly, trying to enunciate past the hoarseness in his voice. It helped, but he didn’t sound well, and the troubled look that fell over their expressions momentarily was a sign the Greens noticed as well.

The older man’s head shot up as soon as he spoke, and he turned to Reid, his face flush with embarrassment. “Reid Musser, I didn’t know you were coming. I’m terribly sorry for your loss. I’m sorry you saw me like this as well– there’s been an incident, and–”

“It’s alright. Your apology is accepted,” he said, eye narrowing with annoyance. It would have been better if the man hadn’t apologized in the first place. If he was so ashamed of a presumed emergency, why not ignore his phone?

He didn’t have to put up with either the Greens or the disrespectful man for much longer. Wye, who’d entered the estate just behind him, deflected the Green family’s attention with a friendly smile and slight wave. Deflecting may not have been the right word for what he was doing or even why he was doing it, but it felt… if not fitting, then easier to frame it that way.

Easier to frame the funeral like a battle he was about to walk into. Easier to picture his family and the guests as a force to withstand. His weapon was his Word and his armor was what little Self he’d managed to reinforce.

Right now, his Word felt weak, and his Self…

He had his drive to move forward. He had his composure, as fragile as it was. He didn’t want to examine himself further. He knew he wouldn’t like what he found.

Even so, he had a battle plan. He hadn't been given a schedule for this funeral, but he knew how these events went. Today was the public funeral, with a viewing and memorial service. They’d save the more personal, more heartfelt service for tomorrow, when all but the family and closest friends had left.

He would go and pay respects to his father, and endure whatever conversation occurred along the way. He would have to report to his uncle, or his grandfather, or someone else in charge after. When he found them, he’d be able to say he properly grieved his father. He knew it wouldn’t matter, not in any real way. But it was something he could say he did, and, much like the items in Wye’s car, it was a tiny glimmer of hope – the idea that his actions could make a difference.

He just had to endure today and tomorrow.

He looked down the right-hand hallway. More people were standing about, some holding drinks. Most of them seemed to have gathered in the reception room. Down the left side, at a glance, he could see a furred shape in the entrance to the break room at the end of that hallway. He suspected that was where the familiars had gathered.

That emptiness, that lack of familiar presences at his side, came into focus again. He tried to focus on Wye and Raquel instead, who were both at his side now, but it wasn’t the same.

They weren’t there for him, in the way Blackhorne and Drowne had been. In the way Blackhorne and Drowne had been for their own masters, before Reid tore them away.

He took a deep breath, composed himself, and began walking towards the reception room.

The marble floor in the foyer gave way to dark panels of wood. A dark gold rug covered the hallway floor, to add a touch of color and keep the floors from getting scuffed. Paintings of battles were hung up on one side of the hall, one on each side of the door to the powder room, which was currently closed. People whispered, or exchanged glances with each other as they saw him approach, only to speak up as he drew near.

“Reid Musser, I worked with your father once. He was a great man,” one man remarked.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Reid Musser,” another woman quietly uttered.

Each time, he had to stop and acknowledge their meaningless platitudes. Each time, he had to listen, and accept their sympathies so they could have the privilege of saying they’d ‘paid their respects’ to the Musser family.

Reid Musser.

Reid Musser.

Reid Musser.

Every utterance of his name pounded against his mind. He was Reid Musser, but they weren’t addressing him. They were addressing a Reid Musser who hadn’t been to Kennet, hadn’t entered the Carmine Contest.

Wye’s presence helped – even if he was just walking beside him, the mere idea that the others weren’t focusing entirely on him because of Wye was comforting. A small comfort, but a comfort all the same.

Raquel prompted the opposite feeling. A weakness at his flank, someone he had to be mindful of, on top of everything else.

As he withstood the onslaught, they passed into the reception room. Most of the furniture had been cleared out, with the exception of a small coffee table in the middle, and a couple of plush chairs pushed up against the walls as places to sit down if needed. The lamp lights were on and the curtains were open, but the room felt dark and cramped regardless. The people inside didn’t help with that feeling.

More whispers, more stares. Most of the faces he saw were from lesser families and circles, but there were exceptions. He saw Estrella Vanderwerf speaking to another woman. Estrella’s dress was mostly black, but silver filigree patterns added a dignified, elegant touch. She glanced over at him, her expression remaining just as cold and neutral as it had been a second ago, and then she turned back to her conversation.

The Knighton family didn’t seem to be in the room. He wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or afraid at that fact.

He suppressed a sharp pang of anxiety as he continued on, half-expecting that as more people saw him conversation would die entirely, and he’d be up against a surge of insincere sympathies and judging eyes. That didn’t happen, of course. Mobbing him like that would be in poor taste, and most of the practitioners here knew to remain respectful.

He still expected it to happen, though. He was the central attraction, the heir – former heir – returned from the same trip that killed his father. They were curious; sneaking sidelong glances, but only addressing him when he got close. Otherwise, conversation remained quiet, and the atmosphere, at least on the surface, remained somber.

“Reid Musser, the Songetay family pays our respects,” the Songetay head spoke. Reid didn’t remember his name. His wife was at his side, and Easton stood close by. The boy stared at Reid with that same sad, almost fearful look he’d had the other day.

His father nudged him, or did something, Reid couldn’t see from this angle, but Easton startled, looking pained as he spoke. “Your father was someone I looked up to. I’m sor– he’ll be missed.”

A good catch, avoiding the apology, but it wasn’t one Reid wanted to praise or bring attention to in a crowded room, with Easton’s father present.

“I’ll– yes. I appreciate your words, Songetays,” he instead replied, with a slightly stilted cadence.

I’ll miss him as well.

Five words. Five simple words, and he couldn’t bring himself to say them. He didn’t know if he’d be gainsaid – or worse, they’d come out of his mouth and his composure would break, with maybe his voice cracking, or his throat seizing up.

He moved on, only making it a few steps before another man spoke, lifting himself up off from the wall he was leaning on. He had a rugged look and greying brown hair, a bit tousled but not wavy in the Musser way.

“Reid Musser, hm? I knew your father when we were younger. A real force to be reckoned with. My condolences.”

Reid stayed quiet, trying to recall the man’s family name, except–

He couldn’t remember if his father had ever mentioned the people he’d known before becoming head of the family that he hadn’t kept around now, like Anthem Tedd, or other obvious names like Durocher’s. This time, he was fairly certain that it wasn’t his pain-addled memory making him forget. His father had simply never told him about this man.

“...I accept your condolences, Mr…?”

“Renfeld. Just call me Renfeld. Chronicler of Names.”

“Renfeld, then.”

He parted from the Chronicler, a faint anger simmering in him, the dark cloud in the back of his mind stirring. How much else had his father hidden from him? How much more wrong could he have been about the kind of man his father was?

He knew the Musser ideal he devoted his life to was a lie, he knew how mistaken he’d been, but just how far off was he?

It made him want to kick something. Or smash his fist into the wall. Or scream.

He resisted the impulse.

A woman spoke to Raquel, offering her condolences. He recognized her as Gladys Argall, a practitioner from a small-scale but reputable group of specialist enchanters. She wasn’t a threat, and Raquel wouldn’t endanger the family by saying the wrong thing, but Reid tensed up anyway, preparing to pull her away from the conversation if it was going poorly.

“I appreciate your kind words, Ms. Argall.”

“Mrs, but it’s flattering you see me as a ‘miss’.”

“Oh, terribly sorry, Mrs. Argall,” Raquel replied.

Reid tried his best to keep from reprimanding her – she was lucky she hadn’t given her apology to a faerie mage. Raquel turned back to look at him, frowning, face slightly red, as if she’d realized her mistake as well. He certainly hoped she did. However, she hardly had a moment to compose herself before another woman approached.

“Ah, you’re Raquel Musser? The Covelle family gives their condolences,” the black-haired woman spoke, giving his cousin a honey-sweet smile.

Reid knew that name. Perhaps it was a small grace that the bandages hid his frown, as he gave Raquel a subtle nudge, urging her away from the woman just as she finished replying.

Raquel remained smiling as she departed, which was a relief. Her movement had looked natural enough, and while he wasn’t sure it was enough to trick the Covelles, it would be enough for most attendees.

“What was that about?” She whispered, once they were out of earshot. They were headed out of the reception room now, and into the adjacent living room.

Reid glanced from left to right, checking to see if anyone was listening. It didn’t seem like it.

“Spellbinders, of a less reputable sort than the ones at school, or the ones who I visited.”

The Covelle family intercepted faerie-trafficked children on their way to the Courts and claimed them for their own, or sometimes took children from neglectful, isolated family environments. They claimed to be rescuers, but in reality groomed the children into ideal servants through a combination of spellbinding, glamour, and mundane means. The Musser family had purchased a handful of staff members from them in the past, been satisfied with the results, and the Covelles had been reliable contacts held at arm’s length ever since.

The Willans’ bound Oddfolk weren’t an issue for him. The Allemand thralls were – they had fallen into their bindings through debts unpaid. It wouldn’t bother him normally, but as he was now, his mind couldn’t help but wander to the sound of his gun firing, and to the thrall’s body hitting the floor with a sickly ‘thud’. But the way the Covelles molded those children–

There was no chance they’d touch practitioners, not even Raquel. But they were the exact kind of opportunists he’d expected to show up to the funeral, likely in search of new clients. They weren’t worth the time or trouble, and he didn’t want them to have access to Raquel in any way.

Raquel took a moment to process his response, but seemed to respect it, only giving him a firm nod.

Good. She wasn’t being a burden. Navigating the reception room had been less of an ordeal than he’d feared. There had still been far too many faces to pay attention to, and every conversation simultaneously put him on edge and drained him, but he’d made it through.

Maybe if Raquel kept up this performance, and Wye remained at his side, he’d make it through this day.

He looked over at Wye. His left hand was closed into a loose fist, and he was staring at a woman with a face caked in heavy make-up on the far side of the room. His fingers shifted slightly, as if moving or feeling something in his hand. However, when he opened the hand a moment later, it was empty.

Reid’s mind went to the bones he’d seen enter and leave Wye’s hand with ease in the past. What was he using his implement for?

Wye turned to Reid. “I should go speak to my client before she leaves. You don’t need me to stick around, do you?”

“I–” Reid stared at Wye, his eye wide open with disbelief.

What?

Wye clapped a hand on his shoulder, barely giving him time to think. “Just one thing before I go…”

You’re leaving? What?

He leaned in close, and whispered. “Have a small prophecy. Be mindful of Raquel. Safety in the rabbit’s fur, danger in the hanging tree.”

“What–”

But Wye was already across the room and greeting his client.

He’d had an inkling of a glimmer of a hope, and it was gone just like that. It wasn’t as if Wye knew what he was feeling, he didn’t expect that of him. He wasn’t mad–

Well, maybe a little angry. A little angry at Wye, and considerably more angry at himself. What was he doing, relying so much on someone else to keep his emotional state in check? He wasn’t supposed to be that vulnerable, he wasn’t supposed to be that weak.

…Except he was vulnerable. He was weak. He wished he could be stupid enough to believe he wasn’t, like some of his cousins, but he knew better.

He took stock of the living room. Much like the room before it, most of the furniture had been moved out to give people space to stand, though it did have a couch in the middle of the room that older guests were using to rest their legs. It was also dark and mildly cramped, with wood panels covering the walls. The monotony was only broken up by paintings and portraits, and the shelf above the fireplace, which held an antique rifle. Above the weapon was a taxidermied head of a Leonine beast – a bit tacky, in his opinion, but it had been there since his great grandfather’s time, according to his father. He could have removed it, but there would be too much of an uproar from the rest of the family for disrespecting his ancestor’s great deed.

Reid could remember his father sharing his distaste for the head to him, and they’d exchanged amused looks. He had felt so full of himself, for feeling as if he and his father had some exclusive, mutual understanding – that he’d connected with him on a level only for the two of them.

Ridiculous. It hadn’t been a shared understanding. His tastes had been whatever his family’s tastes were; he’d just parroted the right preferences to his father and been rewarded for it.

And yet–

And yet he could still feel his father’s amusement and approval, warming his heart while driving daggers into it.

Fuck.

He broke his gaze away from the taxidermied head before his eye started watering, and focused on the people instead. He was only familiar with about half of the other attendees in the room, with a passing glance. Grayson Hennigar was present with two of his sons, Eliana Graubard was staring up at the taxidermy with the faintest look of disapproval in her eyes, and–

Family.

His cousin Abner stood next to the entrance to the personal dining room. Abner was sixteen and hadn’t traveled like Reid had, but rather chose to stay and learn from the family directly. His father had tutored him and considered him to be competent, if lacking in initiative. The results of that tutoring had been tested a month ago, when he’d been directed to take an interesting ring implement that had surfaced in Quebec.

He’d been successful, and that ring, a gold band made of a detailed interlocking of monstrous hands with corundum claws, rested on his left ring finger. Reid couldn’t help but lament at the sight of the thing. His little cousin was already staring at it so fondly, giving it a lingering look before focusing his gaze out onto the living room.

But it wasn’t his. It would never be his.

Reid suppressed his feelings about the stolen implement and approached Abner, with Raquel following close behind. The boy turned to look at Reid, a hint of surprise managing to slip through his aloof expression.

“Abner,” Reid greeted him.

Abner simply nodded, looking him over.

“You showed, even in your current state,” his cousin mused.

Reid felt the urge to glare, to hit him with some retort, but–

He had to keep his composure. He had to look the part of a Musser – had to go beyond that, even.

“What manner of son would I be if I didn’t attend my father’s funeral?” he replied, his tone of voice almost icy.

His cousin paused before speaking, as if at a loss for words – maybe even rifling through things Reid’s father had said, so he could substitute those instead of having a thought of his own.

Reid was very familiar with that feeling.

“Uncle Abraham spoke of the importance of maintaining image in times of crisis.”

“And Uncle Elijah expected me today,” Reid said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go pay respects to my father.”

Before Abner had a chance to reply, Reid walked past him and into the side dining room.

The room was normally used for private dinners – between immediate family, between his father and select friends, and other, more casual occasions that didn’t warrant readying the dining hall. Now, however, the room only contained the dining table, with the chairs removed so that guests could navigate more easily.

There were no windows here – only the warm but dull lamp lights. The old lacquered wood floors and walls seemed to close in on the room even more, giving it a cramped atmosphere.

He could see more family now, easily identifiable by their brown hair and tall statures. There were exceptions, however. He could see a couple of blonde men speaking to Florin Pesch at one corner of the room.

The Amsterdam branch? Had they really come all the way here?

He felt a faint tug on his connections. Jarvis Staples was staring at him, in the midst of conversing with Silas Vanderwerf.

As Reid walked over to Jarvis, Silas abruptly broke away. He walked past Reid, ignoring him, and went towards the living room.

A relief, in his mind. Their connection had been frozen as somewhat negative since he’d failed to court his sister – he didn’t want to deal with that now.

“Reid, you made it,” Jarvis said.

“You didn’t think I would?”

“Mm,” Jarvis hummed as he seemed to mull over a response, glancing over at the Amsterdam Mussers. “I suppose if your family will travel across continents to attend the funeral, then you’d be here too, even as you are now.”

“As I am now? Jarvis, leave the attempted subtlety to Silas.”

“Ouch, but fair,” Jarvis said, letting out a small chuckle. “Say, will you be coming back–”

He stopped speaking as the rest of the room fell silent. Everyone’s heads were turned towards the person who entered.

Carolyn.

His father, like any Musser, knew how to pick out the finest possessions. Carolyn had been no exception. She wore an elegant black dress that was sleeveless but modest, not revealing too much below her collar and not too short around the legs. She walked slowly and deliberately, with a pensive facial expression that seemed more set than stone – resolute, but with eyes holding an immense sorrow behind them. He wasn’t sure just how much of her demeanor was practiced for the funeral and how much was actual grief, which was a testament to her skill.

Strange to think that she was technically his stepmother, given that she was younger than Wye.

All around her people began to speak in low voices, careful not to speak over each other. Florin offered his deepest condolences. Uncle Grant wished her well. She accepted their words with grace, and continued forward.

To him.

He stepped away from Jarvis, and turned to face her.

“Carolyn–” he started. The words felt strange in his mouth. She hadn’t been married to his father for long, and he hadn’t really had cause to speak to her. She’d just remained ‘his father’s wife’ in his head, but saying her first name out loud felt improper, while ‘Mother’ just felt incorrect.

“Reid, you came,” she spoke, a slight smile forming on her face. “We weren’t certain you’d show.”

Her second remark had a subtle, questioning undercurrent, something more serious beneath the gentler words.

“I was told Uncle Elijah was expecting me,” Reid said. “Even if I hadn’t received that message–”

“I understand. Your devotion is admirable,” she replied, cutting him off. She then turned her head slightly, looking down at Raquel. “I’m glad you’re here as well, Raquel.”

“Thank you, Aunt Carolyn,” Raquel said, keeping her voice soft as she just about curtsied for the woman. “I offer my condolences, I can hardly imagine what you might be feeling right now.”

Oh. So that was the play.

Hearing Raquel say those words so readily wrenched something in his heart.

“And I offer mine as well. How have you been faring, the past two weeks?” He added, the words filled with a concern he tried to make as genuine as possible.

The difference between the distance the other guests gave him, while still whispering or outright ignoring him, and the silence and attention Carolyn commanded when she entered the room was like night and day.

“I’ve managed. It gets easier with each day, though that also saddens me.”

Carolyn was expected to be vulnerable, and he was not. He wasn’t allowed to be. This wasn’t a funeral arranged for his sake. It wasn’t even arranged for Carolyn’s sake, really, but the widow of the deceased was expected to be grieving. More distant relations, or those with less standing, were expected to extend their sympathies and comfort her.

So she used that, and he had to go along with it. He was Abraham’s son, and furthermore it would be impolite to not properly receive his father’s wife, or to take attention away from her own grieving.

His feelings weren’t a consideration. He wasn’t a consideration.

“I hope that sorrow will fade, one day.”

“Thank you. If you can still feel sadness, I hope that one day fades for you as well.”

If you can still feel sadness.

The armor around his Self cracked, as her kind words stabbed right into some deeper part of him.

She walked past him. He felt smaller in the wake of the exchange. The pain was more noticeable, the dark cloud at the back of his mind grew.

He’d expected a talk like this from the start. He just didn’t know it would be with his father’s wife, or how much it would hurt.

He moved onward.

“Reid, Raquel,” Uncle Grant greeted them. His brown hair was streaked with lighter highlights, likely to hide the grey hairs that had begun to grow in. He was shorter than his father, but equally well-built. One of his hands gripped a cane – during the fight with his father over who would succeed the family, he’d been injured and hadn’t fully recovered.

“Uncle Grant,” Reid replied. “I offer my condolences.”

The man shook his head. “Save them. I may have lost a brother, but you lost a father.”

For a moment, Reid was at a loss for words.

“That being said, there were other ways to enter. The servants could have escorted you to Elijah immediately,” Uncle Grant said, his eyes narrowing ever-so-slightly as he spoke.

Stating what every other member of his family thought.

“There were,” Reid said, and it felt like every word out of his mouth was a struggle, “but I chose this one.”

He walked past Uncle Grant, and exited through the same way Carolyn had entered, into the formal dining hall. The room was expansive, sitting below the ballroom on the floor above, with vaulted ceilings and columns supporting it. It had a brighter appearance than the rest of the right wing of the mansion, in part due to its new renovations, and in part due to the large windows to the right side of the room, providing a view of the backyard terrace.

The formal hall was for occasions when friends and other family were visiting the estate, which warranted finer dining accommodations than the small side room. A large dining table stretched from one end of the hall to the other, made of aged, strong wood. One of their many heirlooms. The top of the table was inlaid and engraved patterns and images; at one end, it depicted one of their ancestors standing triumphant over the ruins of an enemy’s castle, while at another it depicted the family being united after warring with each other. Intricate chandeliers hung above the table, spaced apart to provide an even spread of lighting.

Wondrous tales of how great House Musser was, contained on a table old enough to, at this point, count as a Historic artifact. And now it was being used for refreshments – a tablecloth was laid out on the end depicting the family reuniting, obscuring part of the wooden tapestry but holding drinks and small sandwiches. Raquel stepped away and glanced over at him. Questioning.

A couple other Mussers were at the table – his second cousins Terrence and Adelle Collins. Their father had married into the family, and neither cousin had yet proven themselves to be worthy of the Musser name. They still had higher standing than Raquel, in part due to their older ages, but a mishap with them wouldn’t ruin her. He gave her a small nod, and she left him, heading towards the refreshments.

She reminded him that most people would feel hungry after a long drive like theirs.

He was tempted to follow after her, to eat or drink something just for the sake of saying he did, of some kind of token care for his body. He quickly remembered that even drinking a glass of water would be impossible, however. Loosening his bandages was a disrespect he couldn’t risk here, not with so many eyes on him.

He broke away. He had other business to attend to for now. By distancing himself from the dining hall table he’d placed himself in the orbit of a small grouping of his cousins. Elijah’s son Warner was speaking to Odessa Monaghan, from a different branch of the family, and Isaac, another one of his cousins. They’d situated themselves by a couple of the suits of medieval armor lining the indoor wall, each of which were equipped with magical weapons.

“You look like you crawled out of a grave to be here,” Warner said, as Reid approached. He looked smug, though to his credit, Warner had a faint glimmer of concern in his eyes, unlike the other two.

“Hello, Warner,” Reid gave a lifeless reply, not bothering to address what was either a joke or snide jab.

Next to Warner, a small boy came into view. Cyrus, Warner’s brother, only around ten years old. They both shared their father’s less wavy, slick dark brown hair, but Warner’s was styled in a sort of coif, while Cyrus’s was cut short and combed back. He stared up at Reid, looking not afraid but–

Confused. Unsure. His expression tore at some of that cracked, metaphorical armor around his Self.

“How is Cyrus performing?” he asked Warner.

His cousin frowned. “Sufficiently enough. My father believes he’s shown aptitude in multiple fields, though I think some of his knowledge comes up short.”

Odessa raised an eyebrow, though she said nothing. While she didn’t bear the Musser name, she, unlike Raquel, had put her mind to her studies and excelled in what the family asked of her, and so she’d risen in esteem – likely enough to make her reticence unnecessary, honestly. They all knew what she was thinking. Warner was her opposite – despite being Elijah’s son, he’d failed at every turn to live up to expectations. His progress in his studies was glacial. Cyrus, just by showing aptitude, had outdone him.

“Is that so? That’s…”

Reid paused. Was it good, that Cyrus was impressing his uncle? Or was this success just another step towards becoming more like him, hollow and never having anything of his own?

“...good. It’s good you’re performing well, Cyrus.” He decided on, because even if there was nothing good in success by his family’s standards, sometimes it was better to perform well than risk the consequences of failure. Under that context, his performance was good. It wasn’t a lie.

He looked down at Cyrus as he spoke. The boy seemed to, almost imperceptibly, flinch upon making eye contact, leaning away slightly.

Fuck. No. He didn’t want that–

“Speaking of graves, I’ve heard of what happened at the end of summer,” Isaac spoke up.

Reid turned his attention to the other man.

“You had entered the contest for Uncle Abraham’s sake, and for it to end like that… I offer my condolences,” he said.

“As do I,” Odessa added.

Warner gave him a sympathetic look. “I do as well. To sacrifice yourself to restore your honor and stop a disastrous Carmine… it’s unforgivable that the Exile took that away from you.”

He sounded so eager, so genuine as he said that.

It’s a tragedy that you didn’t die.

His practice was ruined. Basic human experiences were lost to him. The greatest relief he’d obtained was when he’d cried and hadn’t immediately been admonished for his tears.

He couldn’t disagree with Warner.

“I appreciate your sympathies.”

It took a moment to force himself to move and walk away from his cousins. If Cyrus had torn at his metaphorical armor, Warner’s remark had shredded it. To keep his volition and composure felt like it hurt his Self than it helped, at this point.

Raquel had gone from speaking with Adelle to talking with Aunt Katherine, Abner’s mother, at the far end of the dining hall. She didn’t seem distressed, and his aunt didn’t look perturbed. He didn’t need to rush to catch up to her.

He passed by a few more non-family guests, who offered token sympathies. He gave token responses in turn. One barely seemed to be listening, as he turned away from Reid to look back up at the indoor wall. On it, centered in the middle and stretching at least half the length of the hall itself, was a painting of the Musser family tree, complete with portraits of each family member. It was somewhat pruned, leaving out the indirect branches, family members of no importance, or those the family didn’t want to remember, but it was accurate enough, even if it only went back around a hundred years, and it was brimming with detail.

Every few decades they commissioned another sprawling painting, updated with the newer generations.

He wouldn’t be in that updated painting.

The realization felt like it physically hurt.

He saw Sullivan Fletcher and a young girl not too far away from the painting. They both looked afraid, though both were trying to hide that fear.

He continued down the hall, which meant heading towards them. He could see Sullivan deliberating, and then attempting to step forward, only for his mother to quietly stop him, urging the children to stay back.

As if just speaking to him was ill-advised.

Another blow to something deep in him, that made every thought, every step more difficult.

“Others are restricted to the left wing, Reid,” Hudson spoke up from the end of the dining hall. He was standing near the closed door leading to the left wing, and gestured to it with a tilt of his head.

Any temptation to offer a witty retort would only hurt him. To remind Hudson that he brought no Others with him would bring attention to how he lost Blackhorne and Drowne. To act like he didn’t know what ‘Other’ Hudson was talking about would just make him look foolish. He couldn’t reprimand his cousin either, not anymore.

Anger simmered within him, made harsher and deeper by the Abyss. A reprimand or a forceful response would support Hudson’s point.

So he restrained himself. “I’m aware, Hudson.”

A little more of that anger died, replaced by something hollow, and it felt like a little of him went with it.

Hudson’s father, Uncle Vaughn, seemed to be keeping a careful and cold eye on both him and Hudson in equal measure, but said nothing.

Reid passed them by, and headed towards Raquel. With the door to the left wing barred off, the only way out was through the backyard terrace. There was a staircase leading up to the second floor balcony from the terrace, and he knew that his father’s viewing, or whatever they had set up for him, would be somewhere on the second floor.

He couldn’t help but admire how his family laid out the funeral. Guests would enter the mansion’s halls, tour the rooms, get a taste of House Musser’s wealth and might, and remind them that the family was still important – still a family others would want to rely on.

“The Blue Heron is where Marie Durocher is situated, correct?” he heard Aunt Katherine ask as he drew closer.

“Yes,” Raquel replied.

“How fortunate. Her lectures seem useful to your practice. Many soft implements find purchase in the divine. Chalices, amulets…”

“Raquel has attended a good number of her classes,” Reid said, entering the conversation before Raquel ended up revealing practices and methods that were best kept secret.

“Ah, hello, Reid. My condolences for what happened in Kennet,” Aunt Katherine said. “I was speaking to Raquel about her progress.”

Raquel looked faintly pleased, like the conversation hadn’t reminded her of her inadequacy. Aunt Katherine didn’t seem to be hiding disappointment either. It was likely that she hadn’t expected much from Raquel in the first place.

Reid’s eye drifted to the wall behind them. Closer to Aunt Katherine’s side there was a family portrait by a manor. The building was smaller than this one, but still grand, and the rolling fields around it peaked with a distant hill, on which stood a tall sycamore tree.

“Uncle Abraham hadn’t mentioned much about other schools to me. You said you knew of the Burgess Tower?”

“Yes. A relative of mine once taught there for a seminar.”

He knew that manor. It was one of their estates in Britain, situated just within a knotted realm. It formerly belonged to allies who had sold off the property years ago when they’d fallen on hard times, and those allies had functioned as the overseers and enforcers of Law in that space. The tree in the back was a dule tree – bodies had hung from its branches, and occasionally still did, if there was a particularly disruptive local.

Beware the hanging tree.

He looked back at Raquel and his aunt. Raquel’s self-satisfaction, and his aunt’s oddly kind words towards her, began to take on darker undertones.

Dangerous.

“Raquel, we should move on.” He began to walk past Raquel, giving her a subtle nudge.

The small smile disappeared from her face. She opened her mouth as if to immediately ask him what he was doing, but caught herself. “I understand. Excuse me, Aunt Katherine.”

His aunt looked surprised, though she allowed them to depart.

Raquel looked upset.

“Is Aunt Katherine some sort of secret spellbinder too?” she hissed, keeping her voice low as they walked outside and out of the woman’s earshot.

Reid shook his head. “No.”

“Then what?” Raquel asked, letting some of her upset through in her voice. “The conversation was going well. She was mentioning her house feeling emptier with Abner out and doing work for the family.”

“A bad feeling.”

“What–”

“Remember that going with her would not guarantee staying with that household. Or kind treatment, once there was no chance you could leave.”

Raquel fell silent at his reply, a troubled expression falling over her face.

He didn’t know if his words were true. Maybe he did just ruin Raquel’s only chance of staying within the family, perhaps in a way she would be happy with. But he trusted Wye. He told him to be mindful of Raquel, and told him of signs to watch out for. It would be foolish not to listen to him.

The terrace was spacious, with multiple tables and seating set out for guests. Despite the cloudy weather there were quite a few people outside, likely getting as much fresh air as they could before rain forced them indoors. Hadley was leaning against one of the tables, absentmindedly swishing a glass of wine in her hand while speaking to America Tedd, who, much to his surprise, was dressed in appropriate funeral attire. She noticed Reid, smiled and raised her glass to greet him, and then continued her conversation.

“Am I allowed to leave you now?” Raquel asked, failing to suppress her annoyance. Her gaze had drifted to Elijah’s wife Amber, who was speaking to a Hennigar woman.

“You may,” he began, and the moment he gave her permission Raquel set off, not giving him room to finish. He wanted to say that he wouldn’t interrupt her unless he had good cause, but if she wanted to be petulant over something that should have been obvious? He’d let her.

He hoped her bad mood would–

No. He didn’t hope her bad mood would ruin her attempts to win the family’s favor, actually. The consequences were too great and too real for him to feel petty over such a thing.

Instead, he let out a sigh and made his way over to the stone railing that separated the terrace from the yard. In the middle, the railing broke to make a stone path that continued on, branching off in multiple directions. Well-trimmed bushes, statues, and trees decorated the path. He couldn’t see it from where he was standing, but going straight down the path led to a manmade pond, stocked with fish and carefully warded so that bugs would disperse when people walked by. Another path led to the stables, and another led to the estate’s private chapel and the servants’ housing.

Off the side of the path, two of his younger cousins were playing. Ezekiel and Harrison hadn’t noticed him – they were much too engrossed in their game for that. Zeke hid behind one of the bushes, ducking back and forth as Harry tried to catch him.

They weren’t Awakened yet, so Harry could say ‘got you’ as many times as he wanted, even if he hadn’t actually ‘gotten’ Zeke. His exclamations grew louder, until–

Their mother, his Aunt Leah, finally noticed them. She quickly made her way over to the two boys, who stopped in their tracks, all happiness drained from their faces.

He shouldn’t have been bothered by this. A funeral wasn’t a time for play. She was just imparting proper etiquette.

She was telling them how they were expected to act.

How many times would that lesson be imparted, until acting within expectations was all those boys knew?

A hand clapped him on the shoulder. Forceful, but not rough.

“Little cousin Reid. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Reid turned around. Another family member was there, around his age, though he looked slightly older, with a frame and height more like his father’s. His styled hair was a lighter shade of brown, closer to a dirty blonde.

“The family was whispering about how you were unwell, how they might have to send someone to bring you back… I bet you wish you hadn’t bothered.” His voice, dripping with bitterness underneath its casual tone, had a light, difficult to place accent.

Reid stared back, narrowing his eye.

“What, did you lose your speech to the Abyss? It’s me, your cousin Oscar.”

With the name, his cousin’s identity clicked, and his mind stopped running through the more distant family branches.

“Third cousin,” Reid finally replied.

“Ha.” Oscar smiled, though the laugh he let out sounded humorless. “So, how does it feel living in the shadow of the great House Musser?”

“I’m surprised you learned my father had died in the first place.”

Oscar’s great-grandfather had lost the war to succeed the family. That loss, and other tensions, had prompted Reid’s own great grandfather to send him away. At the time, with South Africa having recently declared independence from Britain, House Musser wanted someone stationed there who could aid family allies and secure their positions.

That branch remained to this day, cut off from most family resources and left to their own devices.

They should have been cut off from most family news as well.

“Word gets around. The Collins family keeps in touch. Some of their best magical items have been of our make.”

“I doubt they personally invited you to crash the event,” Reid said, crossing his arms.

“Sounds like they hadn’t expected you either.”

“If you’re expecting some sort of camaraderie between us, don’t.”

The words flowed more easily than they had for his other relatives. He felt like he could stand a little taller, like he wasn’t as diminished as he felt before.

The smile faded from Oscar’s face. “Not total camaraderie, but I was hoping for a familiar face that wasn’t hostile.”

“This is the first time we’ve met.”

Oscar rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean. Family, not one of the supplicant guests. I thought there’d finally be someone who would hear me out, maybe have some gripes of their own.”

“Even if I did, do you really think I’d be foolish enough to say them?” Reid scoffed. “Here? At my own father’s funeral?”

“...So you still care what they think. I was hoping that the Abyss would’ve wiped away those reservations.”

Reid was tempted to punch his third cousin. He hadn’t expected such a surge of emotion, but–

It came easily. Speaking down to a lesser family member, correcting him and asserting control…

It was him. His father had taught him of hierarchies, of who to respect and who to not respect, of ways to count coup during conversations, and he’d absorbed all of those lessons and engraved them onto his Self, and they were still there, as weak and wounded as his current Self was.

And now all he could use those lessons on was someone he knew the family didn’t care for, just for a shadow of what he once had.

Disgust welled up in him. He felt sick.

Oscar sighed. “This is probably the last time we’ll meet. Your restraint won’t matter in our family’s eyes. Goodbye, little cousin.”

With a wave of his hand, he left. He passed by Bernhard Musser, who was speaking to one of the Driscolls. Another more distant family branch, but he was in higher standing with the central family. Bernhard scowled at the young man’s approach.

And Reid was left alone. His eye roved around, looking for Raquel, and he found her speaking to Bernhard’s wife. Despite the summer weather, she wore a furred scarf around her neck. Possibly a protective magic item, but more importantly, it looked like rabbit’s fur.

She was fine. He didn’t have to worry about her.

He looked up towards the second floor balcony.

A familiar face stared out at the yard.

He felt his heart tighten.

He knew she would be here. He’d tried to put her out of his mind so he wouldn’t be scanning the face of every guest he came across, so she wouldn’t be taking up more space in his thoughts than the dark cloud from the Abyss-touched parts of himself.

But he couldn’t avoid her anymore.

He willed himself to walk up the steps, towards the second floor.

Towards Kaye Knighton.

The balcony was more empty than he expected. Only a couple of older men, friends of his father that he recognized, were outside, standing at the opposite end from Kaye.

They both quietly gave their condolences. He accepted them, barely even looking at the men while he stared at Kaye.

Still beautiful. Still with her curly blonde hair that gave her otherwise somber funeral attire some life. Her hands rested on the balcony railing as she gazed out onto the property.

He didn’t want to approach her.

She deserved to have better memories of him. Of a Reid that had a face. Of a Reid that wasn’t his own person but thought he was, instead of one who knew he wasn’t.

He stepped forward anyway.

She didn’t notice him, but it wasn’t as if she was hard of hearing.

Did he really have such little presence in this world?

He massaged his throat with one hand, even though it was a useless and painful gesture, in hopes that maybe the spirits would notice and make his voice just a little less rough.

“Kaye.”

The spirits hadn’t noticed.

Kaye turned her head, and at the sight of him her eyes widened. She let out a soundless gasp and drew back, almost seeming to flinch. The reaction, which only lasted a moment, skewered him somewhere deep inside.

“Reid?”

He nodded.

“Oh my God… I’d heard about your injuries, but– is it okay for you to be here? Have you recovered enough?” As she spoke, she collected herself more. She was concerned, but the concern was measured.

It’s not. I haven’t.

“It looks worse than it is,” Reid replied. “I can still walk, still function.”

He had to clarify. Otherwise he would be lying.

“Small reliefs,” she said, attempting a small smile. “I was going to ask why you hadn’t replied to my message, but I think I understand. You’re forgiven.”

She looked pained, talking to him. Looking at him.

“That’s generous of you,” he replied, trying to make the words light and casual. He didn’t quite succeed – there was more emotion than he would have liked, and Kaye also seemed to notice that emotion.

“I… hardly know where to start. First your injuries, then your father… you have my deepest sympathies, Reid.”

“And I accept them.”

They fell silent, neither of them sure of what to say next, or whether they should say anything at all. Kaye’s gaze wandered to the cloudy skies, and Reid’s followed.

The silence hurt.

“Remember when we were stargazing outside your penthouse?” Reid asked, daring to break the silence.

“I do. You listed off every constellation you could see, even with the light pollution as bad as it was,” Kaye recalled, a wistful smile growing on her face.

“Somehow, you weren’t bored.”

“How could I be? You made everything you spoke of sound interesting.”

He recalled more. He recalled how her hand had brushed his and laid on top of it for a good few moments before he finally noticed, which embarrassed both of them for hours after.

He wanted that gentle touch. He knew it wouldn’t help. He’d break down, just like he had when Wye rubbed his back. Something genuine, caring, soft– he couldn’t handle that right now.

His eye drifted down to her hand anyway.

There was a ring on her fourth finger.

She noticed where his gaze fell.

“Ah– this. It was recent. After I sent that email, if you received it. My father… he didn’t see a way forward with the Musser family.” Kaye spoke haltingly, apologetic.

“...If I had replied to that email, would anything have changed?” Reid couldn’t help but ask.

Kaye shook her head. “I don’t believe so.”

More painful silence filled the space between them. Neither of them were moving, but it felt like the silence was widening the gap all the same.

“Um, speaking of that email, have you given any thought to what I mentioned?” Kaye asked, looking faintly anxious.

She wanted to know why her family rival was empowered again. He understood that, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak.

He didn’t want to say it. It was one thing to say it to acquaintances who already knew he’d lost everything. Kaye was another matter.

“Has his implement changed? Or–” She paused. Her eyes flickered with Sight.

A grim pallor fell across her face. “Reid… I don’t see Blackhorne and Drowne’s connections. I–”

He let her come to the realization herself.

“They’re gone?”

“Gone, left to find their way back to their true owners.”

“And the–”

“The implements too.”

It was easier to add onto what she was already saying, or confirm her thoughts. It hurt a little less that way.

Kaye was speechless, but she kept her composure. She looked down and at her hands, clearly thinking. Probably trying to process all of the implications. It took her a minute before she could bring herself to speak again.

“I–” She started, before stopping herself and starting again. “I had wondered. I didn’t want to consider the possibility.”

Reid stared at her, letting her speak.

“I can hardly imagine what you must be going through,” Kaye said, looking up and right at him, meeting his eye. Her hand twitched, as if readying to move towards him.

It didn’t.

“Have you spoken with your family yet?”

“In passing? Yes. Not–”

“Not formally,” Kaye said, completing the thought for him. “You don’t know what they want of you.”

Reid shook his head. “No, I don’t.”

Most of his family members wanted him gone, out of sight and out of mind, he suspected. But this was the family, not just members of it. The family would still want to make use of him.

This would likely be the last time he ever spoke to Kaye.

“Your fiance–” Reid started, pausing for a moment as Kaye looked at him. “What sort of man is he?”

Kaye looked surprised. “He’s from a local Armatura family, they’re old friends of the Knightons. We went to school together– we still do, actually.”

“No,” he shook his head, “I mean– is he the sort of man you would choose?”

Kaye frowned. “I– yes. He’s kind, we’re good friends.”

She looked on edge, as uncertainty crept into her expression and her body tensed.

Maybe he should have expected this kind of response, looking like he did. She couldn’t see the relief and the slight smile that fell across his face as she spoke.

“...I’m glad. I’m happy for you,” he said.

It was strange. He was happy for her, he was just stating what he already thought. So why did it hurt so much to say those words? Why did he have to push back the tears he felt welling up in his eyes?

The tension in Kaye’s posture gradually faded. She gave him a small smile. “Thank you.”

Silence lingered between them. Reid gazed out onto the property with Kaye, one hand resting on the balcony railing. He wanted to say goodbye. He didn’t know how. There was too much he wanted to say, of how much he’d realized this past couple of weeks, of how much he wished he’d gotten to know her without his family involved, but he couldn’t say it. Why, when he would exit her life after today? She didn’t need to know about him. She didn’t need lingering regrets as she moved on to a life with someone she wanted to be with.

He felt a drop of water hit his hand. Then another on his shoulder.

“Ah. The rain’s finally come,” Kaye said, stepping away from the edge of the balcony. “I should see how my father’s faring.”

“Is he downstairs?” Reid asked.

“He was being given a tour of the statue garden, the last I saw of him. I do hope he isn’t caught out in the worst of it– we were planning on attending the informal service, and I doubt anyone wants him leaving puddles to clean up.”

“It sounds like you’re far more concerned than he is.”

“I am.” Kaye sighed, though that sigh gradually turned into a quiet, fond chuckle.

Reid let out a small laugh in turn.

“...This is goodbye, then?” Kaye asked.

Reid nodded. “It appears to be.”

Kaye took a deep breath, as if she also wanted this moment to last a little longer, and was trying to draw it out. “I hope we might cross paths again, one day.”

“As do I. I’m glad I could see you again, Kaye,” Reid said, taking the first few steps towards the door leading into the manor, and away from her.

She nodded, and while she looked like she wanted to say more, she parted from him, heading back down the stairs. He watched her go. This would be the last he’d see of her. Even if he and Kaye hoped otherwise, that hope wouldn’t matter.

By the time she disappeared beneath the balcony, the light beginnings of rain started to become a drizzle. He turned away and entered the second floor of the manor before the rain got any worse.

The ballroom had been converted into an auditorium of sorts, with rows of chairs laid out and facing a raised wooden platform with a podium at the center. The walls were decorated with memories of his father – framed pictures celebrating special occasions in his life, and various magical items he’d used. The arrangement felt incomplete. His implements should have been there. Since they were on his person when he was transported to the arena, however, he had a feeling he knew their fate. When he died, the items must have been lost to the Throne.

…Those thoughts still felt wrong. Everytime he thought of his father dead, unmade, never to take his place on the tapestry of History, gone decades before his time–

It still didn’t feel real.

Only one door was propped open, leading off to the second floor halls. As he walked towards it, his footsteps felt like they echoed on the wood floor. There wasn’t much noise in the auditorium to make them feel less prominent. His second cousin Nathaniel was off in the far corner with his siblings and with Darius Musser, but they were the only other people in the room. They spoke in low tones, too engrossed in their conversation to notice him.

Someone else exiting the hall did notice him, however.

If Reid didn’t know any better, he’d think Anthem’s eyes were red around the edges from crying. But Anthem was a much stronger man than he was– that momentary redness was a trick of the light, playing with the man’s grief-filled expression. He almost looked lost, and Reid hadn’t expected to see that feeling.

Anthem looked down at Reid, and his expression softened.

“Reid,” he started, giving him a forced, momentary smile. “My condolences for your loss.”

Reid nodded. He wasn’t sure what to say, but Anthem wasn’t moving, so he stayed put. His father respected Anthem, so he held some respect for him as well.

Another thought that wasn’t his own.

“So you chose to attend?” Anthem asked.

“I’m standing in front of you right now, so I’m sure you know the answer.”

Anthem wasn’t family. Anthem was a little wilder, less bound by etiquette. He could afford to give him some light banter.

“Ha, of course,” Anthem replied with a joyless laugh. “But it takes a lot to walk through those doors and show yourself off to the whole family. I respect it.”

There was a slight pause, as Anthem seemed to be searching for the right words to say.

“Your father… I think he’d be proud of you.”

“Would he?” Reid asked, more as a musing to himself than to Anthem.

“I’ve known– I knew him for years. He would.” Anthem replied. He sounded as if he was trying to comfort him.

Reid couldn’t bring himself to let Anthem’s words stand. A faint, cold anger rose up in him, and he didn’t have the energy to hold it back.

“What would he be proud of?” He asked, unable to hide the sharp edge to his voice.

Anthem looked surprised. “Your care for him. You had to muster up the strength to come here from somewhere, didn’t you?”

Reid’s eye widened.

Was that what he thought this was? The terror that had gripped him the day before, the knowledge that there was really no other option except to return here, the confused storm of nostalgia and resentment–

And Anthem was calling that care.

“He’d be proud that I was loyal enough to crawl back to him,” Reid muttered.

“Reid?” Anthem asked, concern falling across his face.

“You were his friend,” Reid said, more loudly now, fixing Anthem with a hard gaze. “You knew what sort of man my father was.”

Anthem didn’t reply, but his concern heightened, etching deeper, troubled lines into his face.

“...I accept your condolences, Anthem.”

Reid walked past him and into the hall. The family’s personal studies and chambers lined this floor. He passed by two guest bedrooms, one of their enchantment workshops, and a smaller personal library, where most of his father’s books lined the shelves. The family had enough books in their possession to make searching for the right text inconvenient at best, so his father had the books he frequently liked and referenced moved to a room of their own.

Most of the rooms were walled off – doors closed and locked, with signposts directing guests to continue onwards. Painted portraits of previous family heads lined the wall opposite to the rooms. It was important, while one walked the halls of a House Musser estate, to be reminded of the people that came before. Reid used to find the portraits comforting, in a way. His ancestors were watching over him, giving their blessings as he worked to serve the family.

Today their gazes felt much colder. Now that he thought of it, had they ever smiled on him or had warmth in their expressions?

Maybe all that changed was that he stopped fooling himself.

Only one door was propped open. Fifth one down, so it had to be his father’s study. He came to a stop in front of the room, gazing inwards. All of his father’s personal effects had been moved out, and the curtains were drawn closed. It was bare, with the exception of the elaborate arrangement of both flowers and swords that surrounded a large, closed casket in the middle of the room. A portrait of him stood off to the side.

It felt artificial. The casket, with gold metal framing forming intricate patterns, was empty. The ray of swords that fanned out and around was jarring. The weapons were real, and with a glimpse through his Sight he could see the haze of power and spiritual weight that surrounded them, but that was precisely why it felt so wrong to see them as mere elements of a decoration. The flowers…

I would do something. Planting a flower.

The Alabaster Doe’s words came unbidden into his mind. Shallow sentiment. A formality and token gesture that existed to make the memorial look a little more pleasant.

Reid entered the room and closed the door behind him. As long as he propped the door back open when he was done, wishing to share some private words with the dead wasn’t a breach in etiquette. He stood stock-still in the room, letting quiet fill the space between him and the casket. He couldn’t even hear the rain pattering against the window outside– wards against eavesdropping? That would be nice.

Alone, out of the way of the prying eyes of others, of the judgment and expectations that came with every glance, he could let down his guard. He could stop acting as Reid Musser, and instead act as–

He wasn’t sure. What he was sure of was that his face hurt, and that pain was coming to the forefront again. There was a heaviness to his limbs that was probably some lingering scrap of exhaustion, a visceral signal the Abyss didn’t take, or was dire enough that he hadn’t been hardened enough to ignore it. He didn’t have to be alert and constantly examining other’s words or expressions, so his awareness and focus scattered.

He was supposed to pay his respects, but he wasn’t sure what to say.

No – that wasn’t right.

He didn’t have to pay any respects. But he made that choice because that was what was expected of him, and then he said he had to, making it Truth.

The instant he walked through those doors – before that, even, in his choice to even come here – he started to live for the family again.

He took a deep, shuddering breath.

“Father. You were there from the moment I was born, in spirit if not in person. Every lesson you taught, every word you spoke, I listened eagerly. I learned what was valuable to you, and to look down on anything less. I learned to fight for you, and I defeated some of your enemies. I learned how to take from you, and I took for the family to strengthen them. What to believe, who to respect, the practices I should invest in…You taught me all of these things.”

He stepped forward, gently placing his hand on the top of the casket. “Except– I find myself at a loss now. I don’t know how much of those lessons I absorbed were taught by you, or the ideal that you wanted me to believe in. But even for that ideal version of you…”

“I don’t know how I feel about your loss, or what I should feel,” he admitted, feeling tears gather around both his eyes.

“The others either– either expect me to be void of anything but anger, or mourning you with all of my heart. But I don’t feel either way. I don’t hate you, but I mourn for so many other things except you. I’m not even here for your sake.”

His hand slowly fell, tracing the edge of the casket as it dropped back to his side. Despite feeling his eyes water, and his voice choke up, there wasn’t enough for the tears to stream down his face.

He just couldn’t conjure up enough grief for them.

“Then Anthem spoke to me, and it began to make sense.”

Anthem had used ‘care’ when he spoke, but he knew that hadn’t been what Anthem was talking about. He just hadn’t wanted to offend him by implying emotional vulnerability.

“Father… you taught me how to revere you, respect you, fear you– you never taught me how to love you. You never taught me how to love much of anything, beyond caring about their value.”

“I can’t love you, or mourn you like a loved one. I don’t know how.”

He took a couple steps backward, still staring at the casket.

“Goodbye, father.”

With that last remark, he turned around and exited the study. He opened the door and the muffled sound of rainfall outside, barely more than white noise, returned.

He’d paid his respects, in a fashion. It was over. He tried to bring himself back to the same, strict alertness he’d had when he entered the mansion, but he still didn’t feel all the way there. He’d let his guard slip in the memorial room, and some of that slip had been permanent. Of fucking course it had.

The sound of footsteps approaching from down the hall leading to the auditorium interrupted his train of thought. He turned his head.

His Uncle Elijah was there, as was his grandfather. Something felt different about the way his uncle carried himself. Before he’d been a cold-looking man around his height, bearing broad shoulders like his father but an otherwise narrower, sharper frame. His hair was darker and combed back, giving him the look of a ruthless businessman. Now, however, each step he took felt like it carried a weight and momentum to it. He felt like he took up the whole hall just by existing, and even though he wasn’t bigger, he had an air about him that made him feel like the biggest person in the room.

His grandfather almost paled in comparison, though not quite. He was the same as he’d always been – of a similar build to his father, and relatively hale despite being over seventy years old. He’d always been intimidating, even back when Reid was living for the Musser family. Now, without the favor and standing he once had, he felt cold fear creep into his veins.

“Have you paid your respects?” Uncle Elijah asked.

Reid tried to speak, but it felt like his throat refused to form words. He nodded.

“Come with us,” his grandfather spoke, picking up where his uncle started. “We need your report.”

They walked past him, and while there were no physical gestures bidding him to follow, he knew what was expected of him. He followed just behind them, as they turned a corner in the hallway and headed towards a door Reid recalled being for a spare room.

It was his uncle’s study now, or at least for the time. It was a smaller room, and the very new, unlived in atmosphere the room gave off made it feel provisionary. Some of his father’s things were also moved into the room, including his old desk, which sat towards the back.

His uncle held the door open for him and his grandfather, and then closed it behind them. Reid could hear the faint click of the door locking, which managed to stir up some of that alertness he thought he lost. He focused on the two men as they took up positions in front of the desk. His grandfather fixed him with a steely gaze, though his uncle’s coldness was far more neutral.

“The technomancer gave us a summary of Abraham’s activities leading up to and within Kennet. You will corroborate what he said, and provide your own account,” his uncle said. The words were plain, but the way in which he spoke gave each sentence greater meaning and import.

Reid sensed that his uncle expected a response from him, and gave him a quick nod of his head in acknowledgment.

His uncle continued. “Abraham had left for Kennet with Raymond ‘Sunshine’, Wye Belanger, and you and your cousin. The mastermind behind the Devouring Song Incarnate Ritual had been revealed to be the forsworn former compatriot of his, Charles Abrams, and my brother intended to swiftly detain him. There were other factors at play.”

“The previous headmaster of the Blue Heron Institute was murdered by one of the Dog Tags Kennet’s practitioners summoned,” Reid replied on cue, just as his uncle finished speaking. “Along with the reports of violent Others congregating in Kennet’s surrounding area, as well as the death of the prior Carmine at the start of summer, my father had considerable reason to believe the town could become a problem if left unchecked.”

This was another test, of sorts. He knew his uncle held most of the answers already, but it was important to prove that he could still provide satisfactory responses and keep up with the conversation.

His uncle nodded. “When you arrived, the technomancer detained Abrams himself. He stated that his protections were highly secure, though apparently not secure enough.”

Reid could hear a hint of frustration in his uncle’s voice towards the end, though it was quickly suppressed.

“Abraham turned his focus to the town of Kennet, and the gathering of violent and dangerous Others, along with a witch hunter contingent they had lured in to deter him. They were a minor annoyance to your father, and once he found suitable living quarters he arranged for all of you to investigate the town the following evening.”

“The witch hunters would pose a problem, but a problem easily dealt with, as things stood at the time.” He could feel a break in the rhythm of the conversation.

Elijah narrowed his eyes. “And yet that night you were grievously injured, disfigured, and rendered bereft of all of your implements and familiars.”

Not mine. They were never mine.

The thought came unbidden, and he just barely opened his mouth on reflex, but caught himself before he could speak. The bandages hid that break in composure from his uncle and grandfather, though he could have sworn his grandfather had seen regardless, as his expression grew colder.

“We’ll return to that night,” Elijah continued, letting the words linger just long enough for Reid to feel dread settle over him. “Afterwards, your father continued the investigation on his own. Despite efforts from Kennet to impede him, he worked with Wye to deduce the culprits of the Carmine’s murder and their aims to usurp the Carmine seat. Given that the primary candidates were going to be destabilizing agents from Kennet, Abraham selected you to enter the contest and wrest the seat away from them.”

“I volunteered for the role, so that I might still serve the family. Given the severity of my injuries, my father decided we would train in the Abyss to harden my body and temper my Self. I performed the day-long walk to the contest, equipped with magical armaments and tools my father granted me.”

He could see the faintest shift in Elijah’s expression, a reflexive downturn of one of the corners of his lips. It lasted for only a moment, but he could tell what emotion tried to break through. Anger.

He could feel his strained heart starting to beat faster.

His grandfather seemed to have noticed as well, as he spoke next. “You failed. Not only did Abrams take the Carmine seat, but your father was killed in the process.”

The words cut right through him.

“I was sworn to secrecy concerning the events of the contest. I cannot say what happened.” Reid said, offering up the only defense he had.

“You can, by breaking your oath. There are ways to force the words out.” His grandfather said, unflinching.

Reid’s eye, wide with fright, flitted around the room, looking for any sign of runes, of preliminary bindings, anything. His grandfather was talented enough to hide those cues, but maybe, maybe there was a tell–

For once, he was grateful for the Abyss-hardening. It kept him from showing any involuntary reactions, like shaking where he stood.

His uncle broke the tense silence his grandfather’s words rested on. “Forswearance is only one option, and the least efficient. We would rather not employ it, but you should understand the stakes. What happened at the end of summer was unprecedented.”

And it’s my fault.

If he’d won, his father would be alive and the region would be stable. They didn’t know the details of the contest, but he was sure they had a sense that if he had died for his family’s sake, his father might still be around to oppose the Exile.

“The Book of Names returned to us bloodsoaked and ruined. We have other copies, but it was costly to make. Do you know the whereabouts of the other items you brought into the contest?” His uncle asked.

He didn’t want to answer. For a moment he hated Raquel for telling him where some of those items had ended up.

“Whatever happened rendered me unconscious. Some of the items are in possession of Kennet’s practitioners, while others were likely lost to the Carmine throne.”

“You failed to retrieve the family’s property, letting it fall into the hands of the enemy.” His uncle stated plainly. Neither his expression or his grandfather’s had changed.

There was a short, momentary pause. The two of them looked almost like they were expecting something from him.

He knew what they wanted. Delaying would only make his standing worse.

He nodded, confirming what his uncle said. He felt smaller in the motion, as something in him withered and died.

“What happened to Abraham’s familiars?” Elijah asked.

“Scattered. Those who did not leave immediately were given aid in finding their original practitioners.”

“You didn’t stop those efforts and return the Others to us?”

“No.”

His voice felt smaller and weaker. He was on the verge of tears again. They could tell. He knew they could tell.

His uncle exhaled. “Account how you trained in the Abyss. Was it all done under your father’s supervision?”

“Not all of it,” Reid answered, collecting himself from his prior response. “He left for an unknown amount of time, likely assured that I would continue without him. To whet my blade against greater foes and further prepare for the Contest, I plunged into the deep Abyss.”

“He didn’t order you to do so?”

“No, but his wishes and goals were at the front of my mind.”

He thought his response might improve things, if only marginally. Instead, his grandfather looked like he was restraining himself from reacting in anger or upset. He felt like a child in front of his teachers, like he had with Raymond. They thought something was wrong with him. This time he knew why they thought that way – he just didn’t know how to change that.

He couldn’t change it.

The room felt so quiet. The grandfather clock behind his uncle and grandfather seemed to tick louder with every minute, as time passed and its hands moved.

“Account to us what happened the night of your injury.” His uncle said.

Reid didn’t feel entirely present as he opened his mouth and spoke. The words felt hollow.

“The fight against the witch hunters proceeded without issue. Then Kennet utilized a plicate Other to take over the boundary wards. The Other nullified existing practices. Both of my familiars were freed of their bindings. One was trapped and unable to aid me. The other attacked me.”

One of the paintings on the far wall was of a hunter on horseback, his hounds cornering a wounded fox. Reid thought it fitting, maybe even a little funny.

“This was the Visage?”

“Yes. A parasitic Other I had used for reconnaissance.”

“Abraham’s familiars and implements returned to him when the plicate Other’s influence faded. Yours did not.”

The statement lingered in the air, creating a pressure he felt all around him. He knew he had to speak, but he couldn’t gather the words. The air wasn’t there, the voice wasn’t there, the will wasn’t there. He didn’t want to tell them. They knew already. They fucking knew already.

But that pressure forced a reply out regardless. The pause wasn’t even very long. In lieu of air, in lieu of words, in lieu of thoughts, he felt the reply rip at his Self for sustenance. It didn’t feel like this when he told Kaye.

“Drowne, the Other, forced me to surrender every implement and familiar. Afterwards, he lacerated my face.”

Neither his uncle or grandfather reacted. He would have rather they looked shocked or outraged. That would hurt less.

“How did he force you?” His uncle asked.

“Partial bodily possession, threatening a full possession and slow ego death.”

“Rather than fight back and resist so that your father could find you and remove the corruptive influence later, you buckled under pressure, releasing years of accumulated power and resources.”

When you put it like that, it sounds pretty ridiculous, doesn’t it?

He felt so light-headed and empty that he was almost tempted to laugh. Almost.

“There was no guarantee–”

He felt his jaw stop moving, almost buckling under a sudden force, and his face twisted to the side. It took him a second to register that something had hit him. A palm, from a strike to the face. The pain came soon after – a sharp, screaming feeling that draped itself over his usual sensations. The palm had hit some of his wounds, and the feeling of raw, angry flesh being forced to squish and move ignited even more pain.

If he weren’t Abyss-hardened, he might have doubled over. He reoriented himself, ears ringing from his body screaming in agony, and he stared at his grandfather, who had taken a step forward to strike him.

“We did not ask you to make excuses for yourself.” He said, his voice just barely hiding his fury.

“Yes, grandfather.”

“You’ll call me ‘sir’.”

“...Yes, sir.”

He couldn’t say anything, except for what they requested. He couldn’t act, besides what they expected.

Was this what it had felt like, being Reid Musser? At least back then he’d been happy.

His grandfather drew back, and Elijah spoke again. “After your abject failure, you sought to redeem yourself through the contest, and through your training in the Abyss. You overextended. You’re thoroughly tainted by the Abyss, likely far beyond what Abraham intended for you.”

His father hadn’t cared. His father had led him out of the Abyss while he was soaked in liquid ash and blood, and he hadn’t batted an eye.

But he couldn’t say that. It wasn’t his place to speak.

“There’s sufficient reason to believe the Abyss’s influence destabilized you, and may have been a factor in the following events and your current performance. This can be managed.”

It wasn’t a factor. He was still himself, if he ever was anyone in the first place. His thoughts were still his.

It wasn’t his place to argue.

Elijah moved, circling behind the study desk. He stared down at an open notebook.

“A close family ally is located in Yugoslavia,” he said.

“Serbia now. Yugoslavia no longer exists.” His grandfather corrected him. The change in his tone of voice was subtle, but Reid noticed. He didn’t sound quite as cold towards his uncle, even though he’d made a mistake.

Reid felt a longing pang in his chest. He remembered when his grandfather spoke like that to him.

Elijah paused, looking almost as if he was clearing his head, then nodded. Reid could hear a faint irritation in his voice. “Serbia then. House Kovac is not a struggling family, but the scars from recent wars and unrest in the region still linger, and have dredged up Others and nurtured malicious actors. You will be sent to aid them.”

House Kovac? He didn’t remember the name.

“We’ll search for the familiars you lost. The Visage was native to London, correct?” Elijah looked up, his gaze boring into Reid.

At the mention of Drowne, Reid recalled something important. He hadn’t truly forgotten – nothing could make him forget an oath – but it had dwelled in the dark recesses of his mind as something he hadn’t wanted to think about.

With how his family was favored by London, and the differing jurisdiction between regions, he had a feeling that the oath might not even hold much weight. He had been compelled. Besides, it mostly concerned Drowne’s practitioner, and she wasn’t the primary issue. She wasn’t the one with an intimate look into the inner circle of the Musser family.

It wasn’t his place to object. But he felt like if he didn’t–

Drowne would do far more than just ruin his face if he didn’t. But more importantly, if Drowne were captured or killed, he’d just be taking him away from his practitioner a second time.

That felt like an even deeper betrayal than breaking his oath.

“...I swore that Drowne could go back to his practitioner. He made me swear to fight anyone who tries to look for her.”

Elijah barely reacted. His grandfather looked– he almost looked exhausted rather than angry, like he was such a fuck-up that his grandfather had just given up on being angry towards someone like him.

His uncle and grandfather shared a glance, and then Elijah turned back to him. “Wait in your quarters while we settle matters. You will not show yourself at the public service, or the service tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir.”

They expected him to leave, so he left. His footsteps felt lighter now. His limbs still felt heavy with exhaustion, but he wasn’t present enough to feel that heaviness like before. He expected the Abyss to take up more of his thoughts and impulses with how weak he currently was, but its influence almost felt weaker. Like all of his strength, including his hardened strength, had sapped away. Like his mind wasn’t there enough for that dark storm to find much purchase.

His room was a couple of doors down. It felt like ages ago, when he was in the midst of the Carmine contest, when he reminisced about the quality of his bedding and how good it might feel to rest his head.

He opened the door to his room. It used to have more of his trophies and some of his favorite books lining the bookshelf, which were mostly copies of what his father had in his personal study. Now it may as well have been stripped bare. There used to be framed pictures on the wall – photographs of different landscapes and cities he’d liked and wanted to reminisce on. Those were gone. What was left of the books was useless fluff to keep the shelves from being entirely empty – a few stories about adventures in the Courts, some mundane history books, some classic literature.

The room felt like a guest room. It must have been repurposed as one when they’d received news of his father’s death and his injury. Being in his room again should have soothed his Self. It should have invigorated his spirits, at least a little. Stripped of his possessions, however, it offered no solace.

Would he have felt better if his things were here?

He wasn’t sure. It wasn’t as if anything had ever truly been his. It was property of the family, whether in letter or spirit.

Despite the changes, the bedsheets were still the same. He rested a hand on top of the bedsheets, pushing in slightly to feel the plushness of the comforter and the mattress beneath. It was nice. Soft. This was the one sole comfort left to him, so may as well appreciate it.

He couldn’t rest his eyes, however. Not yet, when he had no idea of what his fate would be.

They hadn’t said if they were going to pursue Drowne regardless of his oath. They hadn’t said they wouldn’t force him to talk about the contest.

If he could remember just who those Kovacs were and what they did, then maybe he’d know just how fucked he was. He wracked his brain for answers and memories, but all he could come up with was a remark his father had made years ago. He’d mentioned how some disgraced members of the family had been sent out onto distant battlefields. Out of sight, out of mind.

Was that his fate? Or was he going to be forsworn and served up to the family as a karmic scapegoat?

He didn’t know, so he couldn’t rest. He pursed his lips, and in doing so his bandages chafed against his flesh more than usual. He looked in the mirror on top of the vanity, and the bandages on the cheek where his grandfather struck him looked more bloodstained than the other. He looked even more harrowed than he had before walking into the estate – it was like he could see deep shadows under his eye even with the bandages wrapped around.

He wasn’t well. His family was making it worse.

Now that he was alone he wanted to cry, but it felt like there was too little of him for the tears to come out. Without the Abyss, as much as even that influence felt drained from his body, he probably wouldn’t even be able to stand right now. That was usually a signal to lie down and not give it a chance to find more purchase in him, but that wasn’t an option. He didn’t want to accidentally fall asleep.

He paced for a little while, listening for any sign of someone approaching the room, but stopped when he could hear a distant, loud voice coming from outside the door. That must have been the funeral service. He listened closely, unable to make out any of the words, or who the speaker might have been. Someone loud, and probably a man. Anthem?

It didn’t matter. Those words weren’t for him. He didn’t need to hear about all of the deeds his father had accomplished, or the friend he had apparently been to others. He’d said all he needed to when he was with his father’s empty casket.

He did wonder how the others felt, listening to those hollow platitudes, however. How many of his cousins cared that he wasn’t there? How many were wondering where he went?

Did Raquel care?

Maybe, for the first time in his life, he knew what it was like to be Raquel or one of his other cousins, like Warner. He’d given Raquel similar looks of disappointment once. He and his father spoke privately regarding her progress. Did Warner have to voice his own failures and shortcomings to a father who already knew of them?

They’d been doing that for years. He’d only experienced failing his family today. Their failures hadn’t been as drastic and monumental as his, but–

Fuck.

There was no winning, no matter whether any of them succeeded or failed.

Not by the family’s rules.

Fuck.

Raquel, at least, had things outside of the family.

He couldn’t let her lose those too. He couldn’t let her end up like him.

Uncle Elijah and his grandfather hadn’t even mentioned Raquel in their talk. They didn’t have to, since she was in custody of the family and not his custody. He wasn’t a factor in whatever decision they’d make concerning her. He didn’t know how much they actually cared where she ended up, however. His father had cared–

No. He thought his father had cared, but he wondered just when she’d proven herself to be too much of a disappointment to care about.

He stood by the door, waiting for the service to finish. When the first loud voice died down, another rose in its place a few moments later. It went on like that a couple more times, until finally, he only heard silence. He waited a few minutes more anyway, just in case there were last words.

In the waiting, he took a couple of deep breaths, just to check and make sure he was still breathing. He wasn’t sure he had been. He wasn’t sure of a lot of things about himself anymore.

Thankfully, he hadn’t forgotten how to breathe.

Once he was certain the service was over, he called out.

“W–Wye Belanger, Wye Belanger, Wye Belanger.”

Wye’s name stumbled out of his mouth at first, like he’d had to remember the motions for talking and speaking. After a minute of waiting, he was tempted to call out again, but then he saw a motion out of the corner of his eye. The surface of the vanity mirror rippled, and in those ripples a loose diagram was formed around the border of the mirror, glowing a light silver-blue. Within the diagram, he saw Wye in another room, probably one of the guest bathrooms.

He placed some kind of paper on the door with what looked like a rune for silence. He looked back at Reid, and his face fell the instant he saw him.

“Reid?”

He looked so concerned, and that concern, such a far cry from how his family looked at him, was a balm that soothed his wounded Self.

“...I need to get my things from your car. Bring Raquel.”

Wye opened his mouth as if ready to ask a question. Then he pursed his lips, letting out a defeated sigh.

“Okay. Want me to bring them to you–”

“No.”

“Alright.”

Wye said a short phrase in French, and the diagram faded away.

He didn’t have much time. He was told to wait in his quarters, even just entertaining leaving was disobedience. He didn’t want anyone to find out.

Then again, he was enough of a failure that one more wouldn’t hurt, would it?

He opened the door, and walked further down the hallway, passing into the right side of the building. Most guests wouldn’t have reason to snoop around here, and other family members would be too busy mingling with them or with the family. There was a set of stairs on the side that staff used, leading down to the ground floor, one room past the smaller dining room. It was sort of an adjoining hall, leading to both the mudroom, an entrance to the basement, and a small kitchen.

No one was there when Reid made his way to the mudroom and the side entrance to the manor. The way from the small dining hall was closed off. The family had wanted to guide guests to the opulent parts of the estate, not give them more private, mundane space for gossip.

The rain outside had died down into a light drizzle. He hardly noticed it as he made his way around the yard and down the driveway.

Wye and Raquel were already there. Wye, at least, had the foresight to hold an umbrella.

He didn’t look any less concerned than he had earlier. Raquel’s gaze focused on the bloodstains gathering on one side of his face, and her eyes widened.

“Wye.” He gestured for him to come forward.

Wye started to walk forward with Raquel, but Reid shook his head. Wye paused, looking down at Raquel and contemplating, before handing her his umbrella. Together, they both started to walk away from Raquel, farther down the driveway.

“Be quick, would you? I hate when raindrops get on my glasses,” Wye said, attempting to sound lighthearted, but it didn’t quite work.

“I–” Reid started, attempting to think of a lighthearted reply in turn, but he drew a blank. He couldn’t even offer that to Wye.

“Take Raquel with you when you leave. If you can, take her now. She’ll protest, I imagine, but tell her this is the best course of action. I believe it’s the best for her.”

“You’re not including yourself in that.” Wye stated, brows furrowed.

“I’m not.”

“I suppose it’d be risky for both of us, if the former Musser heir runs from his duties aided by the presumptive heir of the Belanger circle,” Wye mused.

For a moment, he wanted Wye to object. He wanted Wye to drag him to the car, damn the consequences, because that would be Wye caring about him again. But all that would do was buy him a few more days in limbo, without anything except for the promise that his family would find him again.

So he gave a nod of his head. “I wouldn’t want to endanger you.”

“No worries,” Wye said. “That’s part of why I slipped away earlier. Asked Fate to give me a couple hints, and I had a feeling I didn’t want to get myself entangled.”

He sounded almost apologetic, and Reid felt a pang of upset at his words. He understood, and it was smart to listen to whatever readings he made back then, but it still hurt.

Wye stared at him for a few moments, like he had something to say, and then sighed. “Try to keep in touch?”

“I can try,” Reid replied.

“Good man.” Wye clapped a hand on his shoulder, and then let the hand fall. “Now let’s get your things, shall we?”

Wye gave him a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. They walked back to the car together, with Raquel waiting for them, looking impatient.

Wye took the umbrella back from Raquel, holding it over both of their heads, and then opened the trunk so Reid could take out his suitcase. Raquel followed, going to take out hers, but Reid shook his head.

“What? Is there another weird reason I can’t take my own stuff?”

“You’re not going back there.” Reid said.

Raquel’s eyes widened, and she looked between him and Wye.

Wye was silent, with the exception of his implement, which clattered on the floor of the car trunk.

“It doesn’t bode well for you, I can say that much,” Wye said, staring down at the dice. His glasses were glowing a dark blue, and completely obscured his eyes.

“And what about if I ditch the family and run? What about you, Reid?” Raquel asked, raising her voice.

Wye rolled the dice again. Reid couldn’t see the details on his implement, nor did he have any idea of how to interpret them, but Wye didn’t look happy.

He had a feeling that dice roll hadn’t been about Raquel’s fate if she left.

“Raquel, get in the car.” Reid said, his voice firmer now.

“I– I could run back and tell everyone you’re trying to kidnap me.” Raquel said.

He stared at her, rather than reply, hoping that his quiet urging would get her to just go. She stared back at him, and after a few moments, something in her gave.

“Do you just want me to be dragged down to your level? Do you want to always be better than me?”

Reid didn’t reply, but his gaze softened. He didn’t know if denying her questions would be a lie.

“I think I hate you.” Raquel said, her voice quiet.

With those words, she turned around and walked to the passenger side of the car. No goodbye, no last looks, nothing of the sort. She slipped into the seat, and then slammed the door behind her with much more force than she needed to.

Wye watched her enter the car, and then turned to Reid. “Give her a few days.”

“I’m not sure she’ll ever see me again, Wye. You may not either, for that matter.”

“...Right. Right.”

Wye ran his hand through his hair, looking at a loss for words. With the way his head was turned, Reid couldn’t see his expression behind his glasses.

“Stay alive, then?” He asked. “Don’t go walking into another death contest?”

“...I’ll try.”

Wye looked back up at him, troubled and uncertain. For a moment, the corner of one of his lips quirked upwards, as if attempting to smile, but it quickly fell. Reid could forgive him for being unable to muster up a smile – how could he, when Reid couldn’t even confirm he wasn’t just going to die in a matter of days, or worse?

“Goodbye, Reid.”

“Goodbye, Wye.”

He turned around, giving him one last remark. “You should probably head back yourself, unless you like standing in the rain.”

Reid looked down at the sleeves of his funeral suit. They were drenched, and so was the rest of him. He probably should have felt a chill, but he was hardened against that.

He wouldn’t be surprised if he got sick anyway, with how weak he felt.

He took a few steps back towards the house, and then watched Wye’s car drive off. It didn’t take long for it to disappear down the winding road leading up to the property.

Wye was gone. His only friend, the only person who had been okay with him being nothing, was out of reach. Raquel was– he just hoped she wouldn’t call for someone to pick her up the instant the car stopped.

He began the trek back to his quarters. Back into the mudroom, where he dried himself off to the best of his ability. Back up the stairs and down the hall, tracking small puddles as he went. No one seemed to have noticed or cared about his absence. A couple of guests had walked out of the main entrance while he was going around the side of the manor, but they hadn’t seen him. More guests would be trickling out soon, now that the funeral service was over. The family would want to have dinner, so by now they’d be politely pushing guests to leave.

Would he be allowed to have dinner? He doubted it.

He shambled into his room, taking off his suit jacket and throwing it onto the chair by his desk. He bent down to take off his shoes as well, and nearly stumbled as he stood up again. He needed to change his bandages. They were useless when they were wet. He needed to unpack his things. He needed to find some way to eat.

He hovered over his bed instead of any of those things, and collapsed onto its welcoming bedsheets.

—-

Reid watched John and Breastbiter fight. The Dog Tags maneuvered through the battlefield, fending off swarms of lesser goblins. Breastbiter thrust out an arm towards John, aiming to grapple him, but he dodged out of the way just in time. The walls of the arena cracked and distorted as the Mimeisthai’s face bulged out, mouth gaping open to swallow up what it could.

Reid looked away just as the mouth bit down on a group of goblins, and saw Cagerattler lunging forward with a rusted, skeletal claw of a hand.

He considered letting the Abyssal tear into him, to rip him apart and let him be done. In this moment, he couldn’t remember why he wanted that, but he just knew. There were no other options left. The fight had gone right out of him.

He closed his eye, and–

The hand went through him, to drive something sharp into an ephemeral wolf that had managed to get behind Reid without him noticing.

Reid opened his eye, and then looked around, confused. He felt… not awake, exactly, but the roaring adrenaline of the battle had left his senses. Where he could only live in the moment before, like a part of the scene, he felt outside it now. He was able to focus on more than just fighting.

He remembered why he felt despair permeate every pore of his body.

His eye stopped on the Carmine Throne, sitting askew at the center of the arena. He wasn’t alone.

“This brings back memories,” the man sitting on the throne said. His voice was quiet, subdued, but had a particular depth to it. A growling timbre, constantly lurking under the surface. He wore a dark, nearly blood-red fur coat, and was shirtless otherwise. He looked surprisingly good–muscles wiry and sturdy, with a thick head of red hair. Still older, still haggard, but with a wild, furious energy about him.

“You weren’t there for most of it,” Reid said, his voice quiet. “These aren’t yours.”

“No, but I can look back on what has occurred within my domain, including past contests. The contestants who gave themselves to the bloodbath are a part of this seat now. Except for you.”

The Carmine Exile leaned back in his seat, almost lounging, with his head cocked to the side and resting on his arm.

“Are you here to kill me? To tie up loose ends?” Reid asked.

“No,” the Exile shook his head. “But some of the others want to. They’re not happy with the trick you pulled back then.”

“Then why–”

“They were going to refuse your appeal. Do you want to know why they didn’t?” He asked. Even as a Judge, no longer forsworn, he sounded bitter and exhausted.

Reid stared up at him, silent. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know, but the Exile seemed to be leading up to something.

“I urged them to spare you.” The Exile said, letting the words sit for a few moments before continuing. “The flow of the spirits had already shifted in my favor. A forsworn man, wishing to overturn the system, enters the Carmine contest against all odds. A scion of a great family turns against his father. The momentum was present, but it still needed that push. There was more to it, but… that’s not for you to know.”

Reid, stunned into silence, tried to recall the day of the contest. The Exile had said something to the Judges, hadn’t he? His voice hadn’t been audible, since he was so far away, but he had spoken. He wasn’t lying.

“...Why are you here?” he asked.

The Exile shifted, standing up from his throne. He walked through the pool of blood, and his red shoes sunk into the liquid, becoming nearly indistinguishable from it, like the pool was just as much a part of him as his ill-gotten fur coat. A pack of ephemeral wolves rushed past him, and he phased right through them.

“A couple of reasons,” the Exile said. “You’re with your family now, aren’t you?”

“You preside over conflict, not funerals.” Reid narrowed his eye.

“You’re the hollowed out remnants of conflict, soaked in Carmine blood and hardened by the Abyss,” the Exile sounded exasperated, almost like he was about to roll his eyes. “Weren’t you the one who tried to frame this event as a battle?”

“...Yes.”

“Then don’t be surprised that I have an idea of what you’ve been up to.”

The Exile walked past Reid, glancing back at him and bidding him to follow. Reid did so, and they passed through storms of bullets fired by Dog Tags, and a storm of bloody hands from the horror. They walked towards the burning tree, except Reid couldn’t see Lauren’s body in it. Instead, the flames parted along the edges of the tree, offering a small window he and the Exile could look through.

It was the room with his father’s empty casket.

“I was wondering if I should pay my respects to your father. This place is too close to the greater Lordships for me to appear directly. You’ve given me a unique opportunity.”

Reid wanted to glare at him, but he felt too drained to do even that. Instead he watched as the Exile stood and gazed into the room, remaining silent. Whatever thoughts he had, they were probably between him and his father alone.

After a short while, the Exile turned back to him. “You knew what was waiting for you when you came back. You knew they’d destroy you. So why delude yourself into returning at all?”

“I– I had to. I had to see it for myself.”

“And look where that got you. Beaten like a dog, trapped by your obligations.”

Reid couldn’t object. He was right.

The Exile fixed him with a firm gaze, his eyes burning with something deeper and darker than fire. “I can help you.”

“...What?”

“I can give you the strength to stand up to them. You’ve seen how rotten this family is, Reid. You’ve finally realized how much harm they’ve done, how many people they’ve hurt. Become my lieutenant, and you’ll be able to raze everything they’ve built to the ground.”

Reid’s brow furrowed. The Exile sounded earnest, but–

“What do you gain from this?” He asked.

“All I’d ask is your loyalty. There are too many that are like the Mussers. I want to remove them, to create a place where the threat of forswearing isn’t hung over someone’s head, where people aren’t forsworn just to be made slaves–”

The Exile– Charles Abrams stopped himself, breathing deeply. He looked furious, like the topic had opened a fresh wound in his heart. He looked more human.

Reid supposed he couldn’t be too irritated at the Judge’s outburst, given his origins.

Abrams turned towards Reid. He’d collected himself, but the anger still burned in his eyes. “If you became my lieutenant, you’d aid me in my cause. Your presence, as a former scion of the Musser family, could inspire others to follow in your stead.”

Reid had attended plenty of negotiations with his father, and plenty on his own, or with lesser family members he supervised. There were many different ways people could offer power or influence. Some did so with reverence, others did so out of fear. Some offered only a taste of their full benefits, so they could lure the Mussers into longer-term relationships.

Abrams’s offer reminded him of those families who gave the Musser family all they could afford and then some, because of how much they needed what the family gave them.

“You need me,” he said.

“Watch your words, boy. You bound your Word to the truth the moment you Awakened,” Abrams snapped back. “It’s not that I need you like a beast needs food and water to survive.”

He hesitated, and sighed. “But your aid would be greatly appreciated. My path is a long and arduous one. And I do want to help you. If you were under my protection, the other Judges would no longer scrutinize you.”

I even have the Judges aiming to get rid of me.

The thought lingered in his head. “Because I survived the contest?”

“You survived, and you’ve been loose-lipped about those you met. The girl with the tainted familiar comes to mind.”

“Just mentioning her name and saying she entered the contest is enough to break the oath?” he asked, raising his voice. Lauren was someone he could raise his voice for.

“Not quite, not yet, but if you continue the way you have, they may find grounds for a forswearance.”

Reid felt his legs buckle, and he fell to his knees. He’d wanted to let the world know of Lauren’s story, to the best of his ability. He’d wanted others to piece together what she accomplished. And he couldn’t even have that.

“...Abrams.” He spoke, his voice shaky. “If I became your lieutenant, I would be serving you, right? Fighting for your cause?”

“That’s how it’s always been. The Beast didn’t have lieutenants, but others did, and they acted on the Carmine’s behalf.”

Reid took a deep breath.

“Then I can’t. I can’t take your offer. Everything I did was for my family’s sake, before the contest. Everything I had, everything I was – it was theirs, not mine. I don’t want to just become someone else’s soldier.”

The Exile’s voice was harsh. “You’re a fool. You’ve already run back into their clutches. Are you telling me you’ll somehow live for yourself while they crush your Self and soul?”

He nodded, but he didn’t lift his head up to meet the Carmine’s eyes.

“Even if you somehow manage that… look around you, Reid.”

Reid lifted his head, and looked out onto the chaotic Arena. He watched Breastbiter dig his teeth into the horror’s chest, while the witch hunter woman stabbed John through the stomach.

“You’re tied to this battlefield. No matter how far you run, no matter what you gain, you’ll always return here. These scenes will always be with you, Reid. Is this how you want to spend the rest of your days? Empty and alone, except for this carnage?”

John revived, and stabbed the witch hunter back. The mimeisthai’s skull cracked open, and a torrent of useless baubles poured out of it.

Reid didn’t have an answer. The Exile sighed, and Reid looked up. Despite how harsh his voice had been, the man looked sad, as he stared back down at Reid.

“I won’t force you to make a decision. My offer remains standing, as long as you don’t become a soldier of the Musser family again. You don’t have to make the trip if you accept. Just shout my name and your agreement with anger and desperation, until your throat is raw and your voice gives. I’ll hear it.”

The Exile started to walk away from Reid.

“...One last question,” Reid asked.

The Exile stopped. “Hm?”

“Even with the contest’s momentum in your favor, my father was strong. He thrived in war, and he had his stolen things with him. Just how did…?”

“That knowledge is only for those who remained in the contest. Perhaps if you became my lieutenant, I could tell you, but not as you are now.”

The Exile continued to walk away. After a few moments Reid looked up and around him, and couldn’t find any trace of the Judge. There was only the battle, only the constant violence raging around him, pressuring him to move forward.

He’d die if he didn’t fight. He had to get out. But he didn’t have the strength.

Cagerattler stalked towards him, and this time he knew the Abyssal’s claws would actually hit him.

He couldn’t get up. He couldn’t move. His heart raced as the Abyssal drew closer. It lunged for him. He had to do something, he had to–

—-

I’m going to die here.

The first thought that Reid had as he awakened seemed to come from nowhere, as his memory of whatever dream he was having faded.

It was still correct.

He didn’t feel like the short rest helped. The only thing allowing him to move to his feet right now was pure adrenaline, as fear coursed through his veins. He tried to place just why he felt so afraid, but all he could pin down was a feeling like he was doomed.

I can’t stay here.

He looked out his window. It was nighttime. No one had left food for him while he’d been asleep.

It wasn’t important.

Staying here will kill me.

A part of him thought that he should change his dirty bandages. He hadn’t looked in the mirror, but they must have looked horrible, especially after he’d been out in the rain. He quietly, forcefully suppressed that part of himself.

He reached for his suitcase, and felt relief wash over him when he saw that it was still in his room. They hadn’t taken more things from him.

If my body doesn’t die, then my Self will. Any chance of ever getting a Self that’s mine will.

He had no one. He’d refused to take any outs.

He couldn’t let himself be forsworn. He couldn’t let his family take him to Serbia.

He took out his phone, which he left in the suitcase because he hadn’t wanted to be tempted to use it during the funeral. He debated turning it on, and then tossed it aside. What the fuck was he doing. Wye couldn’t help him.

He rifled through his clothes until he found the power sources. The needle, the jar, the ring. Useless for getting away from the estate, and even Hudson could probably defeat him like this.

At least, the items were useless while he was on Earth.

He had no other options, but the Abyss had given him a miracle once.

The more valuable the sacrifice, the deeper the gate would go. The family wouldn’t want to pursue him. He could leave, and he could–

He could not get out. He probably wouldn’t ever be able to find a way out.

Maybe he’d find that old seal again. That would be a nice gift for Wye, if Wye went looking for him. Whatever was left of him could write all the details he’d found.

He didn’t have chalk, so he lifted up the rug and began to etch a circle into the floor with the iron needle. There were a couple ways to enter the Abyss, from what he remembered in the scant books he’d read on the Abyss. Scourges had their own personal Abyss gates – argumentative diagrams containing symbols corresponding to specific regions in the Abyss. There were also generic gate diagrams. The region would correspond to where the practitioner had been on Earth, but a gate in the woods could send them to the abyssal Forest, or the edge of the Lake region.

He wasn’t sure what sort of region a gate made in this room might lead to. He wasn’t even sure this would work– he was trying to invite the Abyss into a house that was well-equipped to stand the test of time. It didn’t help that he’d forgotten some of the details in the gate. Were the edges more like a wreath, or ouroboros?

When he finished the diagram, as atrocious and jagged as it looked, he briefly listened for any sign of people approaching the door. There was nothing, thankfully. Maybe his family had gone to bed.

He placed the ring and the jar onto the center of the gate. He had to break them irrevocably, in some shape or form. Or, at least, he could just break the jar and give the ring as an offering.

“Gate, grant me passage to the Abyss,” he spoke, his voice a hoarse rasp. “I give you value, rendered broken and useless.”

He swung the needle into the jar. It easily punched a hole, and a cloudy grey substance began to flow out. Concentrated spiritual manna, enough that it might actually be dangerous for him to ingest.

The gate didn’t budge. He checked to make sure he’d completed the diagram – he had.

Was it not broken enough?

He brought his foot down on the jar, and it cracked even more. The grey mass billowed out, like an extremely thick smoke.

“It’s irrevocably broken now. Is that enough, spirits?”

The gate still didn’t show any signs of activating. It was like the gate was taunting him. All of this desperation, all of this effort, and it was all for nothing?

“Abyss! Allow me passage!”

He rose his voice as his foot kicked the jar even more. It shattered, and the mass of spiritstuff threatened to fill the room entirely, and even started squeezing itself out from under the door.

“Let me–”

For good measure, he brought the needle down onto the ring, just to see if that could break as well.

“--out of–”

The needle hit the dark gem on the ring, and pierced it.

“--this fucking room–”

The effect that followed was like a flashbang, if the light was replaced by a darkness beyond pitch black. The darkness swallowed up every ounce of power that came from the demesne jar, and blew Reid back. Pitch black mixed with smoky grey in the air, forming turbulent whorls of manna being drawn into concentrations of void. Even as he fell, he could feel a force pulling at him, like the darkness was trying to draw him towards those chaotic whorls.

He hit the floor, and the floor creaked and started to give. From the little he could see, the diagram etching was deeper now, the etching growing wider and deeper, filling in with darkness.

The floor completely gave way, opening up to a chasm, and he fell with it.