The tall, ornate windows of the Evernight Castle stared blankly down at its vacant Conference Room. The skies beyond the glass roiled heavy and dark, a reflection of the general dour atmosphere within. At the head of the long table, Salem sat atop her usual throne of violently violet crystal, narrowed eyes surveying the numerous empty seats. Only the one at the far end–the seat furthest from her–was occupied. Its occupant, a wiry, manic-looking man crouched upon the seat like a detestable gremlin, an uncharacteristically anxious expression creasing his features.

The grating, random bouts of giggles which often punctuated his speech were wholly absent, though the general twitchiness of his person remained, if subdued. His beady, little eyes darted through the room, falling upon the abandoned seats of his absent comrades in short order before coming to Salem herself. A barely-audible whimper escaped his throat, and he seemed to grow even more frantic, his spasmodic movements becoming even more accentuated.

A meeting had been called, yet the Conference Room of the Evernight Castle remained conspicuously empty.

"Goddess…" He trailed off, gulping audibly. "Goddess, I'm sure they'll be here soon."

"No," she said, her tone clipped and cold and filled with resolute certainty. "No one else is coming." They had all gone. An irritated vein pulsed in Salem's temple. Humans were always so woefully…inadequate.

The first had been Watts. The man had disappeared without so much as a word, and his aggravatingly meticulous nature had made any attempts to seek him out futile. It hadn't even been a week before Salem had written him off as a lost cause.

Next had been Rainart. He had taken his leave shortly after the Phoenix had left, and had simply never returned. Granted, locating him would likely prove to be a more fruitful endeavor than attempting to find Watts, though Salem did not feel terribly inclined to do so. If the coward's conviction was so easily swayed, then so be it.

And now Cinder had vanished. It had been two weeks since Vale had been nearly purged from the face of Remnant and Salem had yet to hear anything from the aspiring maiden. The sudden surge of magic and something else–something alien–resonating from the distant continent informed her that some aspect of Cinder's plan had unfolded successfully, but beyond that she knew little else. Perhaps Cinder had perished. Perhaps she had fled. The cause did not matter.

What did matter was the fact that Salem was left with a single member of her circle remaining–and one that she found immensely grating, at that.

A small, dainty teacup sat clasped in Salem's hands—a remnant of a time and life long passed. The delicate, exquisitely-sculpted porcelain had been crafted by the hands of an expert once renowned throughout the land, but now forgotten by history. It had once been part of a set, but all that remained was this single cup. Perhaps it was due to the immense care that had been placed in crafting it, but the superior workmanship of the piece now somehow made its bubbling, seething contents all the more horrifying by contrast.

The stench of the grimm pits had never been a particularly pleasant one, not even to Salem. It was a putrid scent, smelling distinctly of rot and sulfur. Attuned as she was to it, She would still be hard-pressed to describe it as anything besides foul. The cup of tarry ooze she swirled in hand was no different, though this particular sample carried hints of an unusual, acrid odor that burned harshly at her nostrils and twisted at her flesh.

Salem mused over the cup for a moment longer, entranced by the odd, iridescent shimmer that lay thickly upon its surface like a viscous oil. Placing it on the table, she beckoned idly and a small, misshapen, vaguely-humanoid creature of cracked stone stumbled forth to collect the vessel.

With a deceptive measure of care and grace which its crude, malformed appearance belied, the geist–which had possessed various bits of the deteriorating stonework of the Castle–shambled forth, cup held reverently in hand, until it stood before Tyrian. Placing it before the man, the diminutive grimm then trudged dutifully back into the shadows. Tyrian stared stupidly into the angry, insipid ichor.

"Drink." The order was clipped and cold.

A shuffling of her circle was required. An injection of fresh blood. But first, she would need to, as the colloquial phrase went, "clean house."

Tyrian tore his gaze from the wretched cup to gape at Salem. "Goddess?" He asked dubiously. Perhaps he had misheard.

She raised a brow. "Was I not clear?" She rose from her throne and began to pace the length of the hall. "I said drink."

"But Goddess, this–"

"Oh Tyrian," she cut off his meager protests, falling back on cruelly honeyed words, underscored with no small amount of irritation. She was behind him now, and a pallid hand caressed the back of his seat. A thrill of anxiety gnawed at his innards."Sweet, loyal Tyrian. Do you doubt the gifts of your goddess so easily?"

"No, Goddess! Never!" He vehemently protested, but faltered as her hands alighted upon his shoulders, grasping tightly in an oppressively commanding gesture. A single, long finger traced the line of his throat, its pointed nail lingering for a beat on the pulsing artery. Tyrian could do nothing but stare rigidly ahead as beads of cold perspiration condensed along his brow.

Her face lowered so that she was whispering malignly into his ear.

"Then drink," she hissed–a poisonous command that allowed for no further protest. An edge, hard and razor-sharp, lined each word, promising dire consequences should he continue to test her patience. The nail dug painfully into his flesh for a moment before being retracted entirely. "Do not make me wait any longer."

The fluid went down reluctantly, the cup gleaming in the sickly, violet lighting as its contents were tipped down an unwilling gullet. Sticking to his throat and coating every surface it touched, the evil ichor tasted of putrid mud. A dirty bitterness tinged with the fetid, sour strains of festering, fermenting rot. It squirmed like a horde of frantic rodents, digging into his flesh from the inside as if it were trying to tear itself free from the confines of his body. Thousands of clawed little legs scampered about the delicate tissue and membrane, scarring and marring it with impunity.

What was worse, however, was the scalding heat that had begun to permeate his flesh. It radiated from wherever the fluid touched, suffusing throughout Tyrian's body until he felt that every cell was being seared with a malign, unseen light.

The cup fell from powerless, spasming fingertips and was deftly caught by a pallid hand. A streak of the foul fluid streaked from the lip of the vessel, which Salem wiped away with a finger before placing a safe distance away.

Tyrian clawed at his neck, sputtering noxious, black globules in a vain attempt to eject the rancid, surging mass clogging his throat. He howled insanely, writhing like a rabid beast as the hateful fluid seeped sluggishly further down his gullet and into every crevice of his innards, tearing and stabbing and burning away at him.

"Goddess…why…" He wheezed in agony, each abbreviated breath punctuated by spatters of scarlet and black.

"Poor, sweet, stupid Tyrian." Salem stooped, delicately grasping his chin in her hand and forcing his faltering gaze to meet hers. "This batch of devotees has disappointed me so." She sighed, speaking frankly while ignoring the sputtering, shallow gasps of the man at her feet. "Clearly some crucial quality was lacking in your lot, and I simply will not stand for it. Defective products must be replaced." What remained of the transparent veneer of pleasantry melted away, and she let go, allowing the man's head to fall heavily to the floor with a dull thump. "Take him outside," she ordered. "I won't have him fouling the interior of my castle."

Reclaiming her seat at the head of the vacant table, she groused quietly to herself while her grimm subordinates disposed of the twitching, heaving mass of Tyrian Callows. Perhaps she ought not be so wasteful with the limited manpower she had at her disposal, but, truth be told, she had always found the man somewhat distasteful. Not for his violent tendencies or ruthless methods–those qualities were quite appreciated.

Rather, it was the fawning that truly raised her ire. The sycophantic praise and rabid devotion, doled out in equal measure, had long since begun to wear away at her patience. There was a purity to it in some twisted, obscene sense–a simplicity that superseded ego or motive. It was that very thing which she despised oh-so-much.

That said, now she was stuck in the familiar position of needing henchmen to conduct business on the more…human…side of her affairs. It was unfortunate, but it was a necessity. Humans never quite lived up to her expectations–they were much too fragile. Rarely were they ever capable of furthering her plans by more than a step or two before their miserably short lives expired, if they even managed to last that long. Then again, grimm weren't much better in that regard, but at least those were readily replaced.

Salem was patient–inhumanly so. Given her current state of existence, how could she not be? Even so, after enough failures even she could feel the coals of frustration starting to warm in her cold, deadened heart. How many times had it been now? A hundred? A thousand? She sighed and rubbed idly at her brow, allowing her usual, collected facade to fade now that she was the sole sapient being in the castle once again. There really was no need to rush, she reminded herself. She had the entirety of eternity, after all.


The city was dead.

That was the fear which weighed heavily upon the minds of Vale's remaining residents. It had been two weeks since calamity had befallen Vale and left brutal scars on the city and on the minds and bodies of its people. In that time, a mass exodus of the survivors had occurred. The remaining citizens had filtered out in great numbers to the outlying settlements to the point that those settlements were forced to deny asylum to any further refugees until the current masses could be processed. At this point, the only living souls that still remained in the city were the stubborn, the unlucky and those who could aid in expunging the numerous clusters of grimm that had made the city's abandoned structures their home.

The pattern of destruction radiated out from the city's heart like a spiderweb. Rows of toppled buildings gouged ghastly grooves through the city's skyline like great fissures, and the buildings which remained erect displayed a proclivity towards ruin as their compromised structure left their integrity tenuous, at best. Where the grimm dragon had carved a path in bellowing fury, only rubble and shattered debris remained.

It was through these cracked and broken streets that the light, frantic patter of feet echoed like raindrops among the desolate buildings. Faint growls and slinking, sneaking shapes hungrily traced these steps with zeal, their numbers growing as more and more of the foul creatures began to reveal themselves from the shadowed, structured husks.

Fully eradicating the grimm from within the city's borders had proven to be a momentous task. What few huntsmen and huntresses the neighboring settlements could spare had run themselves ragged within a matter of days dispatching the abundance of stray grimm, but the numbers never seemed to truly decrease. Rather, it almost seemed as if every abandoned home they investigated harbored yet another group of the fell beasts. The struggle seemed to be an unending uphill battle. Eventually, the hunters that remained were forced to admit that their numbers could not possibly hope to compete against the sheer number of grimm in the city. Large swathes of Vale–particularly those closest to it's heart–had been ceded as a lost cause.

The grimm seemed to recognize when they no longer held the advantage and had been quick to slink away to the dark corners of the city to lie in wait the moment reinforcements had been called in. The majority had fled to the sewer systems while others sought refuge in the numerous destroyed and abandoned buildings. It was only in the darkened hours of night that they dared creep from their dank, makeshift abodes to prey upon anyone stupid enough to be caught alone and unaware.

Or, as in the current situation, when there was an opportunity too enticing to ignore.

The person dashed haphazardly through city blocks, breathing rapid, yet even, as she fled from the slinking, shadowy masses.

Loping about on all fours, the wolven grimm spilled forth from the surrounding buildings, stalking the area meticulously. They ambled along without haste, confident in their success. Their prey was alone, they were many; there was no chance that they would lose it.

The longer the hunt dragged on, the more that those enticing, black emotions would seep from their fleeing quarry. Bask in it. Revel in it. Savor it. And, when all is finally spent, kill it. If grimm were capable of emotion, then this sensation could surely be called elation–a thrill in the hunt that far superseded the catch.

Leisurely, they trotted after the person, but were dismayed to find that the silly creature had managed to make its way to a dead end. The alley that they had been racing down terminated abruptly with the looming walls of tall, industrial buildings. The hunt would have to end here.

From the shadows they strode. Frightful, snarling beasts who converged with sinister purpose upon the lone form. Then, seemingly without reason, they stilled. Something was off. The usual, luscious strains of fear and panic that surely should have begun to waft in the air by now were wholly absent.

The sleek, cruel bite of a sickle liberated the foremost beowolf's head of a body. The shadowy figure had moved far too abruptly for the beasts to register, and within seconds another two had been felled.

Their quarry bound backwards immediately after slaying three of their brethren, the tattered cloak fluttering off to reveal a young woman clad in black and equipped with a weapon which resembled a sickle bound to a strip of cloth. She eyed the horde with confidence, daring any one of them to be the first to try their luck.

Warily, the pack backed away to reassess the situation, only to find that they had not been the only ones trailing their prey. Blinding sunlight had accompanied the dusky shade.

Thunderous retorts bludgeoned the horde's flank with brutal, solar violence. The beowolves flew into a frenzy, any notion of tactic or coordination fully abandoned as they wildly charged at their assailants.

The fight was woefully one-sided.

For several minutes, gunfire and pained roars echoed through the alley and, when silence once again descended upon Vale's streets, it was to the sight of piles upon piles of fading black masses. The pair strode from the narrow side-street none the worse for wear.

"Easy peasy," Yang crowed, rolling her shoulders. "I'm just too good at killing grimm."

"You know I was the one that had to sprint across an entire sector of the city, right?"

"Yeah, and I killed them."

A deadpan expression set Yang chuckling nervously.

"C'mon, just let me have my fun alright?" She pleaded. "We've been at this since the sun came up, I deserve it!" She heaved a sigh, dropping into a bench along the main road that had miraculously survived the calamity unscathed. A dusty, calloued hand patted the seat next to her.

"There's still a half-dozen sectors to go before we finish this area," Blake reminded her.

Yang snorted, resting her elbow on the armrest and propping her head up. "A little break never hurt anyone. We've been working all day; I'd say we deserve to take the load off a little."

It was a wearisome task. Sometimes, luring out the grimm–like they had done earlier–worked fine. When that happened, clearing them out was fairly simple.

But, when the grimm were particularly stubborn and refused to take the bait, then they would have to undergo the time-consuming routine of clearing them out building by building, room by room. Honestly, Yang would have preferred to just collapse the building at that point, but, as Blake constantly reminded her, there were a whole slew of reasons why that was not a viable option.

Yang shut her eyes. The weariness that had been mounting all day seemed to crash into her all at once, smothering her under a wave of drowsiness. She cast out her thoughts in an attempt to stave off the sleepiness and found herself straying, as she always did, to the events of that catastrophic night. The images, so vivid that it hardly seemed that a whole fortnight had passed since, began playing out in her head for the umpteenth time.

Waves upon waves of loathsome, black bodies. Mutilated corpses strewn about the streets. The choking scent of smoke and blood. A scream. A blinding flash of silver. Ruby collapsed. It was all a mish-mash of horrible colors and odors and sounds, all of it barely coherent, save for the ever-present, underlying dread.

Ruby had been asleep since then. The strange woman, who Ren and Nora had claimed was Jaune's teacher, had said it wasn't anything to be worried about, and that she would wake up on her own "eventually," but Yang couldn't help herself. Her sister was in a coma, and the world had gone to hell in a single night.

The city was in shambles, grimm were everywhere and, apparently, Beacon had burned to the ground. She wasn't even sure how to parse that last bit of information. After a certain point, anything new added to the pile just seemed to stop mattering. Oh, and apparently Ruby had magic eyes, too.

Everything was wrong, and there wasn't much she could do about it besides play the role of a glorified janitor and clean up the mess that was Vale. Really, what kind of big sister would she be if she wasn't worried right now?

"A lousy one, I guess."

Yang winced at the dryly amused tone. She apologized, shooting her partner a sheepish glance. "Sorry, I said that out loud, didn't I?"

"You've been doing that a lot lately, Blake pointed out. "Though…" she trailed off, leaning her head back on the bench and taking in the impossibly blue sky above. There wasn't a cloud in sight. Looking up like this, she could almost fool herself into believing it was just another normal day. Almost. The faint stench of blood and dust still lingered too persistently for her keen senses to ignore. "Though I can't say I blame you," she sighed after a moment of idle thought. "All of this is just…a lot."

Yang snorted, mimicking her partner's actions. "'A lot' is an understatement." Listless lilac scanned the endless azure. "It's pretty obvious," she said after a moment of contemplation, "but things really got bad didn't they?"

"Mm." Blake hummed an affirmation.

"D'you think it'll ever go back to normal?"

"Normal means something wildly different for the two of us, you know," Blake pointed out.

Yang didn't respond, deigning merely to tilt her head a few degrees, shooting a dull glare to the girl at her side.

Blake chuckled softly. "Yeah, yeah, I know what you mean but…I just don't know."

"It's so weird," Yang mused, gaze drifting across the abandoned buildings. "A week ago, we would've been walking down this street without a care in the world. Look," she pointed at the ruined husk of a small, single-story shop. "That used to be a Mistralian restaurant. 'Authentic Mistralian cuisine,' they said." She laughed. "I tried it once; it was the worst thing I've ever had. The rice was too soggy and their fish was half rotten. Nothing was fresh."

Blake listened quietly.

"Oh, and that one there," she pointed at what seemed to have been a rather expensive boutique. Some of the intricately designed garb still lay draped upon toppled mannequins, the fine handicraft soiled and sheared. "Weiss made me go there once. She said I needed to act more 'ladylike.' We were only in there for fifteen minutes before she agreed that nothing in there suited me." The languid smile faded slightly. "Maybe doing the whole 'girly' thing just once could've been fun," she admitted softly.

"Yang…"

"Two streets down is one of the places we asked when we were looking for you." Yang continued as if Blake hadn't spoken. She laughed again, but it seemed hollow, tired. "Weiss asked them if they had seen a cat faunus. The owner was a cat faunus. You should've seen the look they gave her."

"Sorry for running away like that."

"It's fine, it's fine." Yang waved off the apology distractedly as she continued to scan through the abandoned structures. "That one's the shop that Ruby used to buy her ammunition from…" Yang trailed off, her expression somber.

"Yang," Blake said, voice equally soft. "It'll be alright. Ruby will be alright."

"Yeah," she agreed distantly. "Yeah, maybe. But will we be all right? All of us? I mean, look at all…this. It's gone. It's all gone, Blake."

Blake tried to speak, to reassure her partner, to tell her it would all turn out fine. But the words didn't come. The words couldn't come. She didn't know if they would be a lie. Helplessly, she laid a hand upon Yang's clenched fist, gripping firmly. "I don't know." The repeated words were all that she could conjure, and they faded just as quickly back into the silence.

The sun continued its slow descent through the sky until it sank behind the city's ruined skyline. Long, dusky shadows, punctuated occasionally by twilight peeking through a break in the buildings, crept along the ground until they had fully enveloped the pair in their cool embrace. A gentle breeze wafted through the streets, cleansing the air of the lingering, stale scent of dust.

They sat in that same position for longer than the time Blake had allotted, the trailing chains of exhaustion and vague, amorphous worry binding them to their spot, sapping their will to move. They basked in this rare moment of respite, their task forgotten for a few moments of blissful oblivion.

The shrill buzzing of Blake's scroll interrupted their quiet reverie. She answered.

"Blake!"

Yang could hear the strains of distress in Weiss's voice, even from the distance between herself and the scroll. She jerked stiffly to attention, her fingers clamping tightly on the bench.

"Why isn't Yang picking up? Do you have any idea how many times I've tried calling her?"

She pulled out her scroll, only to find that it had died at some point in their patrol. Sheepishly, she waved the device at Blake.

"Look, it doesn't matter, just–ugh, stop pushing!"

The sounds of shifting crackled through Blake's scroll before another voice piped through, strained and desperate.

"Is that Yang!? Let me talk to her!"

"It's Blake, you dolt! Now unhand my scroll before you break it!"

A brief scuffle could be heard over the line before Weiss's voice returned.

"Ruby woke up, and she's been having a fit ever since," she stated crossly. "Would you two get back here, please. She won't calm down unless she sees Yang in person."

Blake pocketed the scroll, smirking slightly at the obvious relief on her partner's face. "Well." She sprung up from the bench, balancing lighty on the balls of her feet as she stretched the stiffness out of her limbs. "You heard her."


"Ruby, we just got off the phone with them. I'm sure they're on their way right now, so will you please just calm down?"

Weiss helped her blubbering partner back onto the bed after the other girl had so ungracefully flopped from it in a desperate lunge for Weiss's scroll. How the girl had even managed that feat after such a prolonged period of inactivity baffled the heiress.

Ruby groaned, pulling herself onto the mattress and rolling limply until she was safely in the middle of the bed once more. "What's wrong with me?" She asked in confusion. "Why do I feel so weak? What happened? Actually…"

She cast her gaze about the room, finding the cracked, plaster walls and creaking wooden floor panels foreign. The building itself, at least, seemed more or less intact, if in a wild state of disarray. Boarded windows allowed only slivers of orange light to leak in, illuminating thick columns of dust suspended in the air. Off to the side of the room, various articles of clothing and other miscellany had been haphazardly piled away, leaving the center clear, save for the bed and chairs. "Where are we?"

"The Residential District," Weiss explained. "Most of Vale's been abandoned. The grimm got everywhere, Ruby. The survivors are either taking shelter in this district or have left Vale entirely. Bullheads have been ferrying people to Patch for the last two weeks now."

"Two weeks," Ruby echoed faintly. "Have I been asleep that entire time? Is that why I feel so weak?"

Weiss nodded. "You did…something…at the breach. There was a bright light and suddenly all the grimm around us turned to stone. Then you passed out. You've been asleep since. Well, you were, until you woke up today crying for Yang."

The sudden reminder caused her face to pale significantly. "She's–She's not dead?" She asked hesitantly.

Weiss brow creased. "I already told you, she's fine. Blake's fine too. So is Ren and Nora and…" Her gaze flickered away, "and Jaune."

Ruby carefully scrutinized her partner's face, finding that the refined, sculpted features bore no traces of deception. She deflated, allowing a tenuous relief to wash over her, though she couldn't truly rest at ease until she saw Yang with her own eyes. "I see," she sighed. "It was so real, Weiss. I thought she died."

"Why would you think that? Did you have a bad dream?"

Ruby mulled over the thought. Maybe it had been a dream. She recalled the visceral sight, the terrible wound in her sister's chest. The sticky, cloying heat of freshly-spilled blood. The terrible, rattling breaths. The wrenching emptiness in those dull, glassy, lilac orbs. A rush of anxious nausea surged in her throat and she heaved violently, curling into a ball. She felt a soothing, slight hand rubbing comforting circles in the center of her back. She shivered; there was no way that could have been a dream. It was too vivid.

"Ruby," Weiss said, her voice softer, gentler. "Ruby, everything's…well, not fine, but we're all alive. I don't think we can really ask for much more than that right now."

Ruby didn't respond, and a comfortable silence stretched on until the creak of the bedroom door drew their attention.

Ruby craned her head to peer at the newcomers, relief painting her features at the pair of familiar faces. "Ren! Nora!" She exclaimed, shifting in the bed and wincing as her limbs vehemently protested the motion.

"We heard you woke up, so we came to see how you were doing." Ren entered the room, smiling tiredly.

"Good morning, Ruby! Well, evening, I guess." Nora's usual, exuberant demeanor had dulled considerably, though she still greeted the bedridden girl with a fair bit of enthusiasm.

"You guys are alright," Ruby sighed.

"I told you so."

Ignoring her partner, she asked the newcomers, "How are you? Where's Jaune? And Pyrrha?"

"Fine. A bit tired; we just got back from clearing grimm out of a sector." Ren hesitated for a moment. "Jaune's here too, but he's in pretty bad shape," he confessed. "His arm's pretty badly broken, and he's been acting strange since he woke up."

"Yup," Nora agreed, drooping slightly. "He barely eats and doesn't talk to anyone. All he does is spend all day lying in bed or staring at the wall. Whatever happened at Beacon really got him."

"Whatever happened at Beacon…?" Ruby repeated quizzically, a slight frown marring her countenance. "What do you mean?"

Weiss, Ren and Nora exchanged an uncomfortable look. "Ruby…" Ren trailed off and Nora refused to meet her gaze. "Ruby, Beacon's gone."

Confused, Ruby's gaze darted about the assembled faces, as if to discern whether this was some sort of tasteless joke.

"Something happened," Ren explained. "We didn't hear about it until later, but the entire school burnt to the ground. Everything." He hesitated, then, "They weren't able to find any survivors."

"What do you mean burnt down?" Ruby's voice had become tight and shrill. "How could it burn down? It's made of metal. And stone. What could have possibly happened?"

"We don't know," Nora answered softly.

Ruby gaped at her, then shifted her focus to Ren expectantly, who nodded silently in agreement.

"It happened while we were fighting off the grimm," he explained.

Ruby recalled the brilliant glow beyond the horizon that they had seen on that night, the false dawn which had illuminated the ravaged city with a radiance harsher than day for a fleeting moment before vanishing in its entirety.

"Jaune got out, but as far as we know that's it. No one knows what happened or where P–" Ren cut himself off, guiltily glancing askance.

"P…?" Ruby repeated. "Pyrrha?

None answered her, and none could bring themselves to meet her gaze.

"Guys?" She asked the quiet room, a slow dread mounting in her the pit of her gut. "Where's Pyrrha? She got out with Jaune, right? Right?"

"Ruby." Weiss spoke up, laying a hand upon Ruby's arm to calm the oncoming signs of panic. "Jaune was the only one to escape. From what little he's said, we think Pyrrha's alive but…she didn't come back with him. We don't know any more; he won't talk to us."

"Just leave the brat be," a voice grumbled from the doorway. "If he's properly reflecting on his actions, then he'd be doing something right for a change."

Ruby stilled, eyes wide, pupils constricted. The cadence of her breathing began to quicken perceptibly.

"Oh, it's the crazy teacher," Nora greeted.

"How many times do I need to tell you to stop calling me that?" The woman asked in annoyance as she entered the room, shutting the door behind her.

"Miss Hua–"

"Just Hua's fine," she interrupted.

"Hua. We don't know where Pyrrha is, or what happened at Beacon," Ren said. "We don't know anything. You're the one that brought Jaune back, right? Can you tell us?"

"I think I did a fair bit more than just bring him back," she groused. "And it's more than that fool deserves, really. As for your other friend," she paused, "well, I guess it's safe to say that she isn't your friend anymore. She's gone and turned into something bad."

"Something bad," Weiss echoed faintly. "What, do tell, does that mean exactly?"

"Exactly what it sounds like," Hua said blandly, crossing her arms as she leaned back against the wall. "Ah, but it's more of an end-of-the-world sort of bad than a spilled-your-milk bad."

"I find that hard to believe."

Hua snorted. "Yeah, so did the brat. He decided she could still be saved and stopped me from fixing things then and there. Now she's gone off to who-knows-where and I need to go find her." An irritated expression marred her countenance. "It's going to be quite a task, seeing as she fried everything on that cliff, including the CCT tower. Zero communication with anything outside Vale."

"So you don't know where she is, then?" Nora asked, drooping with disappointment.

"Nope." Hua shrugged. "But figuring it out shouldn't be too hard, right? Just follow the trail of scorched earth and burnt settlements."

The group paled at the idea.

"Wait," Ren said, "then you mean Beacon is…because of Pyrrha? She did that?"

"Yeah? I said as much, didn't I?"

"That's impossible," he denied. "I saw the pictures. The entire academy was burnt to the ground. Everything was gone. Miles of the Emerald Forest were set on fire! How would she even be able to do something like that?"

"Like I said." She idly scratched at the back of her head in minor frustration. "She's become something bad." She paused, trying to piece together an easily-digestible explanation. "Think of it like…like she's gone and become an incarnation of flames. She doesn't just have the ability to produce fire, she is the very concept of fire itself. She is the very pinnacle of what it means to burn."

"And," Weiss still seemed doubtful, "assuming we believe all of this, you think you'd be able to deal with it, somehow, if you find her?"

"Well, I've done it before. Admittedly some things are a bit different this time. I'm…" A scowl twisted at her lips. "Restrained for various reasons, and she's not quite the same as the sort of thing I've seen before. She's become some weird hybrid of…" Hua trailed off, looking pensive for a moment. "Wait," she began slowly, "None of you know about the maidens, do you?"

"Pardon me?"

"Figured. Then nothing that I say is going to make sense, anyway. I can't be bothered to tell you the story. Go ask the brat once he's stopped moping around. The point is that Nikos has become a living fireball hell-bent on burning Remnant to the ground and I'm going to need to chase her down before it's too late."

"And," Ren paused, clearing his throat nervously, "What are you going to do when you find her?"

Hua blinked. "Kill her, obviously."

As expected, four mouths opened simultaneously to voice heated protests, but Hua silenced them with an imperious wave of her hand. "She can't be brought back. What your friend has become is far too dangerous to be left alive."

"There has to be some other way!"

Ruby had finally piped up. For the entire duration of the conversation, she had lain rigid in her bed, ashen-faced, eyes never leaving the older woman. Now, however, the sudden mention of "killing" seemed to trigger a reaction that spurred her into manic motion. She struggled to sit upright beneath the sheets, the weeks of inactivity conferring an unfamiliar weakness to sluggish limbs.

"She's still alive," Ruby protested. She fixed a fierce glare on the woman that she had been so terrified of moments earlier. "There has to be something that can save her."

"There is," Hua said. "If she can overcome the influence of the Will and regain her own identity, then there is an incredibly small chance that she would be able to return to the Pyrrha Nikos you know."

"Great! Then–"

"It's not happening," Hua interrupted flatly. "Assuming her psyche even remains, for something as fragile as the human mind to overcome that sort of influence–it is far too unlikely."

"But the fact that you know it can be done means that it's happened before," Ruby argued.

"Yes. And those were exceptions among the exceptions. Special cases that resulted in widespread destruction before the subjects in question regained their humanity." Hua conveniently omitted the fact that she had been one of said destructive exceptions. She met shining silver pools with an equally stolid glare. "Tell me, Ruby Rose, how many people are you willing to forsake for the slim possibility that your friend can be saved?"

The question hung heavily in the air. None present could even begin to conjure an answer. None dared. They all aspired to be Huntsmen and Huntresses. They were supposed to fight and, if necessary, die to save people, not the other way around.

"Would…would it really be that bad?" Nora asked after a pregnant pause.

"It would." Hua confirmed. "Beacon is just a fraction of what she would be capable of once she's at full strength. For every day we waste, she's just getting stronger. Every moment she's left unchecked, more people will die."

"That's not–"

"Not what?" Hua snapped, cutting Nora off. "Let me guess. 'That's not Pyrrha,' or 'She wouldn't do that,' right?" She fixed a glare of cold admonishment on each of them. "Why do each and every one of you insist on thinking this way? Do you consider yourselves the exception? You're right. That's not her. Not anymore. The person known as Pyrrha Nikos is gone, and the thing that took her place can and will turn Remnant into a desolate hellscape if no one deals with it. So I'm going to deal with it."

She paused for a moment, seemingly gathering herself. When she spoke again, her tone was even and neutral, though a small amount of disdain still seemed to bite at the tail-end of her words.

"Your leader," she addressed Nora and Ren, "my idiot disciple, refused to see the threat she posed and, in doing so, has endangered the lives of countless people across Remnant. And now I need to go clean up this entirely unnecessary mess he's made. So, if you have issues with the way I go about my business, by all means, keep it to yourself."

A deep, painful quiet blanketed the room. None made eye-contact with the incensed woman.

"Well," Hua exhaled, breaking the tense silence. "This has been fun, but I need to go prepare some stuff. I suggest you all figure out what you're going to do from here on out–Vale's not going to last much longer at the rate things are going." She strode back to the door, only pausing to wave cheekily over her shoulder. "Good to see you're awake, Red. Hope you didn't have any nightmares." She left without so much as acknowledging the girl's rapidly paling countenance.


The door creaked shut behind her, and Hua turned to return to her room, only to pause as she found a familiar face waiting for her.

"I know you, don't I?"

The demand came abruptly and without preamble. A serious, cerulean stare fixed stolidly upon crimson.

"I sure hope so," Hua said, feigning a disinterested tone and casually making to sidle past the other girl. "We've all been living in this hovel for a while now."

Kiana shifted to bar her path, still staring insistently. "Not like that. From before. I know you from before…this." She gestured vaguely with a hand. "Everytime I see you I can't help but feel this weird familiarity. Like I'm about to remember something."

Hua hummed, stubbornly looking at the walls, the ceiling, the floor, anything except those accusing orbs. Internally, she cursed. This was exactly why she had been avoiding the hideout. "Who knows? Maybe you're just having deja vu." An edge of rebellious flippancy seeped in to color her words.

"You knew my name." Kiana pointed out. "After I took out the dragon, you said it. I heard you."

"Anyone can know a name," she countered. "I heard Red say it."

"You knew about my power."

"Yeah, because I saw you using it."

"Back at the initiation. When she was taking over. I heard your voice. You held her back."

"It wasn't my voice," Hua snapped reflexively.

"It sounded like you."

"Yes, but it wasn't mine."

"So you do know what I'm talking about!"

"I…" Hua paused, before sighing in defeat. "Shit. Fine. Yeah, we knew each other. It was a long, long time ago."

"Then…you can tell me what the heck is going on, right?" Kiana pressed forward eagerly, forcing the other girl to take a step back to maintain their distance.

"Hmmm, nope," Hua declared after a moment of mock deliberation.

A sour look of resigned expectation crossed Kiana's face. "Of course it wouldn't be that easy," she groused. "You probably won't even tell me why, will you?"

"I suppose it wouldn't hurt," Hua drawled, enjoying the flicker of irritation that flashed across her friend's face. She shrugged. "Simply put, we promised we wouldn't."

"Promised who?" Kiana demanded, baffled. "From what Ozpin told me, anyone I knew should be long dead by now. Actually, how are you even still alive?"

"Well, how are you still alive?" Hua countered. "As for who it was…" She trailed off, adopting a thoughtful pose and pretending to think for a moment before leveling an obnoxious grin in Kiana's direction.

It took a moment for Kiana to interpret the meaning behind the look. Her brow shot up in disbelief. "No. Way."

"Oh yes." Hua's smirk widened.

"I don't believe you."

"Luckily, you don't have to." Hua lifted a hand, lightly flicking the other girl's forehead.

Kiana's hand whipped up. "What was that for?" She demanded, rubbing lightly at the sore spot.

Hua hushed her. "The show's starting, just sit tight."

"I can't remember a thing, got it? Not a single thing."

An eerily familiar voice speaking behind her grabbed Kiana's attention, and she whirled towards the source. The world had shifted. What was once a cramped, disordered living room had become a sleek, metal interior–perhaps that of a ship or a facility. Kiana found herself staring at…herself. A near carbon-copy stood not ten feet from her, wearing the clothes that she had originally been found in.

"Kiana, you don't have to do this."

Likewise, the other speaker was a doppelganger of the woman standing beside her, though there were some marked differences between the two.

"Yes, I do. We do." The duplicate Kiana glanced to her sides, towards the silhouettes of what were presumably two other females–one taller, the other shorter. Any other discernible qualities were faded and indistinguishable, like a photograph that had been bleached by the sun. "Us just being here is already causing too many problems. Promise me. Please."

A moment of hesitation. The other Hua spoke in calm, measured notes–a stark contrast to her current demeanor. "Very well. You have my, no, our word."

The scene faded, the illusion collapsing and melting back into the cracked and crumbling interior of their temporary base.

"What was that?" Kiana asked after a brief, dazed moment. Her eyes remained locked upon the space where her duplicate had stood.

"A party trick," Hua dismissed vaguely. "Pulling out old memories is child's play. I may be out of gas, but I'm still capable of that much, at least."

"Why would I want to forget everything?"

"We seal your memories, we seal her memories," Hua explained simply. "You were going to go to sleep for a long, long time. You didn't want to risk her waking up and taking control."

"By her you mean…" Kiana hesitated. A name floated at the tip of her tongue–one which caused a small well of anxiety to begin to bubble up within the pit of her stomach. "...Sirin."

Hua raised an eyebrow. "So you remember that much then, huh?"

"You said her name back then. Back when you put her back to sleep."

"Like I said, that wasn't me." Hua shifted restlessly. "For the record," she said, "I was on-board with getting you up to speed when you woke up. It was the Old-Timer who kept insisting otherwise. She wanted to play it safe."

"But now?"

"But now, things have gone straight to hell. My idiot disciple's gone and made a mess that I need to go clean up. I'm not looking to add another mess to that list if you wind up losing control again. Right now, she's sealed up nice and tidy. Returning your memories would mean waking her up again."

"Then...if I were able to somehow make," she paused, frowning, "her...not a problem–"

A dryly amused snort cut her off. "If only you knew how long you've been working on that little side-project." Hua dismissed herself, pushing off of the wall and brushing past the other girl. "Sorry, Kiana, but we just don't have the wiggle room to make big mistakes anymore." She tapped her lightly on the shoulder as she passed. "Just deal with it for now."


In a place not far away, the clatter of a handle of and the steady, creaking patter of footsteps down old, wooden steps stirred the lone inhabitant of a makeshift prison. The prisoner–a scarred, burnt woman–pulled herself into an upright position with difficulty and no small amount of pain–the extensive, terrible injuries to which she had been subjected had yet to heal, and every movement stretched and distressed the wounds. The rough straw of her shoddy, makeshift bedding rustled in the darkness, scratching and itching at the tender flesh.

Cinder was unsure how long she had been down here. She was unsure of where "here" was, or even whether it was currently night or day. She had woken up in this concrete enclosure–seemingly a basement–with her wounds bandaged and her clothes replaced. That had been an uncountable number of days ago. The feeble light of a lamp affixed to the far side of the room was her only light source, but it was enough to recognize that the only egress from this place would be up a lengthy flight of stairs and behind a, presumably locked, door.

Food would periodically be left on the hard concrete at her side while she slept, but she never once saw anyone bring it down–or take away the dirty plates, for that matter. Her captors hadn't even bothered binding her in any way, though that was hardly a surprise. There wasn't much that she could do in current state, after all.

The protesting groans of wooden steps signaled the imminent arrival of someone, and Cinder's muscles tensed vainly in anticipation. A click, and the small, lonesome bulb in the ceiling flickered glumly to life. It cast strange, dancing shadows along the walls as it sputtered, barely able to sustain its waning glow, but still cast appreciably more light than she had witnessed in a while.

Dull, blonde hair and an equally dull face greeted her as a teenaged boy descended the staircase, coming fully into view. Cinder felt an odd mixture of relief and confusion. On one hand, he didn't seem to be an immediate threat. On the other hand, who was he?

The boy pulled up a chair–one of the few articles of furniture that remained in the neglected basement–and slumped into it. He sat in silence, simply staring at her. From her place on the ground, there was not much else she could do but confusedly stare back.

The silence stretched from seconds to minutes and Cinder began to feel an itch of restlessness. She disliked the look in the boy's eyes. They stared at her, but she got the sense that his thoughts were elsewhere entirely. They were unfocused, confused, seeking purpose.

"You're the other one, aren't you?" She said, finally breaking the silence. The lanky appendages and blonde hair vaguely reminded her of the other occupant of the flaming tower which haunted her dreams. "From Beacon. You're the one the girl was protecting."

Jaune didn't speak, but his gaze finally focused, the cobalt irises locking feverishly with hers. A rictus of distress creased his face.

"What was her name?" Cinder feigned a curious tone. "Pyrrha, was it? Mistral's wonder-girl."

Jaune's knuckles whitened, his nails digging deep grooves into his palms.

"To think, such a talented fighter had to fall because she was trying to save someone like you. "

"She beat you." Jaune's voice was hollow, distant.

Cinder bristled at that. "If you can call that thing she became winning, then I suppose so, yes." She sneered up at him. "But I'm here, and I'm still me. And where's your little girlfriend right now? Burning down a small settlement in Mistral would be my guess. Who's fault do you suppose that is?"

"Shut up."

"Oh, so sensitive," she jeered. She leaned heavily back against the unforgiving concrete wall, her attention shifting towards a more relevant matter. "So?" Feigning a careless demeanor she gauged his expression, trying to ascertain whether she would be able to make use of him somehow. "Why did your pathetic little self come down here? Come to take revenge for the girl you couldn't save, mister hero?"

"I…" Jaune could not formulate the words. Why had he come? He didn't know. He had thought that upon seeing this woman's face, he would know what he needed to do, but right now all he felt was numbness. There was no outpouring of repressed hatred. There was no great grief that threatened to drown him. Just placid, aimless emptiness.

"You can't do it, can you?" Cinder sneered up at him. "No, you're too noble. You're too weak. If you can't even kill to get what you truly want, then what good are you?"

What did he want? Crocea Mors hung from his hip. Even with one broken arm, he could still swing a blade. To slay an unarmed, injured, crippled woman. Even he would be capable of that. She had tried to kill Pyrrha. She had tried to kill him. Beacon was gone because of her. If he killed her right now, there wasn't a doubt in his mind that it would be entirely justified. His hand drifted to the pommel of his blade, trembling as it rested on the smooth metal.

Rather than draw it, however, he stated hollowly, "You have half of the maiden's power."

Cinder froze, taken aback. He was one of Ozpin's? This pathetic weakling? Nikos, she could understand, but him? She had assumed he had simply been unfortunate enough to get caught in the crossfire.

"I think you already know the answer to that, don't you?" She countered smoothly.

"Can you find her?"

The creases in her face relaxed fractionally, her brow rising. So that was the deal here. Lurid, golden orbs gleamed unnaturally in the low light, the faint formulations of a plan weaving itself together in her mind. "Who knows?" She drawled, enjoying the frustrated look that flashed across the boy's face. "Maybe I can. Or maybe I'm lying."

"Can you?" Jaune repeated lowly.

"Yes," Cinder said, not bothering to veil the sarcasm in her words.

Jaune grit his teeth. "If you're lying, I'll–"

"You'll what? Kill me?" Cinder laughed snidely. "You have your sword with you. You could've done it already, but you didn't. What, are you waiting for someone to come save you again? To make the hard choices so you can hide away like the scared little animal you are?"

The blade left its sheathe, but Cinder felt no worry even as she stared down the length of finely-honed steel. The hand which wielded it shook terribly. Beads of sweat coalesced visibly on the boy's brow. His breathing had quickened noticeably.

"Why even bother coming to me alone? The fact that this 'master' of yours kept me alive means that they probably have the same thing in mind." The cruel crescent of her mouth widened with twisted glee. "Just hide behind them and let someone else do all the work."

"I can't," Jaune said, his voice wavering. "I can't do that. She'll kill her."

"I see. Then you don't really have a choice, do you?" Cinder leaned forward eagerly. "Whether I'm lying or not, you need me. Otherwise, your girlfriend dies."

He pushed the blade closer to her head, but the fearful uncertainty never left his face. Cinder didn't even flinch.

"Look at you," she jeered. "Even after everything you still can't bring yourself to kill me." She leaned forward mockingly, face mere inches from the sharpened steel. "Pathetic," she spat. "You blame me for what happened, but you're just as culpable."

"Shut up." A strangled demand. His trembling intensified.

"No, I don't think I will." A bubble of heated frustration had popped, filling her breast with seething anger. "Do you honestly believe you can come down here with your empty threats and expect me to just roll over and do as you say? You are nothing. You're weak."

A thin rivulet of blood streaked down the boy's hand where his nails bit too deeply into the palm.

"If you hadn't been there things would have turned out better for her." Cinder wasn't quite certain why she continued to needle the boy. The anger had commanded control of her. Right now, she just wanted him to hurt, and she did it in the only way she could. "She could have won if she didn't need to protect you."

"Stop…"

"You were unconscious, right? Do you have any idea how she fell?" Cinder dug deeper, viciously twisting the proverbial knife. A twisted, manic smile split her features. "All it took was a few arrows in your direction and your girlfriend willingly became an oversized pincushion just so that you could be safe."

"Liar…"

"Oh, a liar am I?" She pointed at him. "The proof is right here. You're alive. If she had ignored you, she could have walked out with all of the maiden's power. But she didn't. And that's all. Because. Of. You."

"I SAID STOP!"

The sudden roar took Cinder by surprise, and she could only stare in shock as the boy moved abruptly. Steel flashed erratically in the faltering light as he swung wildly. The blade missed her head by inches as it flew in a shining, deadly blur, diverting its course at the last possible second. The metal met the stone behind her with a sharp retort, skittering down the wall before embedding itself into her makeshift mattress.

The harsh noise echoed in the empty room, reverberating in their ears for far longer than it actually lasted. For several moments the two held their positions in stunned silence, neither willing to upset the tense, delicate balance.

Finally, the sword drew itself back slowly, clattering to the ground as the boy staggered backwards limply and falling heavily back into his seat. His arm hung lifelessly at his side as he stared at her with wide eyes, his face ghostly pale.

"I was sure you were going to defend yourself," Jaune finally said. He wasn't certain if he was trying to convey this to her or reassure himself.

"With what?" Cinder spat shakily, drawing herself back against the wall, making as much space between them as possible. She derisively waved towards her missing limbs.

A small frown slowly worked its way onto his blank expression. "You…" Jaune trailed off as realization dawned on him. "You can't use your semblance, can you? Or the maiden's power." The woman on the floor froze, granting credence to his suspicions. "That's why you haven't tried to escape this whole time."

A white, coursing rage surged through Cinder's veins. "What do you know?" She snarled. Her eyes flowed with malignant, golden light. Heat gathered at her remaining hand, the tips of her fingers glowing dangerously. A flame, hot enough to char flesh and render fat from bone coalesced in her palm.

The heat licked wickedly at her skin and her breathing hitched.

A flare danced devilishly in her field of view before it expanded, consuming her entirely. An agonizing, searing pain tore through her body. Limbs that no longer existed burned and screamed beneath blankets of torrid heat. That face–that terrible, inhuman, smoldering face–howled at the forefront of her mind. Her body was alight with pain and terror. Someone was yelling.

"I knew it," Jaune said softly.

The flames abruptly vanished and Cinder snapped back to reality. She had slumped over at some point. She found her breathing shallow and uneven, and perspiration pouring from her brow. Her throat was sore. She had been the one yelling.

It had happened again.

"Get out," she croaked, panting. "Get out!"


Cinder didn't expect to be seeing the boy again, and was quite glad for it. She despised him. She despised any form of weakness, and he was a walking exhibition of weaknesses. It would be almost laughable if it wasn't so disgusting.

The fact that a person like that had pushed her into another episode–had witnessed her at a point of absolute weakness–rubbed sorely at her nerves. It bruised at her pride and scoured her frigid heart. She would much rather await her fate in this decrepit basement than deal with him again.

It was only a few hours later that she was left sorely disappointed.

Once again, the sputtering glow of the lone lightbulb lit the room. Once again, Jaune Arc descended into her prison, this time toting a metal bucket which sloshed ominously with every step.

"You're back," Cinder observed, the disdain heavy in her voice.

"I'm back," Jaune confirmed flatly. Quietly, he once again pulled up a chair, laying the bucket at his feet. A bit of the liquid–something clear and runny–splashed over the lip and streaked down the side. He eyed her speculatively. "Master taught me that when one needs to take action, one must act decisively. Hesitation will kill."

"The master that you're trying to betray right now," Cinder spat derisively. Something about the boy's current demeanor set her on edge. Compared to the lost, murmuring child that had visited her earlier, this person seemed to have come to some form of resolution.

Jaune paused for a beat, not rising to the mockery. "Yeah."

They sat in silence for a while, her staring expectantly at him, him content to merely meander within his own thoughts. He almost seemed to be stalling, though the calm resignation on his face showed that his choice had been made long before he had come down here again.

Eventually, the tense atmosphere and impatience got to her. "Well?" She asked testily. "As much as I appreciate the company, I know you're not here on a social call."

He didn't answer her immediately, instead reaching into a pocket and extracting a small, yellow lighter. He rolled it idly in his hands.

"...What are you doing?" Cinder asked, her voice hitching slightly. She eyed the object. It was a small, innocuous thing–the sort of cheap, mass-produced lighter that could be found at any corner store.

"Being decisive," he stated simply. He kicked the bucket at his feet, toppling it and sending its contents gushing across the cement floor. A cloying, antiseptic scent quickly began to fill the room.

Cinder yelped, vainly pressing herself against the wall. The fluid seeped through the straw mat, rapidly soaking into the simple garments that she wore.

"The pharmacy down the road had a basement," he explained. "Everything the owners stocked down there survived the Fall." A flash of sorrow crossed his face. "They're not going to need it anymore," he stated quietly. Leaning forward slightly, he held the lighter over the pungent pool. "Can you find Pyrrha?" He asked. He didn't make eye contact, seemingly mesmerized by the small, yellow tool.

"You wouldn't dare," Cinder whispered hoarsely, ignoring his question. "You're bluffing; you don't have it in you."

"Hm." He flicked the wheel. She flinched, though the device only managed a few, feeble sparks which faded before they could ignite.

"Lucky," he commented dispassionately. "Again?"

Cinder didn't respond, her eyes wide, her attention fully fixated on his hand. He flicked the wheel again. She jerked violently in her seat.

Naught but sparks once more.

Jaune stared coldly into her eyes and Cinder was alarmed to find no hint of hesitation in those dull orbs.

"You were right," he said quietly. "I'm weak. I know that better than anyone. I can't fight well and I don't even know what my semblance is. I can't be a good leader or even help my friends. I can't do anything. But I can't just sit by and let things sort themselves out. So if I need to do things like this to make myself useful–to help her–then I will. That's all I can do."

Cinder shivered. There was no trace of righteousness in that cobalt gaze, no sense of justice coloring his words. There was only a tired resignation. "You're crazy," she rasped, the imminent threat of flames drying out her throat.

The words fell on deaf ears. Jaune thumbed the igniter. "Third try's the charm," he mused, moving to flick the wheel again.

"I can find her!" Cinder blurted out.

Jaune paused, drawing back the lighter. "Can you?"

Cinder nodded fervently. "I can," she paused, struggling to find the right words, "sense her. I can sense the maiden's power." She scrambled into as much of an upright position that she could muster, ignoring the flagrant protesting of her wounds. She locked eyes, trying to convey her sincerity. "It was vague before, but now it's so much stronger, like it's calling to me."

Jaune paused to weigh her words, but eventually decided that it didn't really matter if she was lying. There wasn't anything either of them would be able to do on their own, anyway.

He stood abruptly, tossing the lighter into her lap. "It's empty," he informed her quietly, ignoring her dumbstruck expression. "It'll be dawn in a few hours. Everyone's asleep. We're leaving now."


Salem lounged languidly within her quarters, idly perusing a tome of exceptionally ancient origin. The heavy book was written in a forgotten script that none but her–and possibly Ozma–could decipher. It was an object that had found its place in her collection well before the sordid debacle with the gods had occurred, back when she still derived joy from simple pleasures like reading. Now, it could only function as a momentary distraction.

It was a silly little thing–nothing more than a collection of fairy tales that had been considered dated even when she had been a child. The stories were crude and simplistic, some idyllic, others cautionary in nature. The heavy, weathered object had persisted well through the eons–thanks in no small part to her routine, liberal applications of magic. The illustrations, though admittedly slightly faded, retained the majority of their dark vibrancy, and the neat, flowing script remained fully legible, if smudged in some places. It seemed even the unfathomable might of the arcane could not perfectly elude the ravages of time.

Unlike her.

She frowned as an errant breeze from the window ruffled the ancient pages. Shutting the tome, she carefully placed it back in its space on the shelf. For a moment, pale fingers lingered along its spine, tracing the embossed words.

Another wintery breeze wafted in and she sighed. The chill, though harmless to her, was nonetheless uncomfortable.

"At least have the courtesy to shut the window behind you," she drawled, half-lidded eyes flicking to her periphery. "It is best that you reveal yourself now." Turning her head incrementally, she glared towards the large window overlooking the barren expanses of her territory. "I may be inclined to be lenient in your execution if you do." She had long since been aware of the lingering sensation of watching, baleful eyes fixated upon her.

The sound of a weight hitting the floor informed her of the intruder's location. She turned to face him, black eyes widening at the being that stood, a crouched, shivering, disheveled mess, in the center of her personal quarters.

"You…" She trailed off, perplexed. "Tyrian? You should be dead."

He certainly looked as if he were dead–his skin and hair had obtained a ghostly pallor which rivaled her own. Normally manic, beady eyes stared wide and unfocused, a lifeless sheen glazing their surfaces. He should have been dead, yet here he stood, grasping stubbornly to some mockery of what could only be called life.

As unhinged as the man had been before, now he seemed positively lost to the sways of reason or logic. Any lingering attachments to sound, rational thinking had clearly been forgone, replaced by the base impulses of hunger and a peculiar fury. He hunched like a beast, intermittently jerking in an unnerving manner as malignant, scarlet irises swept erratically across the room. Inevitably, they would fall upon Salem before immediately bouncing elsewhere, as if tracing unseen movements evident to himself alone.

Something settled around the man. Something translucent with a vague, violet sheen coalesced about his form before sinking into the white flesh. He jerked to motion. "G-goddess," he gurgled. It was a wretched, strangled sound carrying only the basest hints of his voice and overlaid with an overbearingly sickening wrongness.

Salem quirked a brow, her mouth set into a tight line. Even death could not rid her of the fanatic.

"Goddess," he repeated, clearer this time, the warbling cadence lessening marginally.

"Yes, yes," she responded impatiently. "I am your goddess. If you're still alive then–"

Any further words were quite literally cut off. The moment she had spoken, his body had seized, his attention snapping solely on her. His form blurred into incomprehensible motion and in the next instant, Salem found herself looking up at him.

That wasn't quite correct.

Confused, she attempted to shift her body, to make distance between herself and the unpleasant, heaving thing in front of her, only to find that she couldn't. Very much against her will, her field of view began to shift, rising until it was at eye-level with the creature's dull, baleful glare.

Confused, Salem shifted her gaze down to find that everything below her neck had vanished. Tyrian held her disembodied head in a single hand and stared with something that resembled a curious amusement.

"You are no goddess." He spoke through inane chuckles, never breaking the intense stare. The shuddering, croaking quality in his words had begun to smooth out. Similarly, his body had ceased its frantic shuddering, as if he were slowly remembering how to properly control it.

Furiously, Salem gnashed her teeth, attempting to violently berate the man, but found that little sound passed her lips. She could no longer speak––her vocal chords had been crudely shorn in the attack.

"You have no right to be upset, Salem." Tyrian sounded her name out with twisted mirth. "It was your own actions that led to this, after all. I am simply bestowing your punishment."

She couldn't speak, but Salem could still convey her rage with her facial features, an action that Tyrian seemed to misinterpret.

A small frown twitched at the corner of his mouth. "You mustn't think that I'm upset with you." He spoke with the patronizing air of a parent educating a child. "In fact, I'm grateful. If you hadn't done what you did I would still be living under an illusion. A lie. You see…" He trailed off, an ecstatic glint flashing in his eyes as he drew her snarling visage closer to his own. His tone dropped to a low, secretive whisper. "I died, Salem." As if in answer to some cosmic jest, his lips curved upward, baring sharpened fangs. "I died, and I met God. And God gave me wonderful, wonderful gifts. So, to you, who led me to God, I am grateful."

A vaguely troubled expression crossed his face. He laid his forehead against hers, eyes shut in a show of forlorn regret.

"I am truly grateful. But…" He trailed off, his eyes fractionally sliding open. He moved her to arm-length, and when he stared at her again, all vestiges of emotion had evaporated. He stared coldly, clinically, at her through half-lidded eyes. "But the pretender must be punished, you see."

His tone began to slowly rise again as a seed of agitation took root.

"You said you were divinity, Salem. You allowed me to call you goddess. You lied." He was no longer addressing her, his words thrown haphazardly about in a frenzy. "The pretender must be punished," he repeated. His gaze had wandered skyward. "It is just retribution. The pretender must be punished, and I will be the instrument to deliver God's punishment."

He drew her head close to face him once more. "Don't worry, Salem," he said solemnly. "I know you'll come back soon enough."


Tyrian strode forth from the castle, a jubilant leer splitting his face.

The grimm were in an uproar, confusedly swarming the desolate lands as their sole source of instruction had been abruptly severed. They milled about aimlessly, agitatedly, but granted the man a wide berth. A pale ship parting the waves of a heaving, black sea.

Tyrian had a vague idea of where he needed to be. First he would need to leave the Land of Darkness. Even as he formulated a plan, something tugged at his senses. It was vaguely alluring, like the rich, copper scent of strife. A feeling, one of a peculiar sort of kinship, demanded his attention. Curiously, he stalked towards the source of the familiar sensation, eventually coming to a spawning pool.

It looked like any other pool that littered the desolate landscape, yet for some reason, this particular one called to him. Kneeling, he submerged a hand into the pitch liquid, shivering in ecstasy as a familiar, comforting energy brushed against his flesh. God was here.

Motion from within the pool caused him to cautiously draw back several paces. Something was struggling to pull itself from the morass. Vague, clawed appendages thrashed at the edge of the pool, and segmented, insectile limbs grasped desperately at dry land. Eventually, a Deathstalker managed to extricate itself from the mire–one with far too many appendages and a glossy, unnaturally smooth shell. Unlike its brethren, who avoided him, the scorpion grimm inched tentatively towards the man, crouching low as it approached.

Tyrian cooed, tracing the vibrant magenta patterns upon its carapace. "Come, little friend, we have a girl to find."


AntialPaka mentioned in the comments that I actually neglected to give the user for my Twitch. I dislike pinging readers for small notes, so I refrained from editing the last chapter (I think editing a chapter pings an update? I'm not actually sure.)

In any case, my Twitch is KKuranes. The streams themselves are boring and pretty late in the night. It's just some nerd writing fanfiction, I'd advise against popping in for those. I keep the VoDs up, so just check in if you ever feel like seeing the current chapter progress. Or just to make sure I'm not dead in a ditch somewhere. Or to see my agonizingly inefficient and distraction-riddled workflow. Spoilers abound, of course.

The first birthday of this fic was back in February. I really wanted to get the chapter out then for that, but life happened. It's wild to me that I've been working on this thing for over a year.

Beacon arc's finally wrapped up. I had a fair bit of difficulty with this chapter. I kept getting stuck and, truth be told, I'm not entirely satisfied with how it turned out. In any case, the important information was hopefully conveyed and it's done now. Next up is the sojourn through Mistral, as well as shenaningans in Atlas. I'm pretty stoked to write that.

Someone mentioned that they liked my Watts and Bronie interactions a lot more than the Beacon crew, and I sort of have to agree. It's just a lot easier to write about characters that actively dislike each other than about people being friends. Who even has those? Not this guy.