Sabina MacLean did not care for much of what others held holy. Neither gods nor devils could sway her heart or stay her hand once her mind was set on a certain path. To her, the world was simple. She did not question its ways or her place within it. She lived, and was content.

Lady MacLean did not believe in many things. She did, however, believe in retribution.

The Capital did not hold all of the Amith Capil. Nonetheless, the troops stationed within the city numbered in the thousands, as befitting of the stronghold's importance to the Court. They answered Lady MacLean's call to arms readily. Most, she suspected, had long awaited this precise command.

The Queen's Tower rose like a ghostly ship above a sea of glinting armor and flashing eyes. Lady MacLean raised her eyes to the very top of the delicate crystal tower. Heavy clouds blocked the sky. There was no sun; the air was heavy, darkness pressing down with the might of a falling mountain.

"Call," Lady MacLean bid.

The soldier at her side affirmed the command and issued the call for surrender. The clipped cry echoed without response.

"Again," Lady MacLean said.

The cry repeated twice over. Lady MacLean raised her hand, halting further efforts. She had not expected a response.

"The troops are in position. Shall we give order to advance?"

The soldier who spoke was a man of some rank. Lady MacLean's eyes swept over him, the words she had meant to say scattering in a soft exhale. The man was part of the Old Guard – soldiers she knew by name, men and women who had fought at her side during the war's most desperate battles. Time had hardened his spirit, as it had done to them all. Lady MacLean saw the youth she remembered in the man that stood before her and felt her own age keenly.

"Where's Richard?" she asked.

The soldier startled. Lady MacLean's speech was often informal, but never to the extent of addressing another Lord of the Queen's Court so brazenly in front of soldiers of lower rank. It was necessary to respect the chain of command. An armed force that did not adhere to order was a peril on the battlefield and to the very people it was meant to protect. Lady MacLean understood this well, but her mind was mired in the past and her words were spoken as one soldier to another.

"Lord Geoffrey called us to battle. I am unaware of his Lordship's plans," the soldier replied.

Lady MacLean nodded, distracted. She was the highest point of authority in the Amith Capil, just as Lady Kiku oversaw the Message Men and Lord Barton, his beloved Zero. The administrative department and associated bureaucracies were left to Lord Geoffrey's seemingly careless attention. The man played the fool well, when it suited him. Lady MacLean had learned of the Old Guard and the network of informants the man had built only in the last few days, when lord Geoffrey had finally seen it fit to reveal his plans.

To think that they had all fallen for his play at idiocy all of these years, after knowing the man to be a brilliant strategist. Time truly did wear down all things. With enough repetition, even right and wrong could be inverted and the very truth, overthrown.

The Tower's gate opened. Zero soldiers poured out, quickly filling the space left as a no-man's land between the Tower and the surrounding Amith Capil forces. Their number was far greater than Lady MacLean had known. She expected more remained within the Tower itself, guarding their besieged Lord.

"Hold your position," Lady MacLean called.

Zero had not advanced further. They were still as statues, their pale uniforms washed gray under the dark skies. Lady MacLean did not believe that a battle could be avoided. However, she would not be the one to order the first strike. Zero were still soldiers of the Queen and Lady MacLean was determined to treat them as such until they actively betrayed their post.

"Sabina."

Lady MacLean turned, pulled by the call of her name. She saw her own face reflected in a raised shield. The image smudged. A black veil fell over her. She wished to remove it but her fingers thread through nothing, grasping shadows. The world disappeared, smothered in darkness.

*

"Where did it all go wrong?"

*

Fresh bread and coffee. Lady MacLean inhaled deeply, lips curling in a soft smile. There seemed to be a haze over her eyes. When she blinked, tears spilled down her cheeks. She did not know why she was sad, but her body reacted honestly, as if the grief was part of its bones.

It was early still. The sun was a blushing line of fire at the horizon, streaming through the storefront of the MacLean household as pale shadows without a hint of warmth. Lady MacLean's expression, too, grew cold. Her surroundings were familiar, yet not. There was a curious sense of displacement to every object around her. She found the cause when her eyes fell onto the staircase that led to the second floor. It curved left rather than right, as if reflected in a mirror. The realization sparked an urgent sense of unease.

A small child thundered down the stairs. Lady MacLean's worry slipped away, submerged under a happiness so sweet it brought tears to her eyes. She knelt and opened her arms.

"Erika," she called softly, "Child, I am here."

The little girl paused at the foot of the staircase. Her eyes were swollen from crying, her nose and cheeks red. She brushed away her tears and ran into Lady MacLean's arms, scolding and complaining and sniffling in between, holding her mother as tight as she could.

"D-don't go, don't go, if you go I won't be good, I won't!" Erika babbled, the threat somewhat undermined by her warbly voice.

Lady MacLean laughed. She drew away so she could see the girl, but Erika pressed close, obviously afraid to let go.

"Do not cry," Lady MacLean wished to say, "I will not go," but the words would not leave her lips.

"Come now, Erika, be a good girl."

Lady MacLean looked up. Her eyes reddened; Samuel MacLean smiled at her without any real joy. The man's face was haggard and his bearing, defeated. He still bid Erika away and when the girl refused, came to take her into his arms.

"May your journey be safe and swift," he said.

Erika cried in large, hiccupping gulps. She stretched her arms over her father's shoulders, calling for her mother. Lady MacLean rose in a rush. She reached back but the girl was already gone, swallowed by the darkness.

"I will not go," Lady MacLean said.

There was no one to hear.

Silence fell like a guillotine. Lady MacLean did not cry; she could barely draw a breath for the sharp pain in her chest.

"I am sorry," she said.

Regret changed nothing. Had she not felt remorse back then? Had she now had the chance to return in the years after? Time after time, Lady MacLean had made the same choice. To seek redemption now was without meaning.

The world fractured. The memory of that far-away morning dimmed then dispersed, lost to time.

Lady MacLean found herself seated at a familiar table. Lady Kiku sat at her left, her face drawn in worry. Lord Barton and Lord Greoff were both standing. They spoke over each other, one in anger, the other attempting to reason in an even, cajoling tone.

"It is too soon," Lord Greoff was saying. "Perhaps in twenty, thirty years –"

Lord Barton interrupted, voice scathing, "Thirty years? Have you lost your damned mind? The common man is already at the mercy of those beasts! Thirty years of ignorance will make lambs of us all – we may as well lay down arms and let the Dvor slaughter as they please!"

"The Dvor cooperated, Simon," Lord Greoff reminded.

"Yes, how kind of them, to take the opportunity to wage legal war on our people," Lord Barton sneered.

"There is no such thing," Lady Kiku reminded, "We are all our Queen's subjects."

The conversation stalled. Lord Barton seemed to disagree, but he did not voice his opinion. His eyes strayed to the gilded mirror hung at the far side of the room.

The Queen was dead, Lady MacLean recalled. She did not know how it was that she had forgotten.

"She will return," Lady Kiku said. Whether she had heard Lady MacLean's thoughts or gauged her mood from her expression, Lady MacLean did not know. She found no refuge in her friend's words nonetheless.

"What do you think, Yevelina?" Lord Greoff prompted.

Lady MacLean turned her eyes to the room's remaining occupant. Yevelina Hale had not uttered a word so far. She watched and listened without a change in her expression. Once called upon, she replied simply:

"I have not changed my mind."

Neither Lord Greoff nor Lord Barton looked pleased.

"The matter of the war's inception cannot be made public," Lord Barton said.

"Knowledge of the supernatural, when paired with memories of the war, will cause panic and lead to more deaths," Lord Greoff countered.

Lady MacLean sighed. This was an old argument between them, worn down to bare threads. Lady MacLean was known for her unyielding character, but she understood the value of compromise for the sake of advancement. Yevelina Hale lacked such awareness. When she decided to be stubborn, nothing and no one could move her.

"The Queen's will is known. There is no ground for further argument," she said.

Indeed, this was true. The Queen did not wish to keep her people apart. She agreed to impose a period of distance for the sake of healing, but only under the combined pressure of the Court – with the notable exception of Lady Hale, who had gone as far as to forsake her title in protest.

"The Queen is not here," Lord Greoff reminded.

Yevelina looked at him without saying anything. Lord Greoff dropped his gaze, laughing helplessly.

"You blame us for that as well, I presume," he said.

"I blame us all," Yevelina said.

She rose. When Lady Kiku spoke to bid her stay, she shook her head. "You believe that you are speaking with the advantage of foresight, like chess masters overlooking a board in play. How long has it been since any of you left the Capital? Do you think yourself capable of making decisions for people you do not know and have never met?

"There will be panic, yes, and strife as well. We took a gamble with the war, and lost. Fall-out is inevitable. Samodevia will survive unrest, but it cannot exist divided. This is the only advice I can offer."

"And what do you plan to do?" Lord Greoff asked.

Yevelina laughed shortly, the sound carrying a trace of anger. "So we have come to the true purpose of this little gathering. You could have spoken earlier, Richard, and saved both our time."

"Yevelina," Lady Kiku began, distress clear in her voice.

Yevelina shook her head. "Enough. Do as you please – and I will do the same."

The door slammed shut behind her. Lord Barton broke the resulting silence with a curse, then strode after her, face dark with displeasure.

"Beaufort's got a hand in it, mark my word," Lord Greoff said.

Lady Kiku shook her head with a sigh. "Yevelina was of this opinion from the start. She is not wrong to hope for a true peace."

"She is not right, either. What peace is there to be had? The kingdom is in shambles," Lord Greoff interjected. "With Beaufort's means and her own connections, she can easily undermine our efforts. The Kingdom cannot afford another civil war."

They looked at each other. Lady MacLean opened her mouth. She did not wish to speak, but the words came nonetheless, an old, forgotten echo.

"Has the Dvor's envoy departed?"

Lord Greoff nodded sharply. "It is worth hearing out their proposal," he said.

He moved to call an attendant, while Lady Kiku looked on, appearing torn.

Cold sweat budded over Lady MacLean's brow. This was the beginning of it all – not the war, not the Queen's death. This small betrayal that had grown and grown, swallowing all in its way.

The mirror hanging on the far wall broke apart. No one but Lady MacLean seemed to notice. She watched the shards peel off one by one, and with them, her own reflection.

*

"It is time for all to end, is it not?"

*

The veil lifted. The world rushed back in as a wave of sensation so strong Lady MacLean swayed in place.

When she opened her eyes, it was to a scene of carnage.

The peaceful formations were no more. The ground was dark with blood, the cry of dying soldiers and ring of clashing swords raising toward the havens like ghostly screams. In the dark, enemy and friend looked the same. The Queen's Tower loomed over them all. It seemed as if it would topple forward and crush all in sight.

For a moment, Lady MacLean hoped that it would.

A soldier raised her sword, blocking a blade meant for Lady MacLean's chest. The sharp sound spurred Lady MacLean into action. She unholstered her pistol and drew.

"Do not shoot to kill," the soldier shouted.

Lady MacLean shifted her hand as she pulled the trigger. The bullet pierced the Zero's right shoulder, incapacitating his dominant arm. She had acted on instinct; only after the fact did she recognize the soldier's voice and see who it was who stood before her.

"They do not die," Ira Hale told her.

Lady MacLean nodded without quite understanding what Hale meant. She watched the woman raise a familiar sword to parry another heavy attack. Her strikes were heavy but not lethal. Around them, Zero soldiers fell and rose and advanced again, mindless of their injuries. The soldiers who had flanked Lady MacLean's side were gone. Whether they had fallen or were forced back, she did not know. Hale had likely saved her life more than once in the interim.

Lady MacLean wielded a short blade in partnership with her gun. She followed Hale's instructions and aimed to disarm rather than kill. It did not take long for her to realize the repercussions of doing otherwise as soldiers who had fallen Zero opponents were besieged by the corpses of their victims, pulled down and strangled or torn apart by impossibly strong foes.

"Keep Zero alive!" Lady MacLean shouted. "Do not strike to kill!"

The command spread from her lips to her lieutenants and down, but it was impossible to reach all ends of the battlefield or indeed, heed the call in the melee of battle. Lady MacLean watched more of her men fall and ground her teeth in helpless fury. Hale remained a steady presence at her side, neither giving way nor advancing. She meant to keep them in place, Lady MacLean realized. Whatever the woman's purpose, her assistance allowed Lady MacLean enough respite to locate the man responsible for the destruction of all she had striven to defend.

Lord Simon Barton stood in the open field. He was surrounded by Zero soldiers, notable in their stillness as chaos surged around them. They were the eye of the storm. Lord Barton caught Lady MacLean's eyes. His face was pale and drawn in pain. He smiled thinly and mouthed,

"What did you see in the mirror?"

Lady MacLean gripped the gun in her hand tight enough to bruise. She was familiar with Beatrice's power, the witch's affinity with mirrors and illusions that enraptured the soul. She knew, too, that the mirror in her mind's eye reflected her own fears and guilt. The fault lay not in Lord Barton or the Queen's witch. Each and every one of them had walked to this moment on their own two feet.

A cry wrenched Lady MacLean's attention back to the battlefield. "Michiko," she breathed, and broke through the surrounding enemy line with brutal decisiveness.

Lady Kiku fought poorly. Had the soldiers around her not reacted as quickly as they did, she would have been slain before she had time to scream. Unarmed, unable to use her Spark against enemies that lacked self-awareness, she was as defenseless as any civilian. Lady MacLean left a bloody trail in her wake as she clawed her way to the other woman. Her desperation would startle her, were she in her right mind.

One truly did know themselves only at the brink of death.

"Why are you here?" were her first words to Lady Kiku, once the woman was safely within reach and behind the bulk of several Amith Capil soldiers, including Lady MacLean herself.

"I – I do not know," Lady Kiku said. "I was speaking with Yonis, then I was suddenly – elsewhere. When I could think again, I found myself standing in someone – in someone's guts –"

The woman heaved, so pale she seemed a corpse herself. Lady MacLean had no sympathy for weakness but she knew that Lady Kiku was not weak; her strengths lay elsewhere, and were utilized accordingly. An extra body in the field meant little when there was important work to be done behind the scenes.

"Where is Richard?" Lady MacLean asked.

If Lady Kiku was dragged here, then Lord Greoff was likely not far behind. Beatrice seemed to want them there. To see, perhaps, the culmination of all their efforts.

Lady MacLean cast her eyes over their surroundings. She could not see far into the crush of bodies, but instinctively knew to seek the man in the vicinity of the Tower.

In the end, it was Hale who spotted them first – not Lord Greoff, but a girl too young for the Army let alone such a bloody battle. The girl was screaming. A name, Lady MacLean thought, though she could not make out the word the girl repeated in terror. Lord Greoff had his hands full keeping Zero at bay. His sole support came from Kayla Starr, the one-armed soldier keeping her own with admirable tenacity. The young girl was shielded between them.

A Zero youth was headed their way. Lady MacLean did not understand why it was she noticed him at first, as he was one of many Zero surging in that direction. The moment the boy raised his sword against one of his own, she knew.

There was desperation in the youth's face. If not for his uniform and the way he fought, Lady MacLean would have thought him a regular cadet rather than one of Zero's ranks.

The boy was outnumbered. Once Zero became cognizant of his betrayal, he was quickly marked as a foe and attacked ruthlessly. By the time Hale reached the besieged group, he had sustained a number of heavy blows, one leg bent unnaturally to support his weight. Hale, too, bled openly. The wail of the young soldier sounded like a song of mourning.

"Are we going to die here?" Lady Kiku whispered.

Lady MacLean did not answer. She had long run out of bullets. Her hands stuck to the hilt of her blade with crusted blood even as more poured down, soaking into her boots. Every step was a struggle. Dead bodies piled all around, their twisted faces often familiar. Even so, Zero still came, relentless in their pursuit.

Rather than dying, Lady MacLean feared living with the memory of this nightmare instead.

"Come out," Lady MacLean called, her voice a growling roar. Every flash of a shield, momentary reflection in a stained armor, reminded her of their silent, cruel audience. "Beatrice, come out and finish this!"

Her words had not yet finished when the ground shook, groaning under tremendous impact. Lady MacLean tensed her tired body in expectation. She knew that she would be no match for Beatrice in her current state, but the thought of the battle finishing at last lent her strength and fortified her determination to fight until the very last.

"That... It's raining fire," Lady Kiku breathed.

Lady MacLean looked up. The sky was lit with glowing embers dancing like leaves on the wind. They fell from the sweep of great, burning wings.

"A phoenix," Lady MacLean said.

"Whose side will he aid?" Lady Kiku worried.

Lady MacLean did not reply. She did not expect aid from the creature – those of heavenly origin did not often concern themselves with mortal affairs.

The man who had fallen from the phoenix's grip was of far greater importance.

Iavor Beaufort rose to his full height. He was close enough that Lady MacLean could mark his every move and expression. His eyes glinted in the dark, the smile on his handsome face as sharp as the blades he wielded.

"What a right mess you have made of things," the man said.

Lady MacLean bowed her head. She could do little but agree and fight to remain standing. A cavalry had arrived, but how strange its shape.