The world was white, but not in the way she last remembered. What she did not see pulsed against her eyelids -- shades of oblivion flickering back and forth constantly. Here the air was sweet instead of ash, it moved gently over her body instead of disappearing into the ground beneath her. Her cheeks were warm, not on fire, and her hand did not hurt. Vera could hear seabirds calling to one another, the rhythm of waves, and the soft humming of a baritone voice she did not know. She wondered if she had died, if Armas had taken her into his arms at last and carried her as his daughter to the halls of great, dead kings. Was that him? Humming as he turned his hands in the world?

Vera wished she could open her eyes and see as she once did. She wanted to see him, to know that he stood over the world and watched all of the battles she fought. But that required confrontation. Memories waited patiently at the gates of her thoughts, wanting to speak with her in urgent flashes. The painful reminders of where she had come from. Oh Vera was too weary. She did not want to know. This warm place, this blank comfort, was where she desired to remain. Listening to the great sea god, knowing the world still flowed without her in it...

( If you won't do your duty, then I'll do it for you... )

Axis Betelgeuse was a bright gem on the sea. Lanterns that burned on pure magic floated along the walkways of the city, illuminating everything in an orangish glow. Passersby were warmed by the lanterns as winds whirled in off the ocean. If it weren't for the smell of salt on those winds, Vera would have thought she stood on land. The walkways beneath her feet were solid and steady with no hint of waves moving beneath them. There were no towers, no stone spires, but somehow Axis Betelgeuse was enormous under the stars. Not since Vera was a little girl standing under the Arches of Inalen had she felt such awe. The architecture of the city was ornate and smooth, as if the Sun Elves invited a Dwarven artist to apply his work to pine instead of granite. Vera ran her fingers along one of the wooden pillars outlining the door to Naevain Auvraeshel's apartments. She came here at the Lady's behest, having received a note from Naevain that she had an item of particular interest at her home. Vera assumed the elf was referring to the paintings that Vera wanted to obtain while in the city. Only now, having seen parts of Axis Betelgeuse, she was unsure any canvas or letter could capture the craftsmanship and pure miracle it took to run such a city. If only Eragos could have seen this himself.

Vera frowned and placed her hand over where her locket rested beneath her uniform. Faxril had permitted neither her nor Naevain to go to Nimudrim's workshop with him. He wanted his proposal to be as genuine as it could be, which meant that he relied on his own voice first and foremost. Vera had never seen her brother so determined to be diplomatic and humble. Weapons and military personnel on The Archer caused a stir in Axis Betelgeuse and Faxril sought to appease the population, as well as the government that Naevain had acted against. The treasures he’d stripped from the brigantine were given to the city as a gesture of goodwill. If only he hadn’t been motivated by vengeance, Vera might have admired Faxril.

( If only. )

Lye and lemon pierced the air of the room, staining the wood of the walls as powerfully as the spots they were meant to remove. Vera raked her uniform across the washing board at a rhythm that made her knuckles white. The effort of pressing stains out of the bloodied fabric made her arm ache. A walker keeps the uniform clean. A rider keeps the uniform pristine. Vera remembered being a lanky thirteen year old repeating that verse as she scrubbed the rafters of the barracks in Simanel. It was the first time she met Conlan Agrippa. She’d been soaked in mud after a fight with a rider twice her age, a brawl she had no reason for other than she was young and hot-hearted...

( ... )

As Lord Faxril's ship, The Archer, traveled farther south on the Western Sea, the world became darker and darker. The enormous head of clouds, once so distant, moved with ferocious speed across sky. Lightning broke from it in crooked arcs, giving the storm fingers to reach beyond them all, far across the graying sky of the Western Sea. The brigantine ship finally took shape against the black mess of waves and wind; it swayed dangerously back and forth. The colors flown were those of a ship that had no nation, no affiliation. Perhaps it would be classed as another merchant ship if a seaman was naïve, but The Archer moved toward the brigantine, being led by a more cunning man than most. He seemed intent on treating the brigantine as a rogue. A pirate ship.

Being a nimble vessel, The Archer cut through the swelling waves as if an invisible knife was attached to the stern. The helmsman's eyes were focused, but he was not shaken. There was sturdiness to the frame of the ship. As rain fell on the deck in sweeping rushes, the crew did not fear being thrown in the face of Chaos itself. Instead men rushed across the deck, absorbed in the tasks of maintenance and survival, shouting out orders to each other when in the absence of the first mate's bellowing. More than preparing for the teeth of the storm to come down, the men saw what battle their Lord wished to engage in. Alchemists rushed around below deck with their assistants scrambling to keep up with their orders. Weapons had already been distributed among the crewmen. This was a Lord who helped clear the trade routes along the coast after the Breaking, who sailed through the monstrous southern seas after his enemies and took pause on the cursed black coasts when it suited him. For all the loyalty that ran through the crew, Faxril inspired as much fear as the storm did, as the pirates might if they were worth anything in a sea battle. No man wanted to be caught off his guard.

Vera clutched the rail as the helmsman spun the wheel. He, perhaps, could be as daring as her brother, sailing the ship in a storm as he might on a clear day. Perhaps that was why he was at the helm. Wind ripped at her hood and her braid whipped against the back of her neck.

( Want to hear a poem, m'lady? )

The air in the cabin was cold. Waters of the Western Sea cooled considerably after sunset, but Vera’s blankets stuck to her skin from sweat. She pushed herself up, shoving the heavy cotton from her shoulders and winced. The muscles in her arms still hadn't recovered from fending Faxril off earlier in the day. Vera rubbed her right arm as she sat on the edge of the cot. She knew she deserved the soreness. Using a blade against Faxril was difficult enough, but that bastard was still the best with a sword and she wasn’t as practiced as she once was.

"This has to change," he had said, disappointed. "You are going to need to use swords, Vera."

( She didn't know what he meant by that... )

Vera expected to travel directly to the South Tower at Faxril's side. He said they would sail as soon as he set foot on his ship and he wasn't the type to ride down elaborate, circling routes. So Vera had no idea why they were in the center of Trone, in the heart that pumped the cold blood of the golden city -- Pentioch Stretch. After leaving Anantal Manor, stone and marble buildings were like solemn phantoms lining the paved road. Wealthy merchants and lords passing on the street moved too perfectly, too silently. Even blossoms falling from the trees into small lawns were clean and neat, never out of place. Everything was frozen even in the warmth of the sun as if the Underworld was meant to be buried in beauty instead of soil. Faxril wasn't phased, but Vera felt Dinaden's hooves struck the road so loudly that the entire city would hear her. That whatever devil inhabited the beautiful statues and fearsome stone guardians of buildings would emerge and tempt her to draw her sword.

Faxril came to a stop in front of the larger buildings and dismounted. His dark cape flared out behind him as he dismounted.

( What deal are you going to make? )