Chapter 9: The Black Tower (IV)

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Mistiora slowly opened her eyes, fighting the temptation to keep them closed and allow herself a few more hours of sleep. Her exhausted body begged for rest as she had spent several sleepless nights tending to Olga and Meryval, who had remained unconscious after the ritual. Not only did she have to keep an eye on them - tending to them rigorously and making sure they were still alive with her limited knowledge of medical care - but she also had to keep an eye on the unstable hybrid Olga had taken under her wing, who had not eaten, drunk, or even slept since Olga had fallen unconscious, and who kept a constant vigil in the bedroom where Olga resided. Not a single word had been exchanged between the two of them during those anxious and stressful days; the few times that the Hybrid had deigned to look her in the eye, she had not bothered to hide the genuine and deep contempt that was reflected on her face. It was obvious that she blamed her for what had happened, and that was something Mistiora could not deny, because it had been her idea that had put Olga in the situation she was in; part of her even feared to sleep for the thought that the hybrid would try to slit her throat in her sleep as an act of revenge, but thankfully everything had been limited to simple, silent aggression. Why the hybrid had refrained from attacking was anyone's guess; it could be that she realized it would be a foolish act to kill the only help she had, or perhaps she feared the thought of being left alone. Whatever the reason, an uneasy peace had remained between them, and Mistiora had no idea how much longer it could last.

While Olga had been carried to her quarters by the distraught hybrid, Mistiora had had to carry Meryval to one of the many rooms, choosing the one with the best bed available to tuck him into. She stripped him of his armor and undressed him, tucking him in and keeping a constant watch over him for days and nights. Despite all the journey they had made and the difficulties they had had to overcome, they were back to where they had started: him unconscious and her taking care of him. She found that funny, perhaps the only relatively humorous thing about all that had happened.

Sore from sleeping on a simple wooden chair that had left part of her body numb, Mistiora stretched for a long moment, rubbing her eyes as she yawned.

"Good morning," she said.

She looked at the bed where Meryval had slept the last few days, ready to take care of him again for another day, but to her surprise she found the bed empty. It took a few moments for her tired mind to come to terms with the fact that Meryval was gone, and when it did, she stood up so abruptly that the chair she was sitting in fell to the floor with a thud.

"Wh-where…"

Hundreds of thoughts raced through her mind at the time, searching for some explanation for his disappearance - the primary one being that the hybrid had snapped and taken the unconscious Meryval with her to kill him. Before long, she caught a glimpse of a figure out of the corner of her eye and quickly turned to face it. She expected to find anything from the hybrid ready to attack her to perhaps an Aberrant who had made his way into the palace and towards her, ready to pounce on her. She expected the worst, but when her eyes fell on the figure across the room, she discovered that it was actually Meryval, standing by a table, drinking from the vase of water she had brought. He drank steadily and eagerly, as if he were a man who, after days lost in a hot and cruel desert, had finally found clean water to quench his thirst. This surprised her, for in all their time together he had eaten and drunk reluctantly and infrequently, as if he disliked the act.

"Meryval?"

The words left her lips almost automatically, taking both of them by surprise. Soon he pulled the vase from his lips and fixed those horrible red eyes, so painfully similar to those of an Aberrant, on her, causing her to avoid eye contact by turning her gaze to the side.

"Can you... can you understand what I'm saying?" she asked, still avoiding looking into his eyes. "Can you... talk to me?"

There were a few brief but agonizing seconds of absolute silence after she finished speaking.

"Mistiora," he finally said.

The sound of her name being called had never been so disappointing, nor had it ever been so painful. She blamed herself for daring to have any hope, so instead of getting frustrated, she just sighed deeply.

"I understand. As long as you're okay, that's enough. We need to see how Sister Olga—"

"That's your name, isn't it? Mistiora," he continued to speak. "Because if it isn't, I think I've been making a fool of myself these past few weeks."

That took her by surprise, so much so that she even looked up to see his face, even making the effort to look into his terrible red eyes. He had just spoken; his deep, gravelly, raspy voice had uttered words she understood. A flood of emotions washed over her in such a way that she didn't know how to react or what to say, finding herself at a loss for words for the first time in centuries.

Finally, she decided to let out a small, soft laugh, perhaps the first real laugh she had had since her exile.

"Yes, my name is Mistiora," she replied. "What about you, is your name Meryval?"

"No, that's actually a hideous slur in my language."

Mistiora was mortified when she heard that.

"It is?"

"No, I was just kidding. Yes, my name is Meryval."

"That... that was an awful thing to joke about."

"I know."

Mistiora couldn't help but put a hand to her mouth to cover it as she giggled at that. The light chuckle seemed to catch on with Meryval, who began to laugh softly as well, eventually reaching the point where they were both laughing in unison.

For the first time in a long time, the halls of the Black Citadel were filled with laughter.

Olga walked the vast corridors of the palace with a poise and calmness that was almost miraculous for one who had spent days unconscious. That morning, she had unexpectedly gotten out of bed as if it were just another lazy morning, even though she had spent several days in a deep sleep, barely showing a trace of fatigue as she dressed and left the room, all under the stunned gaze of her ward, who continued to insist almost desperately that she rest, though her pleas fell on deaf ears.

"Lady Olga, I beg you, please go back to bed," Chloe said.

"I feel fine, Chloe. No need to worry."

"Of course I care!" exclaimed Chloe as she stepped in front of her. "You spent several days unconscious. No matter what I did, you wouldn't wake up, I even went so far as to think you would stay that way forever."

Chloe's voice cracked as she spoke. For Olga it had been nothing more than a deep but fleeting sleep, but for Chloe it had undoubtedly been the most stressful period of her life. The dark circles under her eyes and the pitiful state of her personal hygiene indicated that the young woman had spent every waking minute taking care of her, sacrificing her own well-being to make sure she woke up again.

"If something had happened to you, then I... then I..."

Chloe did not get to finish what she was saying as Olga immediately pulled her head to her own chest and held her in a loving embrace. She ran her fingers through the young woman's blonde hair, and tenderly rested her chin on her head.

"It's all right, child," she whispered to her. "I know you care for me and I appreciate it, but how do you expect me to feel seeing you so emaciated because of me?"

Chloe did not respond, preferring to remain silent as she was hugged. Perhaps tiredness prevented her from arguing, or it could be that she preferred to enjoy the warm gesture of affection as much as possible.

"I appreciate your loyalty, but you must remember what I have taught you. You are your own person, and you owe absolute obedience to no one, not even me," she continued. "The freedom you now possess is a gift, a blessing, and you must use it for your own good, not to harm yourself at the expense of others."

Olga felt small warm droplets fall onto her chest, and it didn't take her long to deduce that they were Chloe's tears.

"Remember, child. You are free."

He could now breathe normally, or at least he could do so without feeling as if his lungs were being incinerated with every breath he took. The air he breathed now resembled the gentle caresses of Kynareth instead of the invisible flames he had been forced to inhale since his arrival in those lands - even more incredibly, he could now quench his thirst with water instead of being disgusted by what seemed like an unholy combination of sulfur and foul milk. Even his body, though still sore and with a general malaise that refused to go away, felt better; it was not quite back to normal, as he could still feel the unholy outside energy trying to enter him and replace his magicka, but it was far better than the moribund state he had been in for the past few weeks.

Even though he was sitting in front of an enormous dark table, surrounded by all sorts of bizarre and esoteric artifacts and structures that would probably be paradise to a scholar of the arcane, his attention was focused solely on his hands, watching them with almost obsessive attention. His hands trembled slightly, almost imperceptibly, but he could see it. It was not from cold or sickness, but from a constant reaction within his being, as if a constant confrontation was taking place within him and the repercussions were making his body tremble. Why this was happening was a mystery to him, for all he could remember was the painful experience of being kissed by that woman who looked like Mistiora, only to fall unconscious and wake up days later with a terrible thirst.

His tongue ached as if it were healing after being horribly burned, but when he looked in the mirror he could see that it was completely normal, which only added to his confusion. No matter how much water he drank, the burning sensation remained on his tongue, and he even began to think that it might be a permanent thing.

"Sorry to keep you waiting."

The voice brought him out of his obsessive attention to his hands, and he soon saw that a plate of food had been served in front of him. He looked up to see Mistiora smiling as she sat down beside him with a plate of her own. In front of him there was now a deep ceramic bowl filled with a stew, one that from the smell appeared to contain fish. This was not strange, for in the short time he had known Mistiora, he had quickly learned that she favored the use of fish in her recipes, perhaps because she lived on the coast and far from civilization.

"I did what I could with the ingredients that were available for something simple and quick," Mistiora said. "Go on, eat, it will help you.

The stew smelled wonderful, like everything Mistiora had cooked before, and it easily whetted his appetite; however, he hesitated to eat, for while the water and air were no longer poisonous to him, he could not be sure that the food would be the same. Deciding to take the risk, he grabbed the spoon and shoveled a portion into his mouth, already prepared for the worst.

"It tastes... exquisite," Meryval said in amazement.

It was the first decent meal he had had in a long time, so Meryval took spoonful after spoonful of stew, all under the satisfied gaze of a smiling Mistiora.

"I'm glad."

The two continued to eat in silence, Meryval concentrating on the stew as if his life depended on it. Soon, however, he stopped, left the spoon on the plate, and turned to look at Mistiora.

"There's something I've wanted to ask you since the first moment I saw you," Meryval said.

"Clean yourself first," Mistiora replied.

Mistiora held out a handkerchief and offered it to him, all while still avoiding to meet his eyes. He looked at her in confusion for a few seconds, but it was not long before he realized that part of his beard had been stained by his almost frantic eating, so he accepted the handkerchief and began wiping off the remains of the stew.

"Tell me, Mistiora, what exactly are you?" he asked as he finished cleaning himself.

"What do you mean?" Mistiora asked back.

"What race do you belong to? That's what I'd like to know."

Mistiora's expression was one of bewilderment, as if the very fact that someone would ask such a question was ridiculous.

"I... well, my people are known to humans as 'Dark Elves', if that's what you mean."

That answer stunned him, as if a Daedric mace had hit him in the head.

"Dark Elves? Are you a Mer?" he asked, baffled.

"A 'Mer'? What's that?"

Meryval could not believe what he heard. He knew that the land he was in was not in Nirn, but to find someone of a race that called themselves Elves, specifically Dark Elves, was puzzling to him. How was it possible that someone who was not descended from the Ehlnofey could call themselves an Elf? Not only that, but no matter how hard he looked at her, the features of her face seemed more like those of the races of Men than those of the Mer: the color of her skin, the details of her face and body, nothing resembled the Mer. Her long, pointed ears were the only thing that lent some credence to her claim, but barely - if long ears were proof enough, then even goblins would have the right to call themselves Mer.

"While we are asking these personal questions, may I ask what you are? And by that, of course, I mean your 'race.'"

"I am a... Dunmer."

Mistiora made no effort to hide her curiosity as she said, "A 'Dunmer'? And what is that?"

Meryval paused for a moment before answering, trying to find the simplest way to explain.

"My guess is you have no idea what Tamriel is, do you?"

Mistiora shook her head, confirming what he suspected. Trying to explain the Dunmer to someone unfamiliar with Morrowind, Tamriel, and even Nirn itself would undoubtedly be a complicated task, but he had to at least try.

"Well…"

"I see you two are very chatty. I must assume that the ritual was effective, wasn't it?" a female voice interrupted.

They both turned in unison as soon as they heard the voice and turned their attention to one of the dining room doors where two women were entering, with one of them being the blonde woman he had the displeasure of meeting before. The wound she had inflicted on his hand had healed and there was no trace of pain, but the bitter memory remained, so he didn't even bother to feign politeness when he saw her, which she returned by giving him a venomous glare. The woman who accompanied the blonde was one he also remembered with some unhappiness, for she had been the one who had caused him indescribable, unbearable, horrible pain with that violent kiss, so much so that just looking at her made him relive the burning of his tongue for a brief second. With her, he had experienced the worst kiss of his life, one that made his experience with Crassius Curio years before seem like a romance novel scenario by comparison.

"Sister Olga, I was just going to check on you as soon as I finished eating," Mistiora said as she quickly rose from her chair, a relieved and happy expression on her face. "Did you just wake up? How are you feeling?"

The woman stood before Mistiora, and for a few brief moments, the stoic expression on her face was replaced by a warm, loving smile as she placed her hand on Mistiora's shoulder.

"I feel wonderful, Sister Mistiora," she replied. "From what Chloe told me, I spent a long time unconscious, but for me it was only a fleeting, restful sleep, not unlike the naps I take after meditations. However, I thank you for your concern and rest assured that your mere presence was more than enough for my recovery."

Mistiora seemed to react to this, though Meryval could not see her as she turned her back to him, though the way she looked down before embracing the woman told him that she must have been deeply moved. The two embraced for a considerable time, as if for the first time in a long, long time since they had last been able to do so. Eventually, Mistiora pulled away, bringing a hand to her own face.

"Y-you must be starving," she murmured, her voice noticeably on the verge of cracking. "I made some fish stew, let me get some for you and your companion."

Mistiora quickly retreated, leaving the room and heading to where the kitchen was likely to be, leaving Meryval alone with the two women. As soon as Mistiora left, the expression on the woman's face changed quickly - her loving smile disappearing as she fixed her cold yellow eyes on Meryval.

"And now, as for you..."

She walked up to stand behind his seat, forcing him to turn around so he could see her. She was a tall woman, with long dark hair that fell almost to her ankles, giving her a relatively imposing appearance. Yet all this presence was belied by the clothes - or rather, the excuse of clothes - she wore, for apart from a simple piece of cloth covering her lower private parts and a small corset that barely covered her breasts, she had almost all of her skin exposed, presenting herself as if she were an unashamedly radical cultist of Dibella. However, after so many encounters with naked Nords, Meryval had become desensitized to the nakedness of others, so this indecency on her part caused him little to no reaction.

"So many questions to demand answers from you, but I think I'll start with the simplest," she said, bringing a hand to her waist and lowering her gaze to him with a mixture of disdain and curiosity. "Who or what are you, you abhorrent, dreadful being?"

"Meryval, my name is Meryval," he simply replied to the insult directed at him. "Now that I have answered, will you return the courtesy by telling me your name, you impudent being?"

"Impudent, you say?" she retorted, showing slight surprise at the audacity. "I would advise you to be more careful with your words, for you are speaking to Olga, last in the line of Origa, daughter-sister of High Sister Olya, sacred golden daughter of House Discordia, cousin-sister of House Arte and House Campbell, bearer of the ancestral traditions of the Three, Holy Bride of the Father-God, and mother-keeper of the Temple of Purification."

Meryval blinked twice as he listened to the lengthy presentation, already getting an idea of the type of person he was dealing with, one he was unfortunately already very used to.

"I see," he said at last. "Then it's nice to meet you, Olga."

Olga gave him such a glance that it almost seemed as if she wanted to stab him with it.

"You dare to refer to me in such a casual manner?"

"Since you called me an abhorrent, dreadful being, I think I'm being even nicer than I should be," he said, shrugging. "Besides, it's a lot easier."

At that, the blonde woman behind Olga, who had been silent since she had entered the room, stepped forward and spoke.

"Lady Olga, I know you asked me to hold back my anger out of respect for you and those you consider guests, but I don't think I can stand here any longer listening to this scum disrespect you and do nothing about it," the blonde said in a tone that indicated her frustration. "Please, my lady, allow me to correct this animal's attitude."

"Stand back, Chloe," Olga said promptly. "We've already discussed this, and I've already made my opinion of your methods very clear. As monstrous as this ... Meryval is, he is a companion and guest of Sister Mistiora, so as long as he is under our roof, no harm will come to him at our hands."

"But he kicked me in the stomach!" Chloe protested.

"You stabbed my hand," Meryval interjected. "I'd say we're even."

Saying this earned him stares from both of them; Chloe gave him an enraged look, while Olga gave him an icy stare.

"So you admit to attacking my ward?"

"In self-defense."

Once that was said, there were a few brief but uncomfortable seconds of silence. No one said anything, with Meryval and Olga locked in that constant stare, as if it were a silent mutual challenge between the two. Finally, the silence was broken by a loud sigh from Olga, who sat down next to Meryval.

"On the one hand, I should thank you for escorting Sister Mistiora all the way here, but on the other hand, you harmed my ward. Despite the favor you did my Sister, the fact that you hurt someone under my care demands an apology."

Meryval did not answer right away, much to Olga's irritation, as he decided to take another spoonful of his stew before answering.

"Then I suppose I should also apologize for killing your subordinates," Meryval said calmly. "I did my best not to kill the blonde at Mistiora's request, but I had no choice with the others, as they kept attacking me and I had no way to hold them all at once without violence."

Olga narrowed her eyes. "Subordinates? What are you talking about?"

"Weren't those men I found on the lower levels also your subordinates? They attacked me as soon as they saw me, just like her," Meryval said, pointing at the blonde behind them.

Olga remained puzzled by the answer, though she soon seemed to make a connection in her mind.

"It seems I've already found the answer to my doubt about how the invaders were repelled," she said. "No need to apologize for the deaths of those insects. They were invaders who wanted to harm me and my ward, so you did us a favor by driving them away."

This was a surprise to him - had those men been invaders? He was relieved to know that he would not have to deal with the consequences of killing what he thought were palace guards, but on the other hand, he was curious as to why those men had tried to attack the palace. Had he inadvertently waded into a political conflict?

"Then as far as I can see, I've helped you more than I've offended you, so there's no need for me to apologize," he said as he took another spoonful of stew.

"And you're not going to apologize for being responsible for my condition these past few days?" asked Olga. "Sharing my blood with you left me in a terrible state, from which I needed whole days and nights to recover, all so that you could speak so impetuously. If I were you, I would act with more gratitude."

"I assume you mean the terrible kiss you gave me where you filled my mouth with blood and made me suffer, don't you?"

"A 'kiss'?" Olga said, trying her best to hide her contempt. "The Ritual of Communion is one that goes back thousands of years. It is the method by which intimate and vital knowledge is shared, the way by which ancestral techniques and secrets that would have been lost to the annals of history are preserved, the greatest gift my people can offer other species, and you dare to disrespect it by calling it a mere kiss?"

"Why, yes," Meryval replied with an insulting simplicity. "And the worst I've ever had in my life, I might add."

"That's it!" exclaimed Chloe as she grabbed Meryval's shoulder aggressively. "If you think you can insult Lady Olga and still keep your filthy tongue, then-"

"Sorry for the delay, I brought enough for everyone!" a female voice interrupted.

Mistiora rushed into the room carrying several plates filled to the brim with stew; how she managed to move so quickly without spilling a drop was a mystery.

"Is everything all right?" she asked as she placed the dishes on the table, apparently sensing the tension in the air. "Because if it's not, I ask that any conflict you have or are about to have wait until after dinner."

The words seemed to be addressed directly to the blonde who was still clutching Meryval's shoulder. She seemed about to raise her voice, but before she could utter a word, she was quickly silenced by Olga's calm but withering stare, non-verbally ordering her to sit - which she promptly did.

"Stew? I had no idea you cooked, Sister Mistiora," Olga commented as she grabbed a spoon. "I must say, it smells... wonderful."

"I had to learn quite a bit during my exile," Mistiora explained as he sat down next to Olga. "I've... lived in many places, so I've learned quite a bit about the culinary arts."

Olga raised the spoonful of stew to her lips and took a soft, almost elegant sip. The cold expression on her face melted as soon as she tasted it, and the closest thing to a smile played on her lips.

"This tastes... wonderful," Olga mused in amazement.

Mistiora smiled. "I am relieved to hear that you like it, Sister Olga. I was a little late because I had to bring food to the prisoner, so I was afraid the stew would be cold by the time I got it to you, and I don't think there's anything worse than cold stew."

"Prisoner?" asked Meryval. "Is there a prisoner?"

"Yes, a human who failed to escape with the others and was interrogated by Sister Olga," Mistiora replied. "He's in the dungeons now. The hy-... Chloe, insisted we keep him locked up rather than let him go, so I've been feeding him to keep him from starving while we decide what to do with him."

To the surprise of everyone present, Meryval suddenly rose from his seat.

"Tell me where the dungeons are," he demanded. "I want to see him."

How many days had passed? It was difficult to tell. Locked in that cold cell, with no window to help him distinguish day from night, and the few hours of sleep had made it impossible for Roderick to determine the passage of time. He didn't even remember how he had gotten there, for the last thing he remembered was the Dark Queen casting a spell in his direction; when he awoke, he found himself in that cell, all alone. The only thing that kept him sane was that beautiful, white-haired Dark Elf who came from time to time to bring him food - food that, frankly, tasted much better than what he could expect as a prisoner. If that woman were not a Dark Elf, he could easily mistake her for a saint sent by the Mother Goddess to help him in his time of need.

The first hours - or perhaps days, it was hard to tell with his completely altered perception of time - of his captivity had been spent crying, praying, and in a constant state of fear, for he was now a prisoner of the Dark Queen, completely at her mercy. The countless stories from his childhood about the cruelty of the Witch Queen of Garan only fueled his fear: the Dark Queen's taste for human intestines for breakfast, how her thirst could only be quenched with the fresh blood of freshly slaughtered victims, and other stories his mother told him could happen to him if he didn't listen and went to bed early. What had once terrified him as a child was now a reality he would have to face as an adult, for there was a strong possibility that he could suffer any of these fates, and there was nothing he could do to prevent it.

Roderick had reached such a level of despair that he no longer had the energy to be stressed or depressed; he had basically resigned himself.

"I'm still hungry," he complained aloud.

He didn't really know why he bothered to speak out loud when he was alone in the cell; maybe he was slowly losing his mind and talking alone was just a sign of it. Perhaps it could be that a small part of him was fantasizing that the beautiful white-haired Dark Elf would hear his complaint and come back to take care of him. His heart still belonged to Nicole, but in those moments of despair the least he could allow himself was a simple fantasy where he was graced by the attentions of a beautiful woman - a fantasy that any man in his situation would have in order to escape the cruel reality.

With his eyes fixed on the dark rock ceiling and his back pressed against the cold wall of his cell, Roderick lost himself in a little fantasy world where all his desires were reality. In his ideal world, he owned a vast palace worthy of a king of legend, where he sat on an imposing throne with all manner of voluptuous women at his side: Nicole, who had become his wife and queen, sat on his lap and lovingly kissed his face; the white-haired Dark Elf sat to the right of his throne with a plate full of grapes, which she fed to him one by one in an attentive and sensual manner; The Dark Queen herself - who, despite the legends that described her hideous appearance as a reflection of her wickedness, was actually a beauty - sat at the foot of the throne, clasping his legs in a submissive embrace; a host of maids stood around the vast throne room, ready to obey her every command - even some of the Shields themselves were among the maids.

A silly smile tugged at Roderick's lips, and he couldn't help but blush at the obscene acts taking place in his mind. This world he imagined was the one Hicks had promised him when he joined the Black Dogs: a world where every man could live as a king. The glory of defeating the Dark Queen and bringing peace to a land plagued by centuries of war would have been enough for even farmers-turned-soldiers like him to live out the rest of their lives as nobles, not to mention the possibility that the Goddess Reborn herself could decide to reward their bravery with the hand of any of her desired maidens - in his case, Nicole's.

He had been so lost in his own depraved little fantasy world that he hadn't even noticed that someone had entered the dungeons; it was the creaking of the old iron door of his cell that brought him back to reality. For a few moments, Roderick was thrilled at the idea that the white-haired Dark Elf had returned, that perhaps his fantasy world would come true after all, but all that illusion was shattered when he realized what had entered his cell: a terrifying Aberrant with gray skin and glowing red eyes.

"Good morning," the Aberrant said in a terrifying, deep voice.

Roderick stood transfixed at the sight of him, every muscle in his body frozen in fear.

"Do you hear me?" the Aberrant asked as it took another step toward him.

"Don't eat me," Roderick pleaded, his voice shaking.

"Easy, you're too thin for my taste."

The Aberrant came close enough to corner him, even bending down to look him straight in the face, staring at him as if analyzing every facet of his face. Sweat soon broke out on Roderick's face as he struggled to keep from fainting.

"Tell me, what is your race?" the Aberrant asked.

Roderick could barely stammer out, "Wh-what?"

The Aberrant sighed in exasperation. "I suppose I should be more specific. Tell me, do you belong to the races of Man?"

"I...I-I am a man..."

"Very well, we're on our way. Where do you hail from?"

Roderick gulped. "M-my village is near Ur." Roderick paused for a moment, then added, "Please don't invade it."

"So you're a... Urrian?"

"A... what?"

An annoyed expression appeared on the Aberrant's face, which could only mean one of two things: the Aberrant hadn't gotten the answer he wanted, or Roderick had somehow annoyed him. For his own safety, Roderick hoped it was only the former.

"Never mind," the Aberrant said. "I realize I questioned you without introducing myself. Please forgive my lack of civility. I'm called Meryval, what do you call yourself?"

"Ro-Roderick," he stammered.

"Nice to meet you, Ro-Roderick."

"N-no, no. My name is Roderick."

"Roderick? Such a Breton name," Meryval mused. "Well, it's nice to meet you, Roderick."

That situation was so bizarre that Roderick began to suspect that perhaps he was still in his fantasy world, for the very idea that an Aberrant, beings who lived to wreak havoc and suffering for pure sadistic pleasure, would not only talk to him but also be friendly was beyond belief.

"Tell me, Roderick, what is the reason you and yours decided to invade this place?" asked Meryval. "Do you have a conflict with the owner of this citadel?"

That bold question made him realize that all the supposed kindness had been nothing but a sham. The Aberrant was taunting him - asking him in such a blatantly cynical manner why they had attacked the Black Citadel could only be a cruel joke at his expense.

"Conflict?" said Roderick, so offended that for a moment he forgot the fear he felt. "Of course there is conflict, we wanted to attack the damned Dark Queen you serve to end the centuries of war she has subjected our peoples to!"

Roderick had unknowingly raised his voice and acted with a bravery that even he did not think he was capable of in the face of an Aberrant in a situation where he had everything to lose; in those moments, he felt like the brave hero he had always dreamed of being. But when he saw that the Aberrant's indifferent expression had not changed in the slightest, he regretted his brief moment of courage; he now feared that he had done nothing more than annoy the Aberrant and give it a reason to get rid of him.

The Aberrant moved again, causing Roderick to instinctively cover his face to protect himself from what he assumed was an inevitable attack. The farmer-turned-soldier remained there, eyes tightly shut, ready to possibly see his late grandfather again, but nothing happened. Reluctantly, he slowly opened his eyes and was surprised to see the Aberrant sitting cross-legged in front of him.

"I neither know nor serve a 'Dark Queen,'" Meryval said calmly. "But now you have my attention, young Roderick. Please, tell me more."

"I appreciate your intentions, Sister Mistiora, but it is simply not possible," Olga said.

"But we have no choice, Sister Olga. Reinforcements are not coming, and if we stay here any longer, you will only be in danger," Mistiora argued.

"The current state of my body only ensures that we will be easy prey on the journey. The only hope was for the High Sisters to authorize a rescue mission, but they refused, so traveling home alone would be impossible."

"Meryval and I managed to travel from Nidavellir to here on our own, and we did so while being pursued after escaping the imprisonment of the High Sisters, as well as crossing lands filled with Aberrants. It is possible, Sister Olga, believe me."

This discussion was becoming a headache - both figuratively and literally - for having to argue while she was forced to sit on the throne and undergo that strenuous meditation was exhausting. For centuries she had stood on that throne, her magical energy absorbed and recharged in equal parts by the Temple and the earth itself, but at those crucial points in the ritual her magical energy had been almost completely depleted, to the point where it was almost a miracle that she could stand on her own. Just walking from the throne room to her chambers was exhausting, so the idea of walking all the way back to her homeland was just laughable.

It was fortunate that Chloe had stayed behind in the dining room to enjoy another plate of stew, not only because she had neglected her diet over the past few days in order to monitor her recovery, but also so that Olga would not have to deal with the inevitable verbal confrontation between the young woman and Mistiora.

"I want to believe you, Sister Mistiora, but I really don't see how—"

The sudden opening of the huge doors of the throne room interrupted her, causing her to turn her attention from Mistiora to the entrance. There she could see the creature called Meryval, his already repulsive face wearing an expression of cold rage. He took one step into the room; Olga closed her eyes to blink, and as soon as she opened them, she saw him standing before her with a sword in his hand, pointing straight at her neck.

"Meryval?!" Mistiora cried out.

Olga's face showed no reaction to this attempt on her life; she simply fixed that cold, indifferent gaze on her attacker with the same importance she would give to an insect.

"Is this how you repay me for the sacred hospitality I have shown you?" she asked.

"I want no hospitality from scum like you, Dark Queen," he replied dismissively.

Olga raised an eyebrow at this. "'Dark Queen', you say? Only the insects of the South call me that."

"Insects? Is that what you call the innocents whose lives your Legion has ruined?"

The tip of the blade continued to dip into her neck, drawing a small drop of blood. Despite this, Olga's face betrayed no emotion.

"Meryval, what are you doing?!"

Mistiora ran to where he was, quickly wrapped her arms around the arm holding the sword and tried to move it, but to no avail.

"I don't know what's gotten into you, but you will stop right now!" she shouted. "She's my Sister, so if you want to hurt her, you have to go through me first!"

"I am indebted to you for taking care of me, Mistiora, but my gratitude to you cannot be an excuse for me to overlook the crimes of this wretched woman," Meryval said. "The prisoner told me all about what she has done over the centuries. All the families ruined, the lands destroyed, and the countless women raped at her command. I would not have believed him had I not seen with my own eyes the women enslaved by the beasts camped outside this citadel - her citadel. I could not understand how those beasts could commit such acts with such impunity, but now I know it is because they do it with her permission."

Mistiora showed a pained expression, as if the memory of what they had witnessed outside the citadel was testing her emotional strength.

"Meryval, it's... it's not what you think," Mistiora tried to explain. "Sister Olga, she..."

Meryval turned his head to look directly at her. "I want to believe that you are unaware of the crimes this woman has committed, but if you are not only aware of them, but are even willing to excuse them because she is your sister, then..."

"Have you finished your irritating chatter?" interrupted Olga. "Because I would like to be able to defend myself against these accusations about my person that you so blatantly hurl."

"Accusations? Are you going to try to convince me of your innocence?" he asked as he turned his gaze back to her.

"It matters little to me whether you think I am 'innocent' or not. The opinions of insects like you are irrelevant to me," Olga replied indifferently. "I will only defend my honor and that of my House against the accusation that I am somehow the queen of the Aberrants who have camped at my ease."

"She's not a queen, Meryval, it's all a misunderstanding!" Mistiora said quickly, still trying in vain to move his arm to pull the sword away. "Sister Olga has nothing to do with the Aberrants, I swear!"

"What in Oblivion is an Aberrant?" Meryval asked, exasperated.

"They are grotesque, sickly, twisted creatures that crawl out of the most disgusting depths imaginable. Not unlike you, when you think about it," Olga said in a dry but slightly mocking tone. "They are born with an innate hatred of the world around them, so they spend every second of their wretched lives inflicting suffering on as many as possible."

"They... live only to ruin everything and everyone," Mistiora mused painfully.

Olga looked away from Mistiora for a moment, noticing that the expression on her face had darkened. Her beautiful violet eyes seemed to have lost all light, no doubt the result of being forced to relive a painful memory - a memory Olga knew all too well.

At such moments, Olga wanted nothing more than to rise and comfort her Sister, but first she had to get rid of the savage who dared to threaten her with a sword at her neck.

"The Aberrants you saw outside the citadel do not serve me," Olga continued. "They are merely parasites who enjoy feeding at the expense of my power. If that is enough for me to be considered their queen, then you could easily consider any peasant the king of mice and cockroaches."

"What power are you talking about? How do they 'feed' on you like parasites?" he continued to question her.

Olga sighed, already annoyed at having to explain herself to someone who didn't deserve it.

"I am not your slave to be forced to answer all your questions. If you wish to converse in a civilized manner, then put down your weapon," she ordered. "But of course, if you are incapable of demonstrating even the slightest shred of civility, then go ahead and continue threatening an unarmed person in her own home."

Meryval ignored the provocation, staring her straight in the eyes, his fiery red eyes stabbing her like daggers. She responded in kind, glaring at him defiantly; she was a Discordia, and she would never allow scum to provoke a response from her, not even in the face of danger.

"Just tell me this," he said, breaking the silence. "Those countless women enslaved by those you call Aberrants, forced from their homes, from their families, turned into little less than cattle, their cries echoing constantly outside your citadel - have you no compassion for them? Have you not even thought of intervening and saving at least one of them?"

"Why should I?" Olga retorted. "What insects do to other insects is none of my concern."

Her answer seemed to surprise Meryval, whose eyes widened in shock and contempt.

"You disgust me," he said.

"The feeling is mutual," she replied.

For a brief second, it looked like he was going to make the move to plunge the sword into her neck, but instead he pulled the weapon back.

"Over the years, I have learned to know when someone is lying to me and when they are telling me the truth. Your words, despicable as they are, seem honest." He turned and began to walk away from the throne. "However, I do not have enough information to make a final decision regarding you. Therefore, I will not reap your life until I determine that you deserve it."

"Am I supposed to be intimidated by your excuse of a threat?"

Meryval didn't even deign to give her an answer; he just ignored her and kept walking, which was far more insulting to her than any verbal attack he could have directed at her.

"Meryval, stop." Mistiora stepped before him, bringing him to a halt. "We came here to save Sister Olga, so you can't just threaten her like that."

"You came to rescue her, I just accompanied you to make sure you were okay. I had no idea where we were going or what your objective was, all I cared about was making sure I kept you safe to pay off the debt I owe you," he corrected her. "I never promised to save a woman I didn't know, much less now that I know what kind of person she is."

"Please, you don't understand. It's a complicated thing to explain, but-"

The abrupt and violent opening of the throne room doors interrupted Mistiora, who, like the others, turned her attention to Chloe, who had entered breathlessly.

"Lady Olga!" Chloe exclaimed between gasps. "We're under attack again!"

It had all happened too fast, so fast that it was hard to believe that what was happening was not some horrible, twisted dream. The infernal fire, the desperate screams, the growling and laughing of the Aberrants, all combined to create a terrifying combination that seemed straight out of hell.

Charles had barely had time to flee his home with his daughter when the attack began, for it had come at a moment's notice. Until a few minutes ago, he had been tending his field with his daughter, Rosa; the harvest had finally arrived and the whole town would be celebrating with a feast, one in which he would show off his huge pumpkins, his greatest pride second only to his daughter. The peace and quiet to which he had become so accustomed was cruelly interrupted by the screams of his neighbors.

"Don't look, Rosa, don't look!" cried Charles, as he ran with all the strength of his being, holding his daughter's hand. "For the love of Laurentia, don't look!"

The entire city was in flames, blood running freely through the streets, and the screams of countless women echoing almost in unison. Charles had to endure seeing several of his neighbors and friends, people he had known since early childhood, lying dead on the ground as he wandered the ruined streets of what had once been the town where he grew up, panicking and searching for a way to escape for himself and his family.

"I know an old grotto I used to play in as a child, we can go that way and seek-"

Charles felt a sudden stabbing pain in his shoulder, one that forced him violently to the ground. An arrow had struck him, one that now lay painfully buried in his flesh.

"Father!" Rosa cried.

Rosa tried to help him up from the ground, although the size difference between the two made it almost impossible.

"Rosa, run away, go without me," he begged.

"Never!" Rosa said tearfully.

His daughter used all her strength to lift him up, and surprisingly, he managed to get to his feet. For a moment it seemed that a miracle had happened, that the Mother Goddess herself had interceded and blessed Rosa with the strength to help him, but that hope vanished when Charles felt a powerful blow to his stomach.

Charles fell to his knees on the ground, sore and short of breath. He struggled to look up and saw a man in leather armor staring at him with a cruel smile. He hurried to look around and realized that he was surrounded by armed men, and worse, two of them had captured his daughter. Seeing this, the horror left Charles' body and was replaced by anger.

"Don't you dare touch my daughter, you-"

Charles took another punch to the stomach, this time sending him face first to the ground. The gunmen laughed in unison at the sight of him there, so pathetic and helpless - almost as if humiliating him was their primary goal.

"Hey, hey, don't let him miss the show," one of the men said.

Several hands forced him back to his knees, and worse, he watched as his daughter was forcibly stripped naked, her clothes torn to shreds as she tried in vain to free herself. Charles tried to look away, but they prevented him - they wanted him to see it all.

"Hey, boss, this one's not bad," one of the men said with a chuckle. "She's no Elf, but she looks damn fine."

That got his attention.

"Elf? I... I know where there are Elves!"

"Shut your fuckin' mouth, old man," one of them retorted, ready to hit him again.

One of the armed men stepped in before that man could hit him, intercepting the blow with his hand before it reached him. Not only that, but with a gesture he ordered the men who were stripping his daughter to stop immediately. He commanded such a presence that he could be none other than their leader.

"Repeat what you said," he ordered.

"I know where there are Elves," Charles repeated. "I know of two in particular. They work in an inn in a town where I often go to sell my pumpkins, they are among my most important customers. I can tell you where to find them if in exchange... you leave my daughter alone."

"Morgan, are you really going to listen to this old man's ramblings?" one of the men asked as he stepped forward. "I know you have this obsession with Elves and whatnot, but I don't think even you are naive enough to-"

That man was unable to finish his mocking comment as he was soon punched in the face by Morgan with such force that he immediately fell unconscious to the ground. This caused the others to fall in line, unwilling to say anything out of place that would make them the new target.

"Two Elves, you say?" said Morgan curiously.

"Y-yes, two," Charles replied, trying to remain calm. "Their names are Grace and Anna, you can have them in exchange for not hurting my daughter."

"Father, no!" Rosa pleaded.

Morgan seemed to consider the offer for a few moments, moments that became unbearable for Charles.

"Give me all the details about these Elves and I swear on my honor that neither I nor my men will harm your daughter," he finally said.

Charles did not hesitate for a second to obey, so much so that he even began to speak without realizing it. He told them everything he knew: the name of the town, the name of the inn, the quickest way to get there, everything that came to mind. It hurt his soul to have to betray such kind women, but his family came first, and if sacrificing them could get his daughter out unharmed, then so be it.

"Is that all?" Morgan asked.

"Y-yes, that's all I know, I swear."

"Well then, very well. You've done your part, so I'll do mine," Morgan said as he turned to face his men. "Release the girl."

The armed men obeyed their boss's order without complaint and released Rosa, who quickly ran to hug him in tears. It was clear from their expressions that they disagreed with the deal that had been struck, but none of them seemed to have the courage to disobey their superior's orders.

"All right, let's go," Morgan said.

"But boss, are we just going to leave? Won't Vult notice our absence?"

"Do you think he'll notice that a few of us are missing when he turns this dump into his new base? We leave and return without him noticing. Besides, he promised us our turn with the Dark Queen, and he failed to keep his promise. We're just going to get what we deserve."

Morgan and his men began to leave, leaving Charles and Rosa behind; except for the fact that Rosa had been violently stripped, they had managed to get out of this terrible situation unharmed. For a moment he feared that the men would not hold up their end of the bargain, but it seemed that the Goddess herself had intervened to ensure that all would be well.

"It's over, it's over," Charles comforted his daughter, who was crying desperately into his chest. "We can't stay here, we have to leave quickly and find the grotto to-"

Charles froze as he realized that a huge green figure was standing in front of him. His instincts told him to get up as quickly as possible and flee with his daughter, but his aching body was unable to react in time, so he couldn't do much as the massive Orc grabbed him and Rosa, lifting them off the ground; Rosa was grabbed around the waist, and he was grabbed around the neck with such force that he was in a chokehold.

"Y-you!" Charles cried weakly. "Y-you promised my daughter would be safe!"

Morgan stopped and turned his head slightly to see him, a malicious grin on his lips.

"I promised you that none of my men would do anything - that big guy? He's not one of mine. He's your problem."

With that, Morgan and his men walked away cackling, leaving the two of them at the mercy of the Orc, who began to squeeze Charles' neck even tighter. Slowly everything went dark for him, and although he tried to raise his arm to at least reach his daughter, he did not have the strength to do so.

His entire life flashed before his eyes, from his tender childhood, through his rebellious adolescence, early adulthood, to his final years. He relived for the last time the afternoons he spent fishing in the river with his grandfather, the mischief he got into as a child in the company of his friends, the happiness he felt when he married the love of his life, and the satisfaction he felt when he held his newborn daughter in his arms. All this life, with its ups and downs and with so much more to come, was about to end unfairly and cruelly.

The last thing he heard before succumbing to eternal darkness were the desperate cries of his daughter and the sadistic laughter of the Aberrant.

Years of dealing with the strange - and hostile - wildlife of Vvardenfell had made it difficult for Meryval to be impressed, which was evident in his blank stare at the foul and strange horde that had manifested outside the citadel. They were quadruped creatures that seemed to be the result of the blasphemous union of lizard and insect, with huge, bulky, scaly bodies lifted into flight by equally gigantic insectoid wings. Their heads were somewhere between a snake and a spider, with huge jaws that savagely and madly devoured everything in their path - particularly the so-called Aberrants, who were slaughtered to the last one.

The numerous camps around the citadel had already been reduced by the invasion a few days ago, but now they had been completely wiped out by the attack of these strange beasts. From the high balcony where he now stood, Meryval could see countless corpses decorating the deserted panorama, all of them mutilated, half-devoured, and some even dissolving as if they had been bathed in acid. These beasts had laid waste to everything in their path, from the monstrous Aberrants to the captive human women - not a single one had survived.

He did not care about the deaths of those barbaric monsters, for he had decided to finish them off himself as soon as he regained his vitality, but it pained his soul to see the captives of those creatures suffer the same fate as their tormentors. Whatever the religion of these lands, he hoped that those poor, unfortunate souls would find eternal rest far away from that cursed wasteland.

"I... wasn't expecting this," Mistiora muttered behind him.

"Do you know what they are?" asked Meryval without even turning to look at her.

Mistiora could not answer him, for a powerful, buzzing flapping of wings interrupted her. One of those creatures had come straight for the balcony, so huge that it almost resembled the ancient dragons of legend, albeit in a twisted version. The lizard-insect positioned itself in front of the balcony, its multiple eyes fixed on them. Meryval prepared to raise his sword and face the beast, but Mistiora quickly placed her hand over his to prevent it.

"Pardon the disarray!" said a female voice, a voice which was disconcertingly emanating from the creature. "My little ones were hungry, and I saw a plague that needed to be eradicated. It was too timely to miss."

The insectoid lizard landed on the balcony as gently as its massive body would allow, standing still like a statue as a figure descended from its back. Upon seeing her, Mistiora immediately bowed respectfully, not daring to look up as if her life depended on it.

The woman who had alighted from the winged abomination was similar in appearance to the women of the citadel: dark skin, long ears that resembled those of a Mer, and bright eyes that looked almost like jewels. However, unlike Mistiora or Olga, who were almost as tall as he was, this woman was short, so short that it was easy to compare her to a typical Bosmer male. Her diminutive size became even more apparent as she stood in front of him, forcing him to lower his gaze so he could see her, for she barely reached his chest.

"Do you know what's been gnawing at me these past few days?" she asked, a catlike smile on her lips. "How was it possible for anyone to escape from the Pit? I designed the structure myself and perfected the rock's ability to regenerate itself. The walls were unbreakable, and yet they were broken. An indestructible object destroyed, quite a paradox, don't you think?"

She looked him straight in the eye with what seemed to be enthusiasm, quite the opposite of how Mistiora and Olga had reacted to seeing him for the first time. She looked at him as if he were a precious treasure to be claimed, with such intensity that it even made him uncomfortable.

"I know it's no coincidence that the first successful escape from the Pit was you. You're something else, aren't you, my little blemish?"

"Blemish?" Meryval said, confused.

"From the first moment I saw you, I knew you weren't just an Aberrant. You are something more, something far beyond this simple level, aren't you?" She brought her hands up to his face, cupping his cheeks like a pet. "I wonder, what unique qualities does your body hide? What are the physical limits you can reach? Will you be able to manipulate mana? And also... how much pain can you endure before you die?"

The expression on the woman's face became twisted and morbid, as if the thought of experimenting on him in various hideous ways filled her with an indescribable delight.

"You called these creatures your 'little ones', didn't you?" asked Meryval, ignoring the way his face was scrunched up. "That means they obey you."

"Obviously. I gave them life, so they will serve me forever," she replied with a chuckle.

Meryval narrowed his eyes. "So you allowed them to devour the human prisoners as well?"

"Oh, were they prisoners? I hadn't noticed, really," she replied in a disturbingly simple manner. "But well, it doesn't matter. After all, insects, no matter what they look like, are still insects."

Anger flooded through him as he heard her refer to these poor victims as insects. Such contempt and apathy for the lives of the innocent, to speak of them as if they were not even sentient beings worthy of the slightest decent treatment; she, like Olga, was a despicable being. Now the mere fact that she had his face disgusted him, and the fervent desire to strike her down grew stronger and stronger in him.

"High Sister Campbell," said a faint female voice.

Through the balcony door came an exhausted Olga, who needed Chloe's help to move. It was strange, because until recently she had seemed normal and healthy in the throne room, but now she suddenly seemed to be on the verge of fainting.

"Little Olga!"

The little woman abruptly released him and hurried over to Olga.

"My child, how long has it been, perhaps three centuries or more? Time flies so fast." The woman noticed that Olga was not alone and turned her attention to Chloe. As she did so, a mocking expression crossed her face. "What is this, did you get yourself a little mongrel as a pet? I didn't know you had such peculiar tastes, my dear!"

This outrageous comment caught Chloe off guard, who reacted more in shock than with rage at being called a mongrel. Olga reacted quickly, placing a hand on Chloe's shoulder to calm her down and tell her not to let her anger show.

"High Sister Campbell, first of all, I am honored to welcome you to this temple of the Father-God, and as a daughter of Discordia, I greet you with warmth and respect worthy of the House of Campbell," Olga said, trying not to let the weariness show in her voice. "But I must ask, what is the reason for your visit?"

"I would say I came to 'rescue' you, but I think that would insult your intelligence, my child," she replied graciously. "I came here to hunt down the fugitives who insulted my pride by escaping from my pit. But don't misunderstand me, I'm not doing it to drag them back there - I'm well aware that if they escaped once, they'll probably do it again. I just came out of... curiosity."

"Curiosity?" said Olga quizzically.

"High Sister Campbell, if that is the case, then we have a favor to ask of you!" interjected Mistiora abruptly, the first words she had spoken since this woman had arrived. "

The cheerful and playful expression on the little woman's face turned cold as soon as she heard Mistiora speak.

"Did I give you permission to address me with your foul voice, exile?" she asked in a contemptuous tone. "Perhaps I should order one of my little ones to rip out your wretched tongue and force you to swallow it, so that you may learn respect."

Mistiora immediately fell silent; Olga was surprised at the sudden change of mood; Meryval stood in front of Mistiora to protect her and glared at the woman. The tension in the air was palpable, and awkward silence prevailed on the balcony - at least until the woman's animated laughter echoed.

"By the Father-God, don't you have a sense of humor? It was a joke!" she clarified with a chuckle. "I hadn't seen little Mistiora in ages, so I couldn't resist playing with her a little - can you blame me? It was so tempting!"

The awkwardness of the situation did not dissipate after this clarification, as everyone remained in confused silence while the woman laughed as if she had heard the world's funniest joke.

"What is the favor you wish to ask of me, little Mistiora?" the woman asked as she wiped away a laughing tear. "And please, my little one, look up. My sisters are not present, so you need not fear reprisal."

Mistiora seemed reluctant to obey, hesitating even for a few seconds before she looked up from the floor and straightened up, now looking her straight in the face; she looked slightly confused at how she was being treated, but decided to keep her composure and not inquire too much about it.

"Our goal is to get Sister Olga back to Nidavellir, but the journey is too complex and dangerous for her in her current state. However, I believe that with your help..." Mistiora paused and turned to look at the winged abomination that stood disturbingly still like a statue.

"My little ones."

"Uh, yes, your little ones. I believe that with their help you could transport Sister Olga safely. So, if possible, I wanted to ask you to take it upon yourself to escort Sister Olga back to Nidavellir."

"Sounds like a lovely plan," the woman chirped as she fiddled with her own wavy hair. "However, it is impossible."

"Impossible? Why?" inquired Mistiora.

"I fear that if I did, it would trigger a terrible clash between all the Houses that would wipe out the nation."

"Is this... another joke?"

"Did that sound like a joke?" she replied. "I'm afraid your little escape has caused a political stir that has only been exacerbated by my little escapade. If I dared to take back the Holy Bride, I would not only have insulted the honor of the Discordia, but I would have sullied the ancestral tradition of the Father-God's wives, and that alone would be the final nail in the coffin for a complete and catastrophic conflict between all the Houses. It would be utter chaos." She paused for a second, bringing a finger to her own chin as she considered what she had just said. "However, a conflict of that magnitude would be very entertaining. I could use new creatures, new weapons, new spells; it would be a golden opportunity to experiment freely. You know what? It sounds too much fun to pass up, so let's do it!"

"No!" Mistiora and Olga said in unison.

Mistiora and Olga were agitated, visibly frightened by the possibility that the woman was explaining. Meanwhile, Meryval and Chloe did not bother to hide the confusion this whole conversation was causing them, as they found themselves completely lost, not knowing the context.

"High Sister Campbell, is there no other possible alternative?" asked Olga, her stoicism surprisingly replaced by a palpable concern. "Please, there must be another way."

"Well, if you want the boring option, we could do a little political maneuvering."

The woman walked away from the group and over to where the insect-lizard was, stroking its misshapen head as if it were a cuddly dog.

"I could excuse my actions among my sisters by saying that bringing back little Olga was simply fulfilling a debt of honor. Basically, I was helping Discordia's Golden Daughter after she had helped Campbell's Golden Daughter," she explained. "No one could judge my actions, for I would be acting according to the ancient laws of cordiality."

"The Golden Daughter of Campbell? You don't mean..."

The woman who had been so lively and jovial from the moment of her arrival took on a serious and dismayed expression, one that this time did not seem to be part of a bad joke.

"My little Grace, yes," she asserted. "I'm afraid her morbid experiments with the insects of the South have already reached an inexcusable point, so it's time for her to return home."