Prologue

Time passes by at a pace that few understand. For some a few moments can seem to stretch for hours. For others, months, even years, pass by in the blink of an eye. For all the hardship that I had suffered, I garnered little memory of my days traversing the planes, vying with the forces of nature to wet my tongue and fill my belly before fatigue finally overtook me. Those experiences, those vile lessons left me with a foul aftertaste and a seething hatred that could not be quenched by time or by will itself.
I remember the first time I saw her, standing there on the terrace, dressed in green, hair low in the manner of a lady unbound by marriage, and horridly unsure of herself. She looked about in a manner of both confusion and apprehension, and her face surely red with shame and uncertainty beneath expertly applied cosmetics. Despite that uncertainty, and despite the way she clung tight to her companion, I could see that she had come into her own. She was who she was meant to be, and she had found her place. The sins of the past were washed away by a newfound innocence that should have been punishment enough for her sins.
And I knew that by my hand, she would die.
-Sage and Sane Page 131

Rupert Pelletier cracked his knuckles and looked out, away from the wall, toward the open landscape before him. A soft wind caressed his bearded face as he took in a deep breath, taking in the natural scenery. They were six-hundred miles from the towering walls of Auglire and perhaps fifty miles from the nearest source of hot water. The sweeping vistas and crystal skies didn’t quite make up for the lack of basic amenities even if he did enjoy the solitude. He sighed and straightened his uniform jacket, finally turning away from the idyllic scene before him. A few steps later and he was on his way down a set of narrow steps that descended from the top of the wall to the courtyard below.

Perhaps fifty feet below he saw a group of ten soldiers outfitted, in Auglire blue performing rifle drills. He scowled at their loose formation and cursed the fact that every bit of new blood they brought out here seemed to be polluted with sewage. As he made his descent, the shouts from the courtyard grew louder; grunts and groans, the sound of rifles being thrust forward, the stamp of hard boots against the gunmetal gray courtyard floor. A young soldier ran laps around the outer edge of the courtyard, his face red with both exhaustion and frustration. The lad had never run a day in his life. Well, he would learn.

“Breathe, soldier,” Rupert commanded as the boy passed him, uniform drenched in sweat and hair matted as if adhered to his head. In an almost exaggerated response, the young soldier violently exhaled, spittle erupting from his lips as a ragged, labored breath trudged down his windpipe. It did little to help him as he stumbled and proceeded to hold his breath as he continued his run around the courtyard. Rupert shook his head. He would speak to Raymond regarding the training of these new soldiers later; what good were they if they couldn’t run? He grudgingly exited the courtyard, stepping through a low arch and into a sleek brick hallway. Electric lights lined the wall every few feet, their dull yellow glow courtesy of a generator humming somewhere beneath the stone floor. Had they been in Auglire, these lights would be powered by the city’s Arctesconite reserves. Here, they had to make due.

“Sir!” Raymond stalked down the hallway toward him, offering a salute which Rupert returned, even though they were indoors, and salutes were strongly discouraged.

“What news, Raymond?” Rupert asked as he tried to quell the exhaustion that must have been evident in his voice.

“We intercepted an Axock citizen, ten miles south of the Klocby border, Commander.” Raymond explained as he reached his hand to his face to brush aside a stray hair.

“Hardly a matter for us,” Rupert shrugged. “immigration laws are clear, send this person back across the border, bid that they should not return under pain of death.”

The nation of Klocby was by no means at war with Axock, but that didn’t mean they would welcome refugees with open arms. If the man, or woman, had not come through the proper channels and had not presented the correct paperwork, then they were to be sent back without exception.

“I would, sir, only…”

“Only what, sergeant?” Rupert demanded. “Is it that your tongue has failed you? Out with it, man!”

Sergeant Raymond pursed his lips and swallowed, his face partially darkened in the dim light of the corridor. Somewhere in the distance, a pipe dripped, and water pattered against the tile.

“This person,” Sergeant Raymond said. “he has…requested political asylum.”

“Political asylum,” Rupert grunted. “We closed the borders three years ago. Even to asylum seekers.”

“Sir…I…it is possible we may wish to entertain the request,” Raymond said. “You should see for yourself, sir.”

Rupert grunted and pushed past Raymond, making briskly toward the door near the end of the hall. He gripped the handle, shoving it open and stepping inside the room.

“Dear Goddess,” Rupert said as he was completely unprepared for the sight before him. There in the center of the room, seated at the metal interrogation table beneath the single hanging lamp, sat a face that he would recognize anywhere, though admittedly, he’d been taken aback by the lad’s appearance; the long hair was new, and he was far thinner now. “Micah Lavoric. Pray tell, what is the son of Lord Stephen Lavoric doing this far south? Lost, are you?”

“I am here to request political asylum,” Micah said simply. He was dressed in the traditional Axock battle uniform, though it was tattered, and his insignias had been torn from the fabric; perhaps by his own hand?

“And why ought I grant that?” Rupert demanded. “We ought ransom you back to your miserable excuse for a father and-”

“Sir,” Sergeant Raymond spoke up from the doorway. “Protocol isn’t clear but I think we ought inform the High Lady. She’d be rather cross if-”

“I’m in command here, Sergeant!” Rupert snapped. “Go train those recruits, teach them to breath, why don’t you?”

“You should listen to your man, Commander,” Micah suggested, the slightest hint of a smirk tugged at his lips. “He seems to know better than you.”

“Silence your tongue before I have it,” Rupert warned. “even should I grant you asylum there’s no stipulation that you be whole.”

“Why is the heir to the throne of Axock out wandering the demilitarized zone?” Sergeant Raymond asked, stepping forward and staring hard at Micah. “oughtn’t you be out punishing your citizens?”

“Acts done at the behest of my father,” Micah shrugged. “I’d never developed a taste for it.”

“Ah, look at that,” Rupert rolled his eyes. “A new man, he is.”

“My father’s methods are not necessarily incorrect,” Micah clarified. “certain actions are necessary to keep order. I, however, opt for a different path myself.”

“Amazing,” Sergeant Raymond rolled his eyes.

“Aye, yes,” Rupert nodded. “I suppose your sister, Robin, can keep up the brutality in your stead.”

“I suppose,” Micah shrugged.

“Enough with these games,” Rupert growled; he placed his palms flat on the table, leaning forward and eclipsing the glow of the overhead lamp as he met Micah’s eyes. He beheld the boy of seventeen as if he were a man grown, barely making an effort to mask his rage. “Why are you here, Micah Lavoric?”

“I am here, to request political asylum,” Micah sighed. “I am loathe to repeat such.”

“What did you do then?” Commander Rupert smirked. “Pissed daddy off? Did he take a leather to your arse? Well, go ahead, speak your terms then.”

The boy cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders. In the doorway, Sergeant Raymond shifted weight from one foot to the other as tension rose in the small space. This was not normal by any stretch of the imagination. Refugees, they had plenty of, and they had duly turned them away, but to see Micah Lavoric sitting in this chair? To see him requesting asylum from Axock, his home country? It would be just scarcely more shocking if the High Lord himself had walked through the gates proffering a white flag.

“I, Micah Lavoric,” The boy spoke, his voice solid, tone stoic. “make a bid for political asylum within the country of Klocby and also bid for the protections this status implies. Furthermore, I have a message for the High Lady Jenwise.”

“And what message is that?” Rupert shot a look to Raymond before returning his attention to Micah, who spoke but a single word.

“Orchid.”

---

Chapter 1

Mistakes are the bread and butter of a learned person. A person does not develop character by committing every action with precision and grace the first time. The problem bequeathed unto us, however, is that perfection and acceptance are relative to the society in which one finds themself. It is true that Micah Lavoric acted in a manner befitting to his station and that behooved the society that reared him, but if a dog bites, do you not put it to the blade? If a limb is dead, do you not heat a dagger and sever it? Why should it be different for a person who has thoroughly demonstrated a nature so vile that nearly every nation would stamp it out were it not for the fear of retaliation?
-Sage and Sane - Page 7

“Sheena Rossi,” The High lady said as she marched through the chamber door. The portal, six feet taller than either of them, was closed behind her by a blue-clad guard who immediately shouldered his steel and wood rifle, resuming his position by the door. Sheena froze in place, resisting the urge to grip the folds of her skirt as the High Lady stepped forward, appraising eyes dissecting her as she moved briskly past and stopped before an ornate black teapoy made from oak and polished to a mirror sheen.

“I assume you take your tea with sugar?”

“As befitting a lady, my Lady,” Sheena barely choked the words out as she fully realized where she was standing. The chambers of the high lady of Klocby; how had she managed to get herself into this one?

“I remember when your family first came to Auglire,” The High Lady continued as she poured the tea from a silver pitcher, into two small cups, one of which she offered to Sheena. “I was but a girl of eighteen years; my father ruled then. Could you imagine me as an innocent little girl?”

“No, My Lady,” Sheena said quickly, then widened her eyes as the lady chuckled.

“You needn’t be afraid of me, Sheena Rossi,” The High Lady assured her, gesturing toward a set of chairs on the far side of the room. “Come, sit. I know that my reputation precedes me; an unfortunate side effect of being the Duchess of Klocby, I’m afraid.”

“I…I understand, High Lady,” Sheena’s voice cracked as she tried to discern the tone of the conversation. She was, after all, speaking with the High Lady of Klocby and all of her training had taught her that decorum was paramount in her presence. The High Lady, Carola Jenwise however, seemed to be relaxed and informal. Sheena wondered if she should follow suit, or if such would be seen as an insult.

“Your father,” She continued as they sat. “has always insisted that your family perform acts of philanthropy; he believes that it is only fitting you give back to the society and regime that saved your lives. This, of course, is hogwash. Your father has given back to us ten times over with his clockwork and machinations, not to mention the countless soup kitchens and shelters throughout the lower districts. And still, here you are, at his insistence.”

“I would…prefer to think I am here at my own insistence,” Sheena trembled slightly as a bead of sweat formed just below her hairline and trickled down her freckled cheek. From the tall casement window on the far side of the room, a pair of sun shafts illuminated her deep black Rossi hair which hung loose around her shoulders in a manner befitting a young, unmarried lady. Though her newly assumed station called for a black and white service uniform, she had opted for a simple chemise and overdress with a tight corset at the waist for this interview.

“Then is it that you follow your father’s convictions?”

“I would like to think so, High Lady,” Sheena nodded, resisting the urge to wring her hands which were now carefully folded on her lap.

“In my opinion,” The High Lady said as she took a sip of tea. “High born individuals should not stoop so low as to-”

“Lady, if I may interrupt,” Sheena said, suddenly feeling a bit more confident. “I am not high born. No one in my family is such.”

The High Lady waved her hand dismissively and shook her head. “You may not have the titles, but we both know that it is wealth that becomes the deciding factor, in all things. Wealth is something that the Rossi family has, in abundance.”

Sheena set her jaw as the high lady spoke, careful to keep her composure and even more careful not to issue an ill-advised reminder that the Rossi had no need of titles, so long as they were Rossi.

“Of course, High Lady,” Sheena said with a measured tone. The High Lady chuckled.

“I met your mother first,” She said. “As she fled the ruins of Silverhall with you and your sisters. I saw the same expression on her face as is on yours at this very moment. The Rossi family is stubborn, and that stubbornness is more than useful. But, while I give the Rossi leeway in many things, I do insist that as you perform your duties here, you be placed in a position of authority.”

“Lady?”

“I will not have someone such as you toiling in the latrines. No, your title will be Housekeeper; an administrative position.”

“I see,” Sheena thought about objecting, but then thought better of it; it was far better than she’d expected when she’d made the decision to intern as a service worker on the royal campus. Without realizing, she’d tightened her grip on the silver teacup as she tried to anticipate what was coming next.

“Your mother, then, how is she?”

“High Lady?”

“The woman hasn’t graced my presence in two years,” The High Lady said, feigning irritation. “she’s too busy for me, then?”

“I…I doubt that very much, High Lady,” Sheena said, confused. “she…it’s just that…well…”

“Yes yes, the printing business has its demands, none of which include time for old friends. Your mother and I, we had some fascinating conversations over the years, and I’ll have you to know that I had this conversation with your two sisters. They chose different philanthropic paths, of course. Did you know that your sister, Desa, chose to work with the underprivileged children just outside of the Maussen district? She volunteered at a school. Both of your sisters went on to do great things and I have no doubt you’ll do the same.”

“I will…try not to disappoint, High Lady,” Sheena paled as she tried to understand the nature of the conversation. The High Lady was someone to be feared, and yet she was sitting here with Sheena, carrying on a normal conversation. Sheena took her attention away from the High Lady for a moment, focusing it on the window behind her. Constructed from the finest of tempered glass, the window set about three feet above the floor behind the Lady’s desk and extended a full fifteen feet, the curved arch at the top stopping just short of the vaulted ceiling. Beyond the glass, the Royal Campus with its jutting towers and crete walkways, and mish-mash of buildings, each one built in different time periods, and each one embracing a different architectural style. Beyond the walls of the campus, the city of Auglire, even more confusing than the campus itself. Sheena eyed the scenery, wondering briefly if she would be able to see her family’s second home nestled deep within the Maussen district.

“Well then,” The High Lady said, rising from her chair. “Following this, you will visit the former Housekeeper, as she will brief you on the state of the house as well as any additional-”

Before the lady could finish her thought, there was a sharp ‘rapping’ on the door just before it flew open and a girl, perhaps a few years Sheena’s junior, strode in. She was dressed in service gray which consisted of a light gray knee-length dress paired with a white pinafore and a white rounded collar. Her snow-white hair was bound back with a gray kerchief which paired well with her pale white skin. A Zlitian. Sheena had seen them, of course, but she’d never had a chance to interact with any. The truth was that the Zlitians tended to stay within their own borders, which would make this girl somewhat of a curiosity here.

“Lady Jenwise,” The girl said with almost no trace of an accent. “I apologize for the intrusion but-”

“Jenise, yes?” The High Lady rose from her chair with Sheena following closely behind. The servant girl stopped perhaps ten feet from them and performed a curtsey, holding it until the High Lady motioned for her to rise.

“Yes, High Lady,” Jenise said with a stiffness that nearly concealed her nervousness. “High Lady, I bring a message from your sister, the Lady Myria Jenwise. She asks you to join her in detention block zeta four, beneath the Vice.”

“That sounds rather urgent,” The High Lady mused. “did she say to what it pertained?”

“No, High Lady.”

“I see,” The High Lady nodded, then turned back to Sheena. “We’re about finished here, in any case. Jenise, this is Sheena Rossi, she is taking up the mantle of Housekeeper for the royal palace as well as the surrounding campus. Would you be so kind as to show her to her offices?”

“Yes, High Lady,” Jenise nodded as the High Lady bid them farewell and walked through the door, leaving them alone in the chamber.

“You are Zlitian,” Sheena stated to the girl.

“Yes,” Jenise nodded. “I prefer to be called Jen, by the way.”

“I see,” Sheena returned the nod. “I have to ask, if I’m not being too invasive-”

“You wish to know of my origin,” Jenise finished the sentence for her, and Sheena nodded. “My father was a poor farmer, and he felt that I would fare better under the auspices of Auglire, and Klocby, as it were.”

The air took pregnant pause as Sheena studied Jenise, trying to determine if more of this story was forthcoming. She frowned as Jen persisted in her silence.

“Surely there is more to that,” Sheena prodded.

“Nothing that I wish to share,” Jenise said shortly. “Shall I show you to your offices, First Girl?”

“First…girl?” Sheena frowned. “What does-”

“We refer to the Housekeeper as ‘First Girl’,” Jenise explained. “The position that Kayla formerly occupied.”

“You mean to say I took someone’s job?”

“Quite,” Jenise nodded. “Shall we?”

The walk from the High Lady’s office to Sheena’s new office took perhaps twenty minutes; they passed through several corridors, a couple of common areas, and through a building that Jenise called the ‘octagon’, which seemed to connect multiple sections of the campus through a series of octagonal corridors. Sheena followed closely behind Jenise until finally they ascended a set of narrow steps into a wood paneled corridor lined with green lamps.

“Here it is, first girl,” Jenise indicated a door on their left, which Sheena hesitated in front of only slightly before twisting the brass knob and passing through. The office inside was perhaps a third the size of the High Lady’s and was covered in the same wood paneling as the corridor they’d just passed through. to the left and right, the same green lamps were mounted to the walls, three of them, actually, separated by a few feet in each direction. On the left side there were a few chairs placed haphazardly against the wall, and near the front of the room, a small cot. At the very front, however, a large oak desk stood in front of a huge vertical window, overlooking the Vice sector of the campus. At the desk, sat a dark skinned girl who was probably four to five years older than Sheena, perhaps in her late twenties or even early thirties. Her onyx hair hung loosely about her shoulders, and the scowl on her face proved to show she was less than amused at Sheena’s presence. She rose as Jenise and Sheena entered, her arms crossed across her chest as the scowl grew darker.

“Firs…er…Kayla, this is, Sheena,” Jenise said as nervousness tainted her ill-prepared introduction. “She-”

“Sheena Rossi,” Kayla said, stepping out, around the desk and glaring daggers at Sheena. “Do you know how long I’ve been here, Sheena Rossi?”

“I…” Sheena paused and bit her lower lip, looking the woman over. She was about Sheena’s height, give or take an inch and dressed in the typical serving attire, though her dress was black with a white collar rather than the gray that Jenise wore. Kayla drew closer, the scowl on her face growing more sour with each step until she stood finally just before Sheena, eyes moving up and down as she appraised her in the dim lamplight of the office.

“Twelve years,” Kayla snapped, turning from Sheena and stalking back toward the desk. She unfolded her arms and leaned heavily against the wooden surface, taking a breath before continuing. “I started here twelve years ago, Sheena Rossi, I worked my way up from nothing and was named Housekeeper. And now? You walk in here and achieved the position simply because you asked for it. You have achieved nothing, Sheena Rossi. You are nothing. A spoiled brat and a disgrace to this institution. You should be ashamed!”

Sheena felt her face begin to redden as she absorbed Kayla’s words. The woman wasn’t that much older than her but she could easily read the years of experience emblazoned across her countenance. Sheena had been given the position, but this woman was, without a doubt, her superior in nearly every way. Sheena, in the face of this, did her best not to balk.

“Kayla,” She repeated the girl’s name, mulling over it as if trying to assure herself that she was remembering it correctly. “I understand that your position has been usurped, and truth be told, I didn’t know it was going to happen. Regardless it has happened, and I have a job to do here. I won’t tarry here for long, and I could use your guidance, someone of your experience could-”

“What do you know of service?” Kayla demanded sharply. “do you understand the subtleties, the unspoken rules? Do you understand how it is you govern such a large body of servants? You aren’t simply bossing people around, Sheena Rossi, you are creating an environment in which these people, these servants can thrive! Servants are largely unseen in this institution but their actions and their skills speak volumes! Your ignorance will lead them to fail.”

“Kayla,” Sheena said slowly and patiently. “I am not here to usurp your position. I know very little of service, and once I leave I can assure you that the High Lady will restore you-”

“Your words are empty!” She spat. “If you wish my position then be it on you, I will take no part!”
With that, Kayla stormed past Sheena and Jenise; her feet padding heavily against the wooden floor until she vanished into the hallway. Sheena stood there, her heart pounding and her forehead beginning to drip with sweat. Finally, she managed to compose herself and turn to Jenise.
“I need her back.”

---

Micah’s cell was comfortable, if it could even be called a cell. Several hours ago he’d been deposited into this ‘cell’ which was roughly the size of an enlisted soldier’s. Fifteen feet across, both ways, the room was outfitted with a bed and running water in the form of a wash basin, which he’d used to splash his face a few moments after his arrival. Perhaps an hour ago, a man servant had delivered soup and warm bread, along with a metal cup that he could use to fetch water from the basin. He hadn’t touched any of it.

He’d spent the last four hours sat on the bed, eyes transfixed on the writing desk across from him, ears tuned to the corridor. At regular intervals he could make out the sound of faint footsteps and voices; if he concentrated hard enough, he could catch fragments of conversation. Then, every half hour, like clockwork, the overhead air-delivery system activated, blasting cool air into the room, regulating the temperature. The sequence lasted for perhaps five minutes, but enough to quell any of his attempts at listening to the activity beyond his cell door. The routine had gone on, and on, and on. A few moments of listening, a few frustration as he tried in vain to hear past hiss of air from the vent overhead. How much longer could it go on? He turned his attention from the desk and allowed his eyes to rest on the riveted door to the cell. It was a deep gray set into a wall of black tile and white grout. Solid, unmoving, and offering no answers. He found the fear growing within him, rising, writhing as he contemplated his next move; the cell itself didn’t scare him, but what came next, well, that was another matter.

The overhead air cut off, leaving him in silence once more. This time he heard the footsteps, but they were coming closer, getting louder. Was this it? The footsteps, louder now, stopped just outside his door and the anticipation that had been building, absolutely exploded as the latch clicked and two women entered. The High Lady Jenwise and someone that he didn’t recognize. He lurched to his feet immediately, preparing to speak, but it was the High Lady who spoke.

“Seat yourself,” She snapped. Micah froze, taken slightly aback as he stumbled backward and dropped back onto the mattress. “Micah Lavoric,” she sneered as she spoke the name. “This is…unexpected for certain. You were caught sneaking across the border, through our demilitarized zone beneath shroud of darkness. What is it that you were hoping to accomplish? Why would you demand political asylum from Klocby? Is your bed at home not comfortable enough? Did your father take away your toys? None of that is of consequence, I will not grant you asylum.”

“Forgive me, High Lady,” Micah paused, choosing his next words carefully. “I came…on an urgent matter. I…I asked that a message be given to you…ahead of me. If it pleases you, lady?”

“Ah, yes,” The High Lady waved her hand dismissively. “Your little ‘message’. The word Orchid means nothing to me, Micah Lavoric. We’ll have you shipped back to your father, perhaps he’ll know what to do with your rantings.”

“High Lady,” Micah said with a slightly elevated tone as the two women began to move toward the door. “If the word ‘Orchid’ does not move you, then perhaps the name Henrick will.”

High Lady Jenwise froze in the door, the other woman glanced back at her, a raised eyebrow as they both slowly turned back toward Micah.

“Micah Lavoric,” The High Lady said in a stern voice. “If you know the relation of Henrick to the word ‘Orchid’, then you are wise enough to know that you shouldn’t have spouted it off in my presence.”

“Yes, High Lady,” Micah nodded. “It’s just…it’s only-”

“Myria,” the High Lady said, turning to the other woman. “Fetch the interrogator.”

“Carola, is that really necessary?” The woman, Myria asked, eyes wide.

“Micah Lavoric, the son of Lord Lavoric, understands the nature of the Orchid, and I shall have his flesh rended so as we might discover exactly what it is he knows.”

“I will tell you what I know!” Micah’s voice suddenly cracked as he shouted, and as the High Lady turned to face him, she studied him with a confused expression. Micah stumbled backward and gripped the side of the bed, wavering as he dropped to his knees, painfully slamming against the tile floor. He was quivering, all color had drained from his face, and Myria raised an eyebrow as she noticed a tear forming at the edge of eye. “I will tell you.”

The High Lady gritted her teeth and stepped toward Micah, leaving Myria to stand in the cell door. She towered over Micah who dropped his head and repeated his words.:“I will tell you.”

“Micah Lavoric, I am confused,” The High Lady spoke down to him, shaking her head. “How many times have I seen you at diplomatic events? Banquets? Summits? Following your father around like his lap dog? Acting like a little spoiled brat? Did my eyes deceive me when I saw you strike that girl on the veranda? Did my ears deceive me when I heard tales of your ruthless exploits? What is it that I have before me now?”

“High Lady, I-” Mican began to speak, but instead choked on his words as they formed in his throat. He began to breath heavily, hyperventilating as his body shook at the High Lady’s feet. All pride had left him; all pretense of composure and decorum had faded away within the span of a few moments. He’d come here confident and prepared to negotiate his position, and now, suddenly, his emotions ran wild - fear encompassed his entire being.

“Micah Lavoric,” The High Lady said as her tone shifted from that of anger to exasperation. “Is it your plan to use your knowledge of the Orchid as a bargaining chip?”

Micah opened his mouth to speak but his voice translated to a whimper as his shame mounted and he seemed to lose the ability to form words. He simply shook his head and slumped, barely managing to support himself with his open palms.

“Myria,” The High Lady said. “help me get this idiot off the floor.”

Together, the two took Micah by the arms and deposited him on the bed. He maintained his slump, his eyes fixed on the tile. Myria and Carola Jenwise stood there for a moment, shooting unsteady glances at one another, both of them more than familiar with the ‘Orchid Protocol’. It was a phrase she hadn’t thought about in some time, yet something that was always on her mind.

“I will give you thirty seconds,” The High Lady Jenwise said, finally. “choose your words wisely.”

“The Orchid Protocol,” Micah said after a long silence. “There was a man named Henrick. He…he needed your help to…well…he felt…”

“Your thirty seconds are nearly past, Micah,” Myria issued a stern reminder. “My sister is not generous when her time has been wasted.”

“Henrick wanted to be a woman,” Micah finally blurted out. After that, the words came easily. “You helped him. You…he…-”

“Micah Lavoric,” Lady Jenwise scowled. “If you are so informed, then you know as well not to refer to her as a man. You also know that this information is beyond privileged and I cannot be compelled to let you out of this room. Now what is your intent?”

“My intent, Lady?” Mican looked up to her, his eyes red, cheeks burning as he tried to comprehend the nature of her question. Why had he done this again? Why had he come here?

“Lavoric,” Lady Jenwise said his last name sharply. “I will ask you this question plainly, since your comprehension skills in the past were obviously much exaggerated. What do you want?”

“I want…” Mican paused, realizing that if there was ever a time to speak plainly, it would be now. “I want what you did for her.”

“I beg your pardon?” This time, it was Myria who spoke. Lady Jenwise simply stared at him, a stony expression across her face.

“I need you…to make me a woman. Please.”

---

Plum clutched her arms to her shoulders, twisting her body from left to right in a vain attempt to keep warm. It wasn’t quite winter, but the ground had hardened, and the sky had taken on that telltale gray hue that signaled the end of the fall months. The girl next to her coughed, the hacking told of an illness as the sound rattled in her throat and her pale face drew further and further into lifelessness. Plum surveyed the courtyard around her; it was packed with boys and girls her age and younger. They were all dressed in rags, all in various stages of illness. Her fingers burned; the tips were blistered and a throbbing in the back of her right knee discouraged any thoughts of flight. Not that there was anywhere to go. The red brick factory loomed in front of them, and walls, twelve feet high around and behind. Perhaps if she were in perfect health she could climb them, or maybe, just maybe if she were in slightly better condition than she was now. She winced thinking about the prospect of sinking her raw, bloodied fingers into the grout, and even more so at the idea of propelling herself upward as soreness seized her once virile muscles.

She shuffled her feet against the hard dirt and did her best to monitor her surroundings.

Don’t worry about the others, she thought to herself. Worry about you. How are you going to get out of this?

There was always a way out; Sage had taught her that, and many other things. No matter how bad or dire the situation seemed, there would be some way to escape, some route she could take to freedom. Still, even if those opportunities presented themselves, could she really expect to take advantage of them in her state?

What now, Sage? She asked her old friend, who existed now only as an echo in her memories.

Look for allies. Is what Sage would have said. Plum shivered as she looked around the courtyard. All of them here were shivering, thin, none of them would make suitable allies. She narrowed her eyes at a silver-haired boy. Her age, seventeen, maybe a year younger, if that. He was standing straighter than the others. There was a girl with matted red hair, a bruise covering a portion of her face, black and blue spread out like pooled liquid on the surface of a table. No allies here. Tough luck, Sage.

“Attention, please!” An older, pot bellied man was striding toward the center of a raised concrete apron near the front of the ragtag formation of coughing, sputtering children. The call for attention was entirely unnecessary - as if he would go unheard in this unnaturally dead silence. The man waited for a few moments and then continued. “You undoubtedly have questions! Where am I? Why am I here? Why is this happening to me? All fantastic questions, none of which have an answer than simply, that you are unlucky! You are here to work, and you will work, or you will be punished! If your parents are still among the living, you may now consider them to be dead! You are tools, and nothing more! Work hard, and you will be rewarded! Fail to perform, and you will suffer the consequences!”

That was it; the entirety of the speech. Two men and a woman rounded them up, marching them single file toward the red brick building. The adults were outnumbered, but the children, even the larger ones, were too weak to resist. It was intentional, of course; Plum recalled the hours, perhaps even days locked in that cramped room with at least fifty others, pressed tight, barely able to breathe, unable to sleep as her strength dwindled.

I will escape this place. She’d whispered to herself. By fen and fern, I will be free.

Those resolutions grew weaker with each passing moment until they crumbled like ash beneath the boots of her tormentors. Now, like all the others, she was simply grateful to walk freely, and to breathe without restriction, to be able to stretch her arms. Simple things that could so easily be taken away. Things taken for granted. No more.

The cold was quickly replaced by a suffocating warmth as they marched into the building down a narrow corridor lined with lead pipes, brass wheels, knobs, and cogs with the hissing of steam contributing to the deafening roar of hissing, clanking and churning punctuated by the soft padding of their footsteps against wet crete floor. It was dark; almost too dark for eyes to see and it grew even darker as they turned corners and ascended crete stairs flanked with cold tubed railing. The twists and turns ended in a wide open room filled with conveyor belts, each one powered by massive gears affixed to their sides. At the head of each station, a tall piece of machinery that roared and clanked as tufts of white hot steam blasted toward the high raftered ceiling. At the head of the room, a large grated window stretched from one side of the building to the other, just beneath the eaves some fifty feet up. Beneath the eaves, a cog the length of the window turned slowly, each tooth clanking methodically into place, powering some monstrous piece of equipment somewhere inside the ancient and decaying factory. Apart from the depressing scenery, hundreds of children, the same age range as those in Plum’s group, were stationed at the belts, many of them shackled to the metal frame. Plum cringed as she passed a young boy, ragged and worn with the metal bands tight around his wrists to a point that blood was drawn and crusted around the edges of the manacles. She and the others were led through rows and rows of defeated faces, sluggish movements, and a silence filled only by the clanking of gears and the hissing of steam.

They were led between the rows of machines, and one by one, pulled from the lines, shackles placed on our hands and adhered to the groaning conveyor belts. Plum barely put up resistance as a girl her age, dressed in a long-sleeved doublet took her wrists with little care and pressed the manacles around them. As they closed, a whimper escaped her lips as they pressed against the bones in her wrists, grinding, pushing, pinching. Pain dominated her very being for the briefest of moments before a man screamed at her back, ordering her to work. It took a few moments for her to catch on, to watch the others as they took metal rods in their hands and wrapped a coper coil around it in a precise fashion. Pick it up, wrap, set it down, again, and again, and again until her wrists screamed in agony and her already-sore fingers stung at the bone.

“Take heart,” Said the girl in the doublet from behind her. “That they saw you fit to work. There are worse things here.”

As the hours wore on, her mind didn’t drift off to the ‘worse things’, instead she thought hard on the man whose betrayal had led her here to this hell.

I will kill you, Micah Lavoric.