Art: "A Daisy Field" by ShadowReader29

I write this letter not to protect, nor because I care for you on a personal level. For I have lost the ability to do so except from a distance.

❂❂❂

The next evening, Micah and Nell shared a table in the large Talla an Làn Mhòir – the Hall of the Great Tide in Taloran. All around them, Ramish nobility and Salinean immigrants enjoyed their meals, laughing gaily. The room was outfitted with huge aquariums filled with exotic fish brought in from thousands of miles away, near the oceanic kingdom.

Tipping back in his chair, Micah sipped on a glass of apple juice. Honestly, what did they put in wine? It was little more than moldy grape juice. Though he was nineteen instead of twenty – the legal drinking age in Meya – Zeka had insisted he try a sip. Micah still felt like throwing up.

He passed a glance to Nell, who had barely touched his meal. They were on a stakeout, sure, but Micah at least took the fried mushrooms and cooked fruit when it came. Nell was still gazing down, almost introspectively, at his baked apples.

Micah spoke. "Nell, are you okay? You look a bit..." Glum was the Mystacorian-Meyan word, but it sounded weird on Micah's tongue. "Tired?" he tried, hoping it was similar enough.

Nell looked up. "Hum?"

"I said, 'you seem tired'."

"Oh." Trying to appear normal, Nell took a bite of his food. "I'm fine. Got lost in my thoughts again."

"Sounds like me in political discussions," Micah jested. "Getting lost, I mean."

"You're better at those matters than you might think." Nell gave a frown, looking past Micah's shoulder. He leaned in and lowered his voice. "Did you see that lady over there?"

Micah shook his head, turning around. Across the ballroom, at a table in the corner, a strange woman typed on a holo-pad. She must have been rich – holo-pads were still a luxury good, and only the wealthiest people could afford them. With a fancy red mask, an ebony gown, and billowing black hair, she stood out like a streak of night amidst the brighter colors.

She's a sorceress, Micah thought, biting his lip. "You think she's with the Horde?" he murmured, turning back to Nell.

"Hard to say," Nell said, taking a bite of the simmered fruit. "There are ethnic groups who wear masks. Those masks, I'm not certain of."

Micah frowned, not wanting to engage the sorceress directly. "Any way we could distract her? Maybe then I can see what's on her holo-pad."

"You're going to be the king," Nell said, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Why don't you command her to step away?"

"I don't want to cause a problem," Micah said. Looking down, he unclenched his fists. "Where's Zeka?"

"I'm sorry," a masculine voice said from behind them, "but Zeka had to go home due to her radiance overdazzling the crowd."

Micah giggled. "Zeke, that's a made-up word."

"All words are made-up, darling," the shifter said, adopting mannerisms uncharacteristic of a serving man. "But at any rate, what do you need?"

Nell had gone back to picking at his food. Nonetheless, the older man spoke, his tan knuckles gripping the fork tightly. "Micah wants you to get the attention of that lady over there."

Zeka nodded slowly with a frown. But just as he was about to go over, the sorceress rose. Micah studied her further; the ballroom gown covered nearly every square inch of her body. He had never seen someone so modestly-dressed before.

Micah shivered as she lifted her skirts, revealing a pair of utilitarian boots. The masked woman strode across the room to speak to a felinetta, leaving her holo-pad at the table.

As soon as she was preoccupied, Micah teleported across the room, grabbed the holo-pad, and made another transport back to his table. The screen still showed her notes.

My lord inquired to me about the nature of parties. I do not believe you would care for them, seeing as how you view simple joys such as babies as counterproductive to our goals. In terms of utility, parties are only tactically advantageous in that they provide one with information about one's political foes. But you will find on Etheria that there are plenty of practices not beneficial, but fun. I will think of a way to describe this word to you shortly.

The vocabulary of the writing was still too advanced for Micah – though he'd been decent with Meyan for years, there were still words that tripped him up. As he turned to get Nell's assistance, a hand rested on his shoulder, firmly gripping it.

He looked up. The woman stood above him, her mask unreadable. Micah's face burned. "Sorry. I just wanted to know what you were writing, Lady Noble."

The masked woman tilted her head. Was she foreign? Or was Micah's Meyan that bad? With a sigh, she gestured, and Micah handed the holo-pad back to her. She studied him for a long moment.

Nell frowned. "Lady Noble?"

The woman turned her gaze toward him; Nell strangled his fork. "May I ask from which kingdom you hail?"

The masked woman didn't respond for a long while. Then she tapped her mask, where her mouth would have been.

Mute.

Nell nodded, as though he'd been expecting it. "Very well; forgive our intrusion. I hope you have a good night."

The masked woman nodded, gripping her holo-pad close to her chest. Micah watched as she took the felinetta by the shoulder and led her outside. He wanted to confront her. But he didn't have enough solid proof to do so.

Yet there was a niggling feeling that they would meet again. And when they did, Micah would investigate her further.

✧✧✧

Shadow Weaver stepped out of the final mirror-stop into the Fright Zone, tightly gripping Carmen's hand. Her servant blinked, curling her clawed toes on the green metal floors and making a distasteful scraping sound. "I am never gonna get used to that, my lady."

"Better than taking a carriage all the way back," Shadow Weaver murmured, using her holo-pad's touch screen to type the rest of her report to Lord Hordak. She powered off the holo-pad; her report was due early tomorrow, so she could sacrifice a few hours of sleep – especially since her dear Adora was only a month old. Shadow Weaver wouldn't get much rest anyway.

Carmen walked over to the computers, biting her lip as she surveyed the reports. "Shads?" she asked pensively.

Shadow Weaver snapped out of her thoughts, walking over to Carmen, who was eyeing the records. "What is it?"

"Looks like we've got some fleein' the coop," the felinetta said. She searched for the word in Kriesges – a language both of them were still learning. "Verrat."

Treason.

A cold feeling settled in Shadow Weaver's stomach. Carmen's expression told her all she needed to know; this was not the first time insubordination had occurred. Carmen gripped herself, rocking back and forth. Shadow Weaver knew what the felinetta was thinking. "I'll deal with it myself," she said quietly. "I was foolish to send you alone into Jibril's cell, and I will continue to maintain that."

Carmen flinched at the name; two years was not enough to heal from the trauma. Hell, five years wasn't enough – Shadow Weaver knew all too well what it was like to relive the worst moments of one's life.

Before Shadow Weaver could dwell on her own troubles too much, Carmen squeezed her hand. "A'ight, my lady," she said gently. "I'll go see how Catra's doin'. Want me to give Li'l Miss Adora a kiss for ya?"

"Of course," Shadow Weaver said gently. Biting her lip, she drew a transportation spell on the ground. "I shall be back within two hours," she said as she dissolved into shadow.

✧✧✧

When Shadow Weaver arrived to administer the executions, she found that the guards had already done the job. With a sigh of relief, she thanked Hordak silently for ensuring that she didn't have to deal with it. Aside from the messy work involved in an execution, Shadow Weaver still didn't like to kill.

That didn't mean she couldn't kill, of course. Shadow Weaver vividly recalled her adoptive father's cries as she sucked the trace magic from his body. She could murder with the daggers she kept concealed in her pockets at all times. Throttle her victims with magic alone...

Shadow Weaver shuddered as she stepped into the cell. The morticians would arrive soon, but she had to see the people punished. According to the report, they had been caught having sex in one of the restroom stalls. Moons above, the thought of being seen in such a state, especially in an army that forbade marriage and the activities surrounding it...she couldn't imagine the humiliation they must have felt.

Their skulls were shattered, but Shadow Weaver couldn't afford to care about them. Not when her own life was in jeopardy. As she stepped out of the room, strange feelings clung to her heart. She was not innocent, either.

Of course, Shadow Weaver had never married, and she was proper enough to remain a virgin as Mother and Father would have desired. But the rush of emotion when she gazed upon Nell at the tavern still remained. A mess of tangled feelings she hated. Immediate desire to kiss those soft, warm lips as he cradled her in the tender embrace of his strong arms...

No. Anger. Bitterness. Sorrow. Nell was not hers; he was happy being a career man for the Rebellion. Shadow Weaver clenched her fists and took several deep breaths as she forced herself to dwell on his abandonment. Not his sweet singing voice, or his crystal blue eyes, or – moons forbid – the fantasies she used to have about him.

Used to have. She chuckled to herself, shaking her head as she walked away. As if her daydreams about him had ever fully ceased. In fact, they grew even stronger as she laid eyes on her lost love again.

❂❂❂

Did you know...

- Carmen is a very special character to me. She's evolved a lot from when she was first conceived, and she's an homage to my background as an autistic person.

- Originally, this scene was much more violent, but I figured I could tone it down to avoid a problem with age ratings.

Tell me what you think...

- How do you think Shadow Weaver will handle things with Nell from here?

- Why is Nell so solemn?