The God-Queen of the Grimm looked out over her land, and smiled at the sight that beheld her.

Once, her gardens had been vast, stretching across countless acres and circled by the pools of ichorous black from which her Grimm spawned. The fruits and vegetables grown within the garden kept the Court fed (along with the meat raised on the farm), whilst the gardens themselves often played host to children's games, quiet strolls for the sake of contemplation, or even the occasional tryst.

Perhaps more than occasional. She thought to herself with the faintest of smiles.

But after HMMR's assault on her Palace…after her court was cut down to less than ten, after she had closed the doors to the grand dining hall and the ballroom and the forges, after she had snuffed out the candles of countless bedchambers and closed off entire wings of her home…

Well, after all that the gardens had become the least of her concerns. The few survivors had looked to her for guidance. Almost all of her Abominations had pulled at their leashes, and she'd needed to deal with their disobedience in person. A hundred and one more pressing matters had demanded her attention.

But now? Now Salem could see the seeds of both her gardens and her Court slowly beginning to burst into life once more. Before the decade was out, the gardens at least should be back to their former glory.

Her Court however, numbered but four.

Tyrian Callows, her newest Left Hand, had quickly taken to his new role. After learning about the significance of her Wall of Names, the Faunus had actively begun to seek out her enemies to extend to them the greatest honour they could ever earn should they prove worthy enough. And he often returned still caked in their blood, disappointed and ashamed with their failure to do so. Oftentimes, Slate Blanc would join him, and provided a more rounded report on their outings.

Nothing about their most recent outing would have suggested that it would be any different to any other. And had she just listened to Tyrian, perhaps she would have maintained that belief.

But it had been Slate Blanc, her dear stoic Slate, that had found the real prize. Tyrian might have taken a trophy in the form of his new coat, but Slate had brought back a survivor.

A girl. Icy blue eyes with a spark of defiance in them, and her brown hair looked as though someone had hacked it short with a knife.

"The raiders were of The Branwen." Slate explained. "Tyrian and I slew many of them, but the rest, save this one, escaped."

"The Branwen?" Salem questioned with a raised eyebrow, her curiosity roused. "As in..the Branwen twins? The Omen and The Calamity?"

"Ain't been twins amongst the Branwen since the traitor left us."

"Them." Salem corrected the girl. "Since the traitor left them."

"Left us!" She protested. "I'm a Branwen! Just like them!"

"And yet they left you behind." Salem told her, bringing a hand to cup the child's cheek. "They abandoned you. Betrayed you."

The girl, judging from her expression, was torn between denial and acceptance. And the God-Queen of the Grimm pounced on the chance to push the girl down the road to accepting what the Branwen had done to her. "Admit it, girl. They left you behind to save their own skins, knowing you'd likely be killed."

The girl's voice was small, as though the reality of the world she had lived in, the world of the Branwens, was sinking in for the very first time. All the blood spilled and lives snuffed out. "..Why haven't I been?"

Salem raised an eyebrow. "I trust my agents, child. Slate is of the thought that you could be worthy of serving me. Of being a part of my Court. Of being lifted out of forced mediocrity and normality and taking part in fighting the only war in history to have any true meaning. And I am of the belief that he is correct."

"Why do you care about the Branwen?" The girl asked. "We…They…The Branwen are merely bandits! They must be beneath your…attention."

"They were once my foes most loyal servants. His Eyes. Until, that is, Raven Xiao Long was cast out of his Inner Circle for being too...extreme in her methods. Turning her bandit Tribe into soldiers in her endless crusade against me. A caravan allowed to die here. A village slaughtered to the last man to flush out an informant there. No line was too far if it bought a month more of life. Ozma even contacted me to tell me she wasn't one of His anymore."

"Why?"

It was Slate that had asked the question, and Salem had almost forgotten he was even there. Or perhaps it had been his semblance, Salem couldn't tell in the moment. But she was ever one to educate her Courtiers.

"So that I would not take her actions as his, of course." She answered. "It would not do to retaliate against him for something he genuinely had nothing to do with. He and I might be adversaries, but we do have a certain manner in which we conduct ourselves."

"I understand..may I ask why you've not done anything about her, my Queen?" Slate asked. "I cannot see the value in leaving an enemy alive when they could be dealt with in an afternoon."

"To be frank, she amuses me." Salem smiled. "To think that the one that was once so very loyal to Ozma turned on him in such a dramatic fashion. I can only speculate on the reason. Discontent, perhaps? Or discovering a love of bloodshed, or powerlust, or maybe it was motherhood..I confess, I do not know."

"Will you kill them for me then?"

Salem returned her gaze to the girl for a few moments, before shaking her head. "No child. For that would merely take the right of vengeance away from you. Instead, I offer you the opportunity to deal with them yourself. My servants will train you. I will educate you. You will become the person you are meant to be…and you will have your revenge on the Branwen Clan for their abandonment of you."

She extended a hand. "Does that sound fair to you, child?"

The girl peered at the extended hand, and it was with no small amount of trepidation that she shook it.

"Now, I fear I have been being rude." Salem smiled, with an almost sheepish look on her face. "What is your name, child?"

"Vernal of the Branwen."

"No no." Salem waved dismissively. "That won't do. Where is the sense of identity with a name like that? The sense of self? That name is as a collar around your neck, Vernal. A chain, leashing you to the past."

There were a few moments of silence in the chamber as the God-Queen of the Grimm was deep in thought.

"...Hmm….Hiraeth." She decreed. An old word, one few if any save herself and Ozma would know the meaning of. A deep, all consuming longing for one's home or place in the world. Fitting then, for the little bandit girl presently without a place in it.

"From this moment forward, you are Vernal Hiraeth."