She sat alone… All alone. That's where she deserved to be. She felt unworthy of anyone. Even as she blankly stared at what seemed like the fiftieth schematic of one of the burnt-out inventions that lined the shelves of the deceased, she felt empty. It was her fault. It was all her fault.

She blinked as she stared down at the page. "Yes, uncle, I see…," she whispered to herself. She couldn't bring herself to face it. It had happened, she knew, but she still held on. She isolated herself in his room, reading schematic upon schematic, formulae upon formulae, book upon long dead penned book. She figured he could still teach her.

He was still alive in that aspect. He had left this behind- his knowledge documented so neatly on pages more than forty years old. Propped up, the youngest of his works against ancient texts was the journal he had given her mere moments before his untimely demise; open to the last schematic ever penned, a replacement arm for his dear niece.

She didn't know what to do with it, where to find the parts- but as she read his notes, as she read the notes of other authors whom he had learned from, she found clues as to where they would be. Swaine was still teaching her. That's what she believed for now.

Even then, she felt deep down in her stomach, deep down in her soul, that she didn't deserve any of this privilege. If she had just stayed home, he wouldn't have had to risk his life. If she hadn't been so selfish, a legend would still be alive, and the world would be a brighter place.

But she didn't. And he wasn't. She knew, even as she read his neat, cursive handwriting that she no longer deserved to be under his tutelage. She no longer deserved to learn anything from him, even if he were dead.

"'Scrofie'," she replayed him saying in her head, testing out the false name the morning after their little spat in the desert. "That's kind of unusual. How'd you come up with that?" She recalled herself shrugging. She explained that she liked the name, Sofie, and she figured, by then, that she'd look kind of scruffy, so she combined the two. She felt a tear roll down her face as she remembered the smirk he had at the plain simplicity of it. She'd never see that cocky smile again…

She didn't stop. Stopping would mean that he was truly gone. Stopping would mean that his words would no longer reach her from beyond the grave.

The door opened and she looked up from another unfurled blueprint. In the doorway stood her father, Marcassin. "You cannot hide in here forever, Lynnea."

She turned to look down at the paper again. "I know," she whispered. "I… I just want to learn from Uncle Gascon. There's- there's so much he hasn't taught me in here."

He seemed to freeze in place from her perspective. He hadn't moved from the door. She couldn't see the concerned frown that graced the younger brother's lips. "Lynnea… You know he's…," he felt a lump in his throat and swallowed. "He's… He's dead, right?"

"I know," she breathed as she almost mechanically rolled up the paper and took out another at the old work desk. "He can still teach me with these." She turned to the side to glance at her father. "I have to. It's all I can do for him. It's all I can ever do for anyone." She turned back to face the wall. "He would want me to keep learning," she hollowly stated, glancing over the schematic.

Marcassin could only sigh at her. There wasn't anything he could do- she was in denial. He sighed heavily and nodded. "If that's what you wish, Lynnea." He carefully and quietly closed the door as he turned away.

He walked numbly to the throne room and stared at the grieving Esther being comforted by Rashaad. They had stayed over for the now passed funeral. The songstress sometimes seemed inconsolable, bursting into tears as if he were her own family. In a way, the younger sage supposed he was, considering all of the things they had been through together.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He had bags under his eyes. He couldn't sleep. He stayed up all night through most of the week processing and amending laws for future review. It was all he could do to keep the mind off the grim reality. The state he was in… What would his brother say?

"I keep thinking I'll see him in the reflection behind me," the royal softly admitted as he stared into the glossy metal wall. He raised a hand and idly rubbed the metal, admiring his own reflection longingly. "He'd just be there: leaning against a wall and smirking." He turned around and looked back at the woman.

"But he won't. Never again," she informed him, looking up at Marcassin. She wiped her irritated nose with her arm and sniffed. "How- how's Scrofie?"

He heaved a heavy sigh and looked away. His shoulders were low. "She's… choosing to bury herself in her work. I can't say I blame her." He smiled sadly. "Looking over his old blueprints and obsessing over machinery." He chuckled for a moment. "Funny. He did the exact same thing when our father died- remember?"

She nodded. "Yeah." She returned the sad smile. "He wouldn't let anyone near him either. He'd just act like a big baby and fuss." She laughed at the memory but then looked down. "Has Josephine said anything to her?"

He shook his head. "She's tried. But…" He looked up and sighed. "What can either of us do? Lynnea's shut down. She can't be reached." He squeezed his eyes shut as he looked down. He clenched his fist. "I don't know how to approach this, Esther. She ran away. I have every right to be furious with her." He looked up at his fellow Sage who now seemed to be studying him. "But I could have lost her!" He moaned lowly, "And the price we paid to get her back was Gascon, my brother. Her uncle."

"Discuss it when cooler heads prevail. Now is not the time to reprimand but support, your majesty," Rashaad advised.

The blond nodded at her father and looked back at the ruler. "Yes. I agree. You don't have to talk. Just- just be there for her. She needs you."

He nodded, accepting their advice. "Thank you. Both of you." Just as soon as a hint of a comforted smile graced his face, his wife walked through the doors. His gaze darted to his beloved. She seemed frightened and nervous. Something had happened, he reasoned, something that would frighten someone as self-assured as Josephine.

"Marcassin, my dear," she cried as she approached him. "It's- You must come at once!" She seemed to tremble as she reached for his shoulder. "A prisoner of Al Mamoon- They say he's- Oh god," she stammered, holding her hand to her mouth.

"Calm down," he eased. "Just breathe. Tell me." He placed a hand on her shoulder and looked into her eyes. "What is it that has you in such an uproar, Josephine?"

She shook her head before lowering her hand. "Gascon's murderer- he's here! He's seeking audience!" She looked into her husband's eyes as tears began to form. "Please, I beg of you not to see him! I don't want to lose you, too!"

He gripped tighter on her shoulders and searched her eyes. "How…? How did you hear of this?"

"I was on my way to see you- initially for Lynnea's sake. The guards were bringing him in when I passed through the main hall." She shook her head. "The prisoner- he looked like a forlorn former soldier of Al Mamoon. When I asked the guards why they brought him they said that he was 'wanted for crimes against the crown.'" She raised her hands and gripped his upper arms as she stared, horrified, into his eyes. "Then… Then he said, after catching his breath and spitting at the floor, 'I have come to repay the life debt I owe to your king. Let me see him- let me free so I may finish what I've started.'" She shook the sage with tears flowing down her cheeks. "Please! Don't grant him his request! I couldn't bear to watch you die as well!"

Marcassin drew her into an embrace. He raised a hand and rung it through her dark brown hair, comforting his distraught partner. "Be still my darling queen," he cooed. "I will not be alone." He glanced over at Esther who gave a firm, stoic nod. He rested his head against his wife's and rocked her gently. "He may have killed my brother, but he is neither the White Witch or Shadar. His chains should hold." He held her at arm's length, her arms intertwined with his. "I will not abandon you, Josephine!" He smiled knowingly, determinedly at her. "I shall impart justice to him and he will do no harm to anyone else."

She studied his face worriedly. She leaned forward and pressed her forehead to his. "For the sake of the world, I hope you're right."

"Have faith, Josephine, in your husband," he whispered before letting her go. He turned and nodded at his fellow sage and his daughter. They rose and followed him to the great hall. As he passed guards on patrol, he motioned them to follow him as a precautionary measure. He barged into the space and found exactly what he'd thought he'd see: Amos, the guard who had struck down a legend, now only legendary for that grim reality on his knees. For that, he didn't hold his head high or did he smile. In fact, to the ruler's relief, he held his head low and bent down in shame. Black strands of messy hair now hung over his face from under his purple turban. He looked decrepit as he sat studying his chains.

"You there, murderer," he branded him as he called him to attention, as he swung his scepter out to point at him. "You are aware of the price you must pay," he grimly asked.

He raised his head slowly to look up. Before he could answer a shout rung out in the hall. The convict's eyes widened when the girl he had been hunting ran through the guards and passed her father. Her face was set, her stare was cold. She held the gun her uncle had bequeathed to her at point-blank range to the man's head.

The guards next to their threatened captive froze and exchanged glances, unsure of what to do. One raised his hand slowly but was met with a wand swiftly pointed at him. When he backed away, she lowered it but kept it at the ready. She shot a cautionary glare at the other who stayed himself. "Well- are you," she coldly asked. She stared into the prisoner's frightened eyes.

"You killed my uncle. Surely you would know, wouldn't you," she roared. "How dare you even think to enter this palace!" The gun trembled as she gritted her teeth. "Murderer!"

He stared up at her, taken aback by the youth's words. She wasn't wrong- he had advised the Cowlipha to send him to Hamelin for his sentence under strict guard of her choosing. From the docks, he was transferred to a guard arranged by Hogarth under very last-minute notice. Not even Marcassin knew of the situation at hand, though the emperor's most trusted second in command knew he'd understand if all went well. His eyes narrowed as he studied the seething form of a girl.

"Lynnea," her father called out to her, reaching out a hand. "What do you think you're doing? This isn't your place," he lectured, stepping towards his daughter. "This isn't your choice to make!"

Amos glanced at the prince with a sly smirk. "It became her choice when she drew her gun."

"Silence," Marcassin ordered, waving away with his right hand, throwing it towards the fountains.

"What does it matter if I die here at gunpoint," he goaded as he shifted his gaze back to the girl. "My penance would amount to a life of servitude or death." He looked into her eyes once more. When she hesitated and looked down in thought he laughed. "You can't do it, can you, thief?"

She pressed the end of the gun to the former guard's head with a growl. Her hands steadied again as rage filled her eyes.

"Lynnea, don't," Esther shouted. "What good will it do? You'd be just as bad as him!"

"Listen to her, revenge won't bring Gascon back," the younger sage reinforced.

Amos smirked and nodded at Lynnea. "Indeed. It would just make you a killer- and that can change a person. You stop looking at people the same after your first blood." He chuckled despite his position as he searched the teen's eyes. "But I can tell… He didn't train a killer. He trained a thief."

She twisted the muzzle into his head, making the prisoner wince. "Stop talking like you know him!"

"Oh, but if the roles had been reversed, he would have shot me dead," he continued. "I know criminals. The underground: kill or be killed, as they say." He glanced up at the mauve gun. "But you have yet to pull the trigger."

What do I do, she thought as her shaking index finger hesitated over the trigger. She felt it lightly press it down, then release it. She wanted so badly to end him. He'd die anyway, she reasoned. Something inside- was it pride…? Fear? Something in her gut shouted at her not to do it. What should I do…? Perhaps there was truth to the convict's words. She probably risked losing herself, then and there.

"Marcassin, we should do something," Esther advised from his side.

"I can't. I don't know if anything I do would make it on time. She might actually do it," he whispered back.

"Let her choose, then," Rashaad suggested with his arms crossed, frowning. "She's seventeen, nearly three years older than Esther was when I let her go on her own."

The younger sage reared back suddenly. "But this is a matter of ethics and laws," he contested as he glared at Rashaad. "I cannot let an execution be had in such a manner- especially at the hands of my daughter, Rashaad."

Hearing this, she lowered her head for a moment to think. She looked up and for a moment, believed to have a vision- or that's what she called it. Her uncle, wearing the clothes he had described himself wearing in the legends, was standing just to the right side of the other entrance of the main hall. For just her and him, time seemed to stop. He had his arms crossed and shook his head with a disapproving frown. He closed his eyes and smirked comfortably. "It's alright…," the look he cast seemed to say. Not her- he wouldn't have wanted blood on her hands.

She finally lowered the gun from Amos's head. "I can't. I won't. You've already sealed your fate." She looked at the gun with a sad smile. "This gun isn't meant for this- it never was."

"Are you sure, girl," the former guard asked as she began to walk past him.

She held the weapon limply at her side and looked up at the large glass dome. She seemed to trace the metal beams that arched and snaked into spirals and curves with her eyes. She released a heavy sigh with closed eyes and a pensive smile. "It isn't my call…" She tilted her head. "You are right about one thing… He would never train a killer."

Amos lowered his head and studied his chains. "You have every right to kill me." He looked up at the others for a moment. They hadn't made a move to end him, either. "I see. It seems you are more honorable than I thought." He brought himself to stand. "Do give Captain Hogarth my apologies for the last-minute transfer of my keep." He nodded and looked down at his bindings once more. "I await your sentence, your highness," he said lowly as he awaited the guards to take him.

"That will be decided at a later date," Marcassin stated. He watched as the guards took Amos's arms and led him away. His eyes followed the turban bound man. The former Al Mamoon guard turned his head to look back at him with a curious but regretful glance.

When he was gone, Lynnea fell to her hands and knees and clutched her chest. Her father and the songstress rushed to her side.

"Lynnea," he shouted worriedly. "Lynnea, are you alright?" She felt his hand rest tenderly on her back. At his touch, she began to bawl. Her hands tensed and her shoulders violently shook. The pendant in her pocket, taken off of Gascon as soon as they had returned to the palace, began to glow a faint green. It shook and three bright lights shot out and formed his three former familiars.

Squishy approached the teen and attempted to comfort her by rubbing its head on her right shoulder. The Aye-aye Sir, a lemur with a golden bushy mane, sat on her left shoulder. It placed its front paws on the back of her head and pressed its own against her hair with closed eyes and released a saddened chirp. The final familiar, the Greater Naiad, a jellyfish-like nymph, hovered close, gripping a gem and watching with a concerned air.

She looked up suddenly, startling the lemur slightly, but not enough to deter it. "Wha- Why are they all out," she wondered, sniffling.

"They sense your pain…," Esther softly answered.

Lynnea looked down. "But why…? I don't know the other two. Just Squishy." At the sound of its name, the yeti pressed more into her arm, rubbing its head comfortingly against it.

"They were his familiars," Marcassin reminded her. "They've known you since the day you were born." He rubbed her back. "They know that what you've just gone through was incredibly stressful." He rubbed her back soothingly.

"That man," she whispered. "I almost made a terrible mistake." She began to sob again. "Uncle Gascon," she wailed. "I'm sorry. I almost broke the promise I made to you."

"Promise?" Esther tilted her head in confusion. "What was it," she asked as she moved closer to the teen.

"To never use this gun to hurt anyone," she said through heaves of air. Her shoulders shook violently. "In fact, I've already broken it!" She stared down at the weapon being pressed into the floor. "I'm so sorry," she whimpered.

The yeti backed away and watched as she cried. It looked over at Marcassin as if to tell him something. He looked up at it and nodded in silent agreement. He reached around her shoulders, the lemur hopping down on the ground but remaining by her side. He pulled his daughter to his chest. "Lynnea," he whispered. "It's alright. It'll be alright," he eased, rubbing her shoulder. "He couldn't have known- none of us could have," he quietly explained as she cried into his chest. He felt tears begin to form in the corner of his eyes. He rested his head on top of her's and rocked her gently. He lowered his head and hid a sniffle behind her hair. "Gascon wouldn't blame you. He- he wouldn't…," he barely choked out.

He couldn't hold back the tears any longer. He had kept as cool as well he could during the funeral. He had shed silent tears, then, too. Now, however, comforting his daughter, seeing her so broken up, broke the stoic façade of the now lone porcine prince. He clung to Lynnea and cried with her. He barely registered the sympathetic hand of Esther resting on the small of his back or the somber bow of her head.

And the orphan familiars watched as the family and friends of their master grieved. They didn't leave their side for as long as they were there. It would betray their master's final wishes- his nature.