Olav banged on the thick wooden door to the citadel dungeon.

A perplexed guard opened the door. "Olav, is that you?" he asked.

Olav pushed past the guard, unhooking the set of keys from the man's belt with the ease of a magician, and made his way to the cells reserved for diplomatic prisoners. Rina and Media followed. The cell door unclicked and creaked open. Rina indicated for Media to remain outside before shadowing Olav.

Pietro's cell was as Rina remembered. Spacious and well furnished, but dark and stale. She sniffed. The scent of moist earth and centuries of occupants—no matter how well treated—permeated the air.

A figure sat by a fire in the corner, head poking above the top of a wing-backed chair, not bothering to look up as she approached.

"Uncle," Rina said, crouching down beside him on the balls of her feet, forearms coming to rest on the chair arm for balance.

Pietro turned to face her. His olive skin had become sallow, though that might be due to the green-tinged flame of the mage fire. There was no mistaking the weight he'd lost, the way his skin hung on his bones or the thinning of his once thick black hair. The fire remained in him, though. His eyes flared with an inner flame, and Rina fought the urge to recoil. Was it hate or anger in those dark-yellow eyes?

Pietro's gaze lowered to her stomach and then rose to her diadem. "So." The acid in his tone caused Rina to flinch. "It's true what that witch Media told me. You did become his whore."

"His wife, uncle, and empress."

Rina didn't move, except to indicate for Olav to hold still as Pietro's palm came to her chest bone, feeling the crystal still beneath her flesh.

He shook his head, eyes slitting as they met hers. "A slave wife is nothing but a whore." He took her hand, the movement of his nubbed fingers awkward, and placed it over the flat skin of his chest. "See this. This is freedom. I might be stuck in this cell, but I'm not a slave."

Rina gritted her teeth. "If you don't side with us, you will become a slave—in every sense of the word. You who hated that crystal beneath your skin still love to move your feet without the clank of chains."

In response, Pietro lifted his hands and spread the shortened fingers. "They took these from me!"

"Did you ever tell them, when the signs came?" she asked. "Did you tell them how your fingers grew white and then black?"

He glared at her. "I didn't trust the Magisterium's witchcraft then, and I still don't now.

"Fool," Rina said. "Martha could have helped you."

He laughed. "She was a child—she's still a child, well and truly brainwashed now."

Rina looked away a moment. When she faced Pietro again, there was a question in his eyes. She shook her head slowly.

His lips presssed together in understanding. "I am sure she could have done a fine job—as she did in helping me recover after the accident."

That was right. All those evenings Martha had come to their house and dragged Pietro from his bed to exercise when he refused to see a magister.

"Uncle," Rina said. "Their power is no different than ours."

He glared at her again. "We're nothing alike," he hissed.

"No, you're wrong. We are—just more. Stronger. This is why they fear us—not because we're tainted, but because of what we could do."

Olav held her eyes a moment, an incredulous expression on his face. Then he slumped back in the chair, eyes staring into the mage fire, and laughed. It was a maniacal sound that made Rina shiver.

A step drew Rina's attention. Media. Rina let herself flow into the other spectrum and grabbed at a whisp of power from Media, weaving it into a thread that she attached to the crystal at her chest.

Stay, she ordered into Media's mind, shaking her head at the woman.

Media jerked, and her hand came to her throat.

Stay, unless I call you.

Media nodded and retreated on silent footsteps.

A sudden coughing fit gripped Pietro. When this died to a rasping wheeze, he said, "If what you say is true, why don't we just kill them all?"

"Because, like it or not, our ancestors wronged them and our people. You and I, uncle, we are Arkis-spawned."

Pietro swallowed and leaned away from her.

"Our ancestor, Ia, who survived the Devastation, was Arkis and Elia's child. They destroyed our nation and brought Eurora to her knees, and when Mai tried to integrate our people, Ia betrayed Mai. He gave our people another chance, and she wasted it on her pride. Now Eurora is on her knees again, and if it goes down, the Denese will to."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Pietro snapped.

So Rina told him, showed him with one of Mai's crystal chips. After she was done, she said, " They'll listen to you, uncle. I can't do this without you. Please."

Pietro turned to face the door where Media hovered like a shadow within shadows, eyes locking on her. "I can't," he said. "Not with her. Not after what she did."

"Isaac and the others understood what they risked, uncle."

"We all did," he spat. "Still, not her."

"What if I told you Media has a gift? For you and Iskra. One that will offer you justice, without dragging us all down. What would you say to that?"

His eyes narrowed, and he took a slow, deep breath. "Show me this gift—and I'll consider."

☆☽○☾☆

The cobblestones were slick as their small group wend the streets, Olav and eight of his chosen guards, Media, Pietro and Rina. They each wore dark hooded coats against the rain and recognition. Iskra's little boy, hidden beneath the folds of her cloak, whimpered in his sleep. The mage lights in the windows became tallow candles as they descended into the Denese district, the streets and buildings narrowing. There were no personal gardens here, just scatterings of communal kitchen beds and carts of fertiliser rich with the scent of ammonia.

"This will change," Rina said, not directing the words to anyone in particular, but knowing Media would see to it when the time came.

They wound a bend in the road, and a carved set of doors appeared. The ghost of Safiya's words came to Rina from beyond them. "If it's so bad, and he takes it, what does that make him?"

The wrong question, but one wise beyond the years of a child. Rina resolved to find Safiya. They needed sharp minds in the months and years ahead—a waste to let it dull and rust here.

A little further on she heard the scrape of metal on stone as they turned another bend, and a tall, barrel-chested spectre emerged, hazy in the twilight. Isaac leaned against his shovel. His brown eyes roved to Iskra before they turned to Rina, full of hope and pain. He nodded, and his form dissolved into the drizzle.

The traffic built on the streets. Medics, blacksmiths, stonemasons and weavers, their hoods raised, darted from shelter to shelter. While growers trudged home in their mud-caked boots, unmindful of the drizzle, their drenched hats hanging low over their faces.

Few people looked at their party, except those who noted the mage lanterns held by the front and rear guards. They moved against the tide of people, moving down, down, down.

Then they were there.

She remembered standing on the porch and slapping Olav's hand away from her when she learned how he conspired against her family. The stench of piss and blood from the captives in the living room. She raised her hand to knock but caught herself. This was her home. She turned the knob, pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The room that comprised the lower level was much smaller than she remembered—the kitchen, dining and living area no bigger than her room in the women's quarters. Yet, mage lights lit the space. A bottle of wine aired while a pot boiled, the fragrant aroma of spices filling the space. Despite the mild weather and early hour, a fire crackled in the hearth.

The floorboards creaked above them, and a sharp female voice said, "I told you, I don't know anything. Go away!" The muted tread of slippered feet came down the stairs.

Rina turned to Pietro, whose brows rose. The steel in Uma's voice was foreign. His lips flickered.

"That's not the way to greet your husband, wife," he said.

The steps halted. "Pietro?" This time, there was hesitation in Uma's voice.

"As I said. It is I."

The steps resumed, and Uma's frame appeared in the narrow stairwell. Rina blinked. Her aunt's slender frame had filled out, and the silver-white hair had thickened.

"You look surprisingly well, wife," said Pietro.

Rina sensed Olav behind her, the rest of their group following and quickly filling the small space of the kitchen area.

"How?" Uma breathed.

"Aren't you happy to see me?"

Uma blinked, and said, "Yes, of course." She hurried towards Pietro. He caught her by the wrists, his broken fingers still managing to trap her. She wrested against him. "Pietro, what are you doing?" Her eyes flashed to Rina."Niece?" They fell on the diadem and widened.

Rina said nothing, looking through the woman as her ears roared.

"We've guests—don't you see," said Pietro. "Important ones. Now isn't the time for sentiment. The wine is ready—come on, dear, it's rude not to offer them refreshment." He released her, and she nodded, bowing to Rina and Media, and scurrying to the sideboard, pulling out glass cups and setting them on the table." As she did this, Pietro found his bottle of whisky and took a small clay cup. He poured and lifted it in invitation.

Nobody spoke. The silence draped about them like a heavy mantle until Olav inclined his head, and Pietro handed the cup to him. He poured himself another.

Rina strolled into the living area and plumped the cushions on the couch, beating them with the palm of her hand, the noise rude in the near silence.

"Rina?" said Uma.

Rina ignored her and moved to the shelf set into a wall where an obsidian dragon with Carnelian crystal eyes sat. She picked it up and inspected it. Smooth and cold, yet a thrum of power hummed across the tips of her fingers.

"Rina, won't you have some wine?" Uma urged with a glass held out.

Rina took the drink and said, "Tell me, aunt, where did you get this dragon—I always wondered."

"That." Uma chuckled, the sound forced. "Oh, somewhere—I forget."

"Strange..." Rina set her drink on the shelf, turning the dragon in her hands. "It's... it's exquisitely carved. The eyes, they're mesmerising. I feel like I could stare into them and see far away—fascinating. Did you know, I saw many fine things in Nebia, in the palace and estates, and this—even this would have grabbed my attention there."

"Niece, look at you now, in your finery. Don't waste your time on a trifle like this. Most likely an old suitor gave it to me—yes, come to think of it, that's where it came from."

"A suitor?" said Pietro, mock afront in his tone. "I never knew I had competition." He thumped his cup down and poured another, finishing it in one gulp. "Women—you think you know them, and then this!"

The smile on Uma's face was strained. "I—I had a life before you, Pietro."

"And I mine until I met you."

Uma went pale.

"Come, what is this silence?" Uma eventually said. "This is a happy day. My husband and niece back home again." Her eyes darted to Iskra. "And our friend with a healthy babe."

Iskra stared at Uma with cold eyes, and Uma returned her attention to Rina.

"Niece, you're like a princess from a storybook with that crown." Uma's eyes paused on her protruding stomach, but she didn't mention it. "Come now. You haven't touched your wine. Sit down with us at the table and drink."

Rina kept her hold on the dragon. "Do you know what, dear aunt?" She walked to the fire and poured the red liquid into the blaze. The wine sizzled as it hit the hot coals, and the fire wavered a moment. "I think I've drunk enough of your lies through the years." She walked to the table and took a seat between Media and Pietro, setting the dragon down.

"I—Rina—I don't understand."

"Media, is this the one?" Rina asked.

Media inclined her head and reached into her robe, pulling out the twin.

"Olav," Rina offered him Media's dragon. "Do you mind?"

"Empress." He took it and stood, taking a mage lamp from one of the guards and exited the building.

"As I was saying, when I look into the eyes, it's as if I can stare into another place." Rina picked up Uma's dragon. "I think I can. Uma, tell me, what do you see?"

Uma didn't move from where she stood. Her fingers grasped for the tassel's of her woven belt and began twisting them. "I don't understand. There's nothing to see."

"I insist. It's quite fascinating."

"Niece, please. You're acting odd."

"Come!"

Uma flinched at the power in Rina's voice. She froze a moment, then she began to move, each step stilted and reluctant.

"Ah, better—here, take it. Look. Tell me, what do you see?"

With shaking hands, Uma took the dragon and stared into the crystal eyes. Her breath hitched. Her body began to tremble, and she let out a strangled whimper.

"Aunt, are you okay. What do you see?"

Another whimper.

"Tell me, what do you see?"

Uma's mouth opened several times before any noise came out. "Please..." she begged.

"What. Do. You. See? I won't ask another time," Rina demanded.

Uma spoke through a moan. "Your parents' graves."

Rina's lips pressed together. Not true graves. As traitors, their bodies had been burned and cast to the wind. Yet Pietro had managed to obtain a handful of ashes from a sympathetic guard and buried them in a small garden plot, over which he placed two carved markers. Rina closed her eyes and called Olav back. He returned moments later, hair wet from the rain.

"They were so careful," said Pietro. "Sometimes, I wondered at their whispers when they were alone down here, but even I never guessed what they did until they were caught." His gaze aimed at Uma. "And you were always with me, clinging like a leech. It was as if they had invisible eyes on them."

Uma straightened, curling her hands into fists. "They put us all at risk. I was defending this family—defending you."

Pietro jumped to his feet. "By having them killed!"

"No—by having them stopped before they could spread their poison any further."

Pietro shook his head and turned to Rina, hands pressed on the tabletop. "It doesn't make sense—none of it. I barely knew her before we were coupled. We went to the same forsaking, and she knew my sister from the weaving shed—this was all. Then, suddenly, I was to partner with her. No negotiations. No time to get to know her before we were joined."

"It makes perfect sense, uncle. Now sit and listen."

Rina faced Uma. "Will you tell him, or shall I?"

Uma swallowed.

"I won't wait long, aunt—though if you choose to speak, I'll call out any lies."

A tear ran down Uma's cheek, a shudder rippled through her, and she folded in upon herself, kneeling on the floor. The firelight caught her hair, turning it to molten silver, etching deep shadows in the grooves of her face.

"I wanted you for so long, husband, but you didn't notice me. I tried to talk to you, but someone or something always turned your attention from me. You were so beautiful, not just your face—those eyes of yours. I saw into your soul. The way you looked up to Mai at the forsaking—the way you opened yourself to him. You never complained. You walked out with your head high and supported those who were weaker than you. I knew we were right for each other. That you just didn't know it yet.

"Then I heard her—your sister—talking to another woman about a meeting. I followed. I listened." Uma's eyes narrowed on Rina. "Your parents deserved everything they got," she growled.

Rina stiffened, but held her tongue and waited for Uma to finish.

"I went to the Magisterium. The high-magister Ella was a cautious woman. She needed proof. She asked what I wanted, and I told her a husband of my choice. She gave me the dragon. I thought I would only need to use it the one time—that after they were gone, I could put all of this to rest. But you changed, husband. As much as I loved you, I loved Mai more. I couldn't let you get away with what you—"

"You never loved me." Rina held Pietro back, one hand on his chest as he all but clawed at the table to get to Uma on the other side. "You never asked what I wanted. It wasn't you who I wanted." His voice broke and something twisted in Rina.

"I protected you—and Rina, if I hadn't stepped in, they would have been found, and you all would have met the consequences."

"Enough!" This time when Pietro came to his feet, the chair met the floor with a loud bang! "You're a twisted and evil woman. I never wanted you in my life, but now..." He stopped and breathed a deep breath. The rain picked up outside, and darkness fell. "Is this our gift, high-magister Media?"

"It is," Media replied.

"Iskra, do you accept it?" Pietro asked.

The woman hadn't said a word since they entered, hadn't moved since she sat at the table. She adjusted her position, and the baby mewled. Her words came hollow. Empty. They sent a trickle of cold down Rina's back. "I do."

Rina reached into her robe and pulled out her dagger. She drew the curved blade from the sheath and offered the bone and silver hilt to Iskra. The woman shook her head. "I won't kill, no matter how deserved, with a babe in my arms, but we will both watch."

Next, Rina offered it to Pietro. "Nay, niece. The ones hurt most are those that lost their parents. The babe can't take her vengeance, but you can—for each of us." He paused then, focus turning to the thin silver band on his finger. He wrenched it off and let it clink to the table. Then his eyes turned to Uma, bent over on the floor, face in her hands. To the twin ring on her finger. "I ask one thing, niece before you do." He took the knife and approached Uma, snatching at her wrist. Face red, Uma tried to pull away. Pietro had the strength, but his shortened fingers were clumsy.

Rina jerked her chin at Olav to help, and he crouched behind Uma, yanking one arm behind her back and taking hold of her other wrist. He forced her palm to the floor, the fingers splaying out. Uma continued to struggle, but she was helpless against Olav's strength.

"Keep still," said Pietro. "I'll take this bit of you for myself." He lowered the knife above Uma's finger.

Thunk.

Uma screamed, and the baby woke and began to wail. Pietro held the ring finger. "This is what I think of you and our marriage." He threw the finger in the fire.

Bile rose in Rina's throat as the scent of cooking flesh—like a pig on a spit on feast days—grew.

Meanwhile, Uma continued to scream.

"Do it, niece," said Pietro. "For the sake of the Gods shut the bitch up."

Rina let the veil fall, opening her vision to the other spectrum. Crackles of energy darted through the room, snapped across the skin and surrounded bodies and objects alike. The strongest sources came from Pietro, Media—and, she gasped, Olav. Media had been right.

A slap rang across the room."Shut up, will you!"

"Get away from me!" screeched Uma, backing into the living room and holding the cheek Pietro had slapped, blood pooling from the finger.

Blood. Rina's stomach hollowed, and saliva filled her mouth. She could taste it already. The tips of her incisors dug into her lower lips. Her heart beat faster, her mind telling her to feed directly from the source. The child turned in her stomach, kicking. It was ravenous, too. The blood would be the quickest way. The tastiest way. The safest way to consume Uma without draining the others in the room.

No. What would they think of her? They'd think she was a monster. Perhaps she was one, but that wouldn't serve her purpose. It wouldn't help Mai's plan.

"Move," Rina said, the words sounding far away to her ears. "Move from her—now!"

Pietro and Olav did, returning to the dining area. Not until they stood well behind her did Rina let go of gravity.

Her body left the chair and floated as she pulled the tendrils of energy bleeding from Uma's finger until she hovered above the woman, robes billowing behind her in a phantom wind. She pulled at the curls of amber light that flowed from Uma's wound, braiding it into a rope. Into something tangible. Something her consumption could focus upon without harming the others. She brought it to her hungry lips, fighting back the moan of delight.

Then, she drank.

☆☽○☾☆

The council met at dawn in the citadel. The magisters in their red. Acolytes in umber. Pietro, Iskra, and the trusted Denese they had rounded up during the night in their homespun. Guards chosen by Olav wore their leather and gambisons, some sitting at the table, others patrolling the room.

Rina sat before them in the blue of her forbearers, with the briar rose crown upon her head. Olav on one side. Pietro on the other. Media facing her across the other side of the table. At the centre of the table was a pile of ash and bone fragments, a discarded silver ring upon it.

"We meet to plan a show of power—a fire to scare the circling wolves from our lands," Rina said. "An act that will unite our people and return Mai's inheritance to his heir. But it won't be me who will tell you of this plan."

She opened her palm, revealing a golden disk, a flawless Carnelian Crystal at its centre. Her hand shook. Mai had told her to wait until the right time to share this. It lifted and floated across the table, halting above the cinders. Rina sent a thread of power to it. The crystal flashed and flared, light stretching, bending, warping, until a ghostly form appeared, sitting cross-legged.

Bright blue eyes fixed on Rina. The lips curled in a crooked smile, and Rina's breath caught as she took in the flawless alabaster skin and the way the dark ringlets fell across his forehead.

Hello, my dear, Mai said in her mind. Are you ready to shake the world?

★☾●☽★

A/N: Dear readers. I can't thank you enough for bearing with me to the end—particularly this last month-or-so of fast drafting. This is the end of The Carnelian Way, though I hope to write a sequel and a prequel one day. For now, it's time to submit it to the Wattys, warts and all, and then take a quick break before I round back and edit the hell out of it.

I would love to hear what you loved, what you hated, what you would change or add.

Thank you again,

Jas 💚💚💚