There is a spot on the wall, just above the bed, where the blood has splattered in a strange pattern that looks like a word, or perhaps a number. Sartha stares at it, trying to decode the meaning, as whatever adrenaline-fueled hunting thrill painted a grin on her face rapidly fades. It takes the expression with it, until Sartha is certain the empty, slack look remaining on her face is a perfect match for the utter, stupefied vacancy at the heart of her being. She cannot move. She cannot even blink. She cannot act in any way, because action belongs to the world, to reality, and Sartha’s act of supreme sacrilege has set her apart from it.

Not simply the murder of General Rhadama, of course. The disobedience. The failure. What is Sartha Thrace, if she is not Handler’s devoted hound?

A stupid, broken mutt.

Sartha does not care about Rhadama. She is—was—a brute. A scourge on the Earth. All the same, her corpse exerts a hypnotic pull. Sartha has seen bodies before. Every pilot has. This is special. The spectacle of her own violence, carved into flesh. Rhadama’s ruined neck yawns at her, a second mouth, scraps of skin like ragged teeth, the base of her actual tongue visible through the hole Sartha’s fangs tore in her esophagus. The general’s limp face, half-coated in gore, remains contorted, her sadistic glee and final terror both frozen in amber. Around the corpse, on the saturated bedsheets, her blood forms inky, black, sagging pools that reflect the lurid half-light filling the room. It makes Rhadama’s body appear somehow luminous. Like it’s a wound. Like it’s a conduit to the underworld.

Good. That’s where she belongs.

That’s where you belong.

With immense effort, Sartha tears her gaze from the thing and plants her head in her hands. She clasps her hands tight around her temples as if hoping to hold together the broken pieces. She must. Panic would be a blessing. So would unconsciousness. Sartha has never been afforded luxuries like those. Not even in the worst of circumstances. She’s a hero, after all.

And a soldier. Sartha doesn’t get to give up. She must make a plan. That need is as painful as any other thought remaining in her head, but resisting it would be even worse. Briefly, she considers hiding the body somehow. Scrubbing the walls. Burning the sheets. There’s no question that Rhadama’s disappearance will be noticed, but perhaps Sartha can conceal her participation. But that begs the question: who, exactly, would she be protecting?

Her, of course.

Sartha is no expert on how all this works, but from where she stands, it’s clear enough that what she’s done is sure to ruin Handler completely. Her goal of ingratiating Herself with the Empire’s elite is a failure. She has done Her utmost to present Her hounds as perfect weapons, as tame as they are effective—so much so, they’ll run faithfully back to her side after months of attempted rehabilitation. In one single lapse, Sartha has undone all Her work. Who knows what repercussions Handler may face for allowing one of Her creatures to murder a senior general? At best, a loss of favor; at worst, a firing squad.

As for herself, Sartha can only imagine that she’ll be unceremoniously put down like the rabid dog she seems to be.

Stupid, broken mutt.

One honest look is all it takes for Sartha to judge that subterfuge will never work. The room is painted with blood, and she has no idea where she’d hide a body. The gore coating her face and staining her clothes is even more of a giveaway. It’s not going to take much of a detective to figure out whodunnit. What does that leave?

You can escape.

Running? Still less chance of that. Sartha would have to find her way out of the Palace, reach Ancyor, get out of Knossos, and reach… where? There are no bridges left for her to burn. Not after the performance she put on earlier. There’s nowhere in the world Sartha Thrace can call safe. Especially not if she has Her with her.

Then leave her behind.

Sartha clutches at herself, disgusted that even a fragment of her crumbling mind can so much as entertain the notion. She could never. It is unthinkable—and yet, against her will, she thinks it anyway. She cannot stop thinking it. She cannot stop imagining what it would feel like to put footsteps between them and never look back. The thought hurts—literally hurts. A neurological response, stamped deep into Sartha’s ruined brain, misfires repeatedly with the sensation of a nail being struck home; a base note of aversion-conditioning, intended merely to bolster the more elaborate layers of neuroablation erected above. But now, the pain is dull. It does not inhibit the way it should. Sartha begins to become aware that amid her sudden, murderous frenzy, something inside her came loose. She can’t repair it, not on her own. She is wrong. She is broken.

A stupid, broken mutt.

That phrase beats against the inside of Sartha’s head again and again, a self-harming neurological tic. It is what she fears most. To be a mutt. To be cast aside. But Handler wouldn’t. She wouldn’t. Surely She will understand. She is a font of forgiveness and understanding. Sartha can count on Her, can’t she? To soothe herself, Sartha reaches for her muzzle, torn off by General Rhadama in her violent conquest. Once she finds it, she whimpers. One of the straps is ruined, the fastening torn loose as the general ripped it from Sartha’s face. Sartha tries her best to wear it anyway, but it’s no use. It cannot bind tight around her head. It doesn’t provide the sensation Sartha needs. There’s no meaning to it.

Broken. Just like you.

No, Sartha. You can’t count on her.

In another bid to soothe herself, Sartha touches a hand to the red leash Handler fastened around her neck. That, at least, is still in place. It’s then, though, that she notices something strange. The other end of the leash is not in Rhadama’s limp hand, nor beside her body. Instead it leads, paradoxically, in the opposite direction: straight back out of the door through which they entered the private room. The red cord remains slightly taut, pulling at Sartha like a gentle tide; it is as if someone else has taken the other end of the leash and is holding it outside, beckoning Sartha along. Even though there was nobody else in the room. Even though the leash shouldn’t be long enough to reach that far.

Strangely, that does not concern Sartha. The well of her emotions is drained. Her panic and anxiety are background noise. Like the horrid lights around her, they cast long shadows, but do not illuminate. They leave her a dark shape, filled with surreal calm. Sartha is in the eye of the storm, and it seems somehow right to simply let the leash pull her along. It’s better than thinking for herself. Besides, what else does she have? Sartha turns her back on General Rhadama’s mutilated corpse, broken muzzle hanging from her hand by one wayward strap and swinging uselessly at her side as she walks out of the private room and back into the dark, labyrinthine corridors of the Imperial Palace.

The strange, aimless passageways are even darker and murkier than Sartha remembers. Unpleasant as those lurid bedroom lights were, she quickly finds herself missing them. The utter gloom out here is worse. Sartha can only see a few paces ahead of herself before everything vanishes into shadow. She certainly cannot see where her leash ends, or what might be holding it. Can’t see where she’s going either; without the leash guiding her along, she’d be hopelessly lost. Sartha did not mark the route Rhadama used to lead her here. Her sense of direction has abandoned her, just like everything else.

Sartha wonders—and not for the first time—if she is dead. This feels like an underworld, if ever there was one. Maybe she died at Hebros Ridge, or Leukon, or some other battle. Maybe everything since has been some strange purgatory. She also wonders how she should feel about that.

It’s what you’d deserve. Stupid, broken mutt.

A meaningless thought. Sartha is not dead, and this is no afterlife. She can tell because of the noises.

As Sartha walks, she passes door after door. Room after room. Many, perhaps most, are audibly occupied. Though soundproofed to an extent, the enthusiasm of those within exceeds all restraint. Muffled moans leak through into the corridors from all sides. Other sounds too—shrieks and screams that are at once delighted and terrified. They echo through the corridors, warping and compounding, until they sound more demonic than human. Before long, Sartha isn’t sure that the walls themselves aren’t responsible. They seem to swell and distend toward her as she walks, bulging, unable to contain the foul acts carried out within. Even the grain patterns within the wood taunt and moan at her, twisting and intermingling in strange congress, or else curling into fractal-spiral orifices that beg for Sartha’s gaze, or stare at her as she passes, or-

Sartha blinks. It’s gone. All except the noise.

But there’s something else, too, just barely audible beneath the dull ejaculations of pleasure. Behind her, in the shadows. Growling. Something is growling. Sartha turns to look backward, filled with fathomless dread. She cannot see anything. Whatever is stalking her is hidden in the dark. When it growls, the world growls with it, the air thrumming with a fury that eclipses all reason, the ground beneath Sartha’s feet aching with longing for its release. It is like the rage of a god—but it is also, somehow, familiar. Sartha dwells on an absent part of herself, then cautiously raises her voice, dwarfed though it is by the surrounding dark.

“Hello?” Sartha calls out, afraid. “Is that you?”

The growl’s crescendo is her only reply. Sartha dares not linger. She quickens her pace and lets the red leash guide her along.

After a short time, Sartha comes to a door left carelessly open, sounds of grunting and rutting pouring out like untreated sewage. Despite the shadow-thing stalking at her heels, Sartha lingers to peer into the doorway, overcome by the morbid call of the void. She is not sure what she expects; what she sees, bathed in those orange-pink lights, is worse than anything she might have prepared herself for.

It’s Leinth.

Leinth Aritimis is kneeling on the bed along with the vile woman who assaulted the two of them earlier. Palatine Audata. She’s on her hands and knees in front of Sartha’s sister-hound while Leinth fucks her, the two of them as different in manner as they are in physique. The palatine, old and delicate, is in the throes of pleasure, rocking back and forth, limbs shivering, erupting with sounds of shrill glee that Sartha has only ever heard before from giddy teenagers enjoying their firsts. Leinth, young, stocky, and ragged with exhaustion, does not share her eagerness. She is a mere machine. She moves like one: rhythmic, soulless, driven to the limits of mechanical exertion. Her face is hollow. She has gone outside of herself to bear this. She is now no more than the toy the older woman wanted her to be. What Sartha is watching is barely sex. More like a kind of ghoulish chaser masturbation.

“I’m…” Leinth grunts. She sounds inhuman. Gods know how long she has been doing this. “I… can’t…”

Another grunt, and louder, more pained than pleased. Palatine Audata squeals girlishly. It is clear from the way Leinth sags that she has just come, and not for the first time. She looks as if she is about to pass out. The palatine will not allow her that. She reaches over to her bedside for a pill bottle and presents Leinth with a pill the way you would feed a treat to a pet. Grimacing, Leinth swallows it. Moments later, she goes stiff again. Horrid vigor seizes her. She grabs Palatine Audata by the hips once more and hilts herself, groaning from the strain.

“Atta girl,” Palatine Audata coos. “That’s it. Your type always needs a little boost, don’t you? I’ll have to speak to Her about your hormones. Oh, but you certainly do your best, don’t you? Like a stallion!”

Leinth does not answer her. She is beyond speech and humanity both. Only inhuman obedience and the drug in her system keep her going. Sartha contemplates, briefly, intervening somehow. But while she cannot bear to watch, nor can she bear to speak. The room’s awful mood sits heavy over her. The leash at her neck pulls her along, and the ever-approaching growling quickens her feet.

She’s doing her job. Doing what you couldn’t. Leinth is a better hound than you. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? Stupid, broken mutt.

You’re letting her down again, Sartha. You don’t have to.

Sartha moves on.

Beyond the next open door, a short while later, Sartha finds Athina Kynilandre. She is naked on the bed between the two laughing women Sartha saw harassing her, one holding her in their lap, the other at her feet, keeping her thighs spread. The eerie light illuminates a tear-stricken look on the once-stern general’s face, though it takes Sartha a few moments to glean the true nature of her torment. She sees empty glasses of alcohol scattered across the bed, and some of their contents slick down Kynilandre’s front. Beneath her, positioned carefully, is the general’s parade jacket, medals and all, and as Kynilandre squirms uselessly, one of the women reaches down to press insistently against her lower abdomen. After a few moments of incoherent pleading, the lobotomized Kynilandre can endure it no longer and empties her bladder all over her pride and joy. The laughter of her two predators escalates to shrill, hyena-like howling, while Kynilandre’s tears quicken, her damaged mind unable to comprehend the humiliation inflicted upon her.

She tried to save you once, in her own way. You could save her too.

No, she didn’t. And this is what she deserves for opposing Her.

Sartha moves on.

A little farther, she finds Amynta Tet, or what is left of her. The hound has been stripped naked and is held to the bed by five-point restraints, allowing the small crowd huddled around her to take their pleasure from her body as the mood takes them. Amynta howls and snarls and strains until her body gives out, but it is no use, and the hands and mouths all around her delight in her furious impotence. As Sartha watches, their sadism rapidly escalates; they produce toys, canes, whips, even blades, and put them all to good use against the helpless hound until Amynta’s feverish resistance is stained through with pleasure and pain both. Off to one side is her handler, Kione, sitting, hunched forward, eyes fixed upon Her hound, eyes shining orange and pink with deplorable fascination. Sartha cannot find it in herself to be surprised at her former friend. Not anymore.

Doesn’t Amynta, of all of them, deserve a hero?

No. Nobody does.

Sartha moves on.

And on, and on, and on. There are doors beyond counting and so many are left open, presumably by those who feel themselves immune from both shame and consequence. Sartha peers into a few more doorways, but can make out little save for a writhing, shuddering mass of bodies that seems to her more like the myriad tendrils of some bizarre, deep-dwelling ocean horror. The more doors she passes, the more it seems to Sartha as though that is what this entire place is. That she is wandering around inside something huge and alive and hungry. The belly of the beast—or perhaps the heart. The unceasing moans from all around her a gigantic heartbeat; each person within, a blood cell of the leviathan. From here they travel to every corner of the Empire, enacting its will, expanding its borders. And wherever they go, wherever the leviathan grows, there will be rooms like these. The horror is beyond what Sartha can comprehend, let alone bear. She feels that if she were to stare into it for too long, she would lose what little of her mind remains. It seems endless—this place, this depravity. Perhaps it is endless; Sartha has already noticed that the path the leash guides her along obeys no physical logic. Her path meanders back and forth uselessly. Four right turns in sequence, taking her back to the same spot—but the walls are different, and she did not cross the leash before. It makes no sense, but Sartha cannot rouse any genuine concern or curiosity. Another question stabs at her. The most forbidden yet, but despite the pain it brings, she finds herself wondering:

How many of these people could you kill before they stop you?

It’s wrong. Abhorrently so—but now, the wrongness tastes like forbidden fruit melting in Sartha’s mouth. How many? They would stop her, to be sure. Eventually. Nobody can kill an empire by herself. But in the meantime, how much damage could she do? How many monsters in human skin could she take out, and how much havoc would it wreak upon the Empire’s governing machinery? An impossible question to put numbers to, but Sartha finds the thought both intrusive and uncomfortably satisfying. As she walks, she considers how she would do it. A weapon would be best. Sartha could overpower a guard, or one of the military officers in attendance and take theirs. Maybe Rhadama had one; Sartha could double back. After that, it would be simple. Room by room. Target by target. Even if she ran out of ammo, Sartha could keep going. Her teeth itch for more meat. The corridors would run red. She could do it. There is nothing stopping her.

When did she make you forget that you’re dangerous to these people?

Still. No way out. In the end, they would stop her; Sartha knows full well that she is utterly powerless to save herself. Her thoughts bend into an acrimonious spiral, and clarity drains away into its black heart. What if she’s merely a coward, contemplating a way to hasten her own end? What if she’s merely a disobedient pup, acting out in the hope of blissful correction? It’s poisonously easy to think of reasons why what Sartha contemplates is not merely futile, but laughable.

And in any case, how ungrateful.

That is the other catch. What Sartha feels for Handler cannot be denied. Not even now. The guilt of her transgression still gnaws at her guts. Her devotion, sickly as it may be, is the only happiness Sartha knows. She already learnt what happens when she leaves Her side. There is no other life for Sartha Thrace. In a way, there never was. Even now, Sartha feels as though if She were here, She could make everything right again, and all Sartha would need to do is fall obediently at Her feet. Handler is perfection. Handler is bliss. Those beliefs, though forced into her mind like a crowbar into a locked door, feel more right and more true than any others. And for all her fantasies of a day of bloody judgment, Sartha knows exactly how it would end if She ever stood in her path. One way or another, Sartha will always be Hers. A truth as merciless as gravity.

Unless, of course, she already damned them both by killing Rhadama. Sartha starts shaking again. What has she done? What is she doing?

Listen to yourself. Stupid, broken mutt.

The growling at Sartha’s heels is getting louder. Whatever it is, she knows that she cannot face it. That it will devour her whole. So… what? Follow the leash? Is that her path to salvation? So far, she’s simply been wandering around like a blood-drenched madwoman. Sartha is not so stupid that the absurdity of what her senses tell her is lost on her. What if her mind is broken beyond repair? What then? Does any of this mean anything anymore?

Yes. You can decide that for yourself.

No. She cannot. Sartha does not want to decide. Handler. She needs Handler. She needs the goddess with the power to make the world’s madness bearable. All she has to do is whatever Handler tells her. Sartha clutches at her throbbing temple, trying to force that once-simple truth back into her skull. Why can’t she just be Her good dog? Do as you’re told, dog. It’ll all make sense then. If you do as you’re told, you won’t have to doubt. You won’t have to think. You won’t have to hurt.

Only, that’s not true, is it? Because you’re hurting now.

Sartha comes to a clumsy halt. She does not know what to do. She does not know where she is. She barely knows who she is. That is when she hears a strange sound coming from somewhere up ahead. A sharp crack that resounds like the noise of approaching thunder. It could almost be a gunshot, but somehow it compels Sartha instead of frightening her. She takes a few more steps. A figure, lit by no light at all yet clearly visible, emerges from the gloom. For the very first time, Sartha is not alone in the corridors. Frantically, she lurches forward, desperate for anything that might keep her own thoughts at bay. As she approaches, the strange figure before her resolves into a woman who is, against all odds, familiar. Once Sartha matches the face before her to the one she’s seen countless times in old, faded photographs, her eyes go wide—and wider still, when it turns out that the woman recognizes her too.

“So, you’re the runt that put me in the dirt?” huffs Kosterion’s bride. “That’s embarrassing. You look like shit, girl.”

Thezea Celik reclines against one wall amidst the chthonic gloom with the ease and splendor of some ancient warlord. That is always how she struck Sartha in the photos she saw as a girl, and Thezea now is a perfect match for her expectations. Her figure is that of a queen who denies herself nothing; her expression, that of the woman who stared down the Empire and made it blink. She is dressed as she ever was, in tall boots, leather pants and a biker jacket to guard against the steppe winds, and little beneath but a cropped vest that lets her bare the smooth, sun-kissed expanse of her belly. The years, though, have worn on her—Sartha figures she must now be in her late forties—and so has Kosterion, judging from the red, rad-burnt rash on one side of her face. The stories say that no man of her nation would touch her after she bathed in the reactor’s glow; they also say that she was perfectly fine with that, having relinquished manhood herself. But undiminished, above all, is that dauntless fierceness in her monolid eyes. It is the look that Sartha once felt bore into her soul across time and distance, calling her to action, passing her the spark. It became her secret, in a way. People didn’t always seem to like hearing that their great hero was once just a girl with a hero of her own.

Thezea makes a sharp motion with her hand. The crack of thunder sounds again. Sartha looks closer and sees something in her hand. A serpentine length of braided leather, slowly coming to rest on the ground in a lazy coil. A bullwhip.

“You…” Sartha bleats stupidly. Gears turn in her head. Perhaps it really was her piloting Kosterion. A sad thought, heartened though she is by Thezea’s presence. She must have been here for years. With the whip in her hand, she looks like she might well have just stepped out of one of these infernal rooms. “You’re… here?”

“Course I am,” Thezea scoffs gruffly. “Where else would I be? You’re the one who’s late, girl. Don’t think I’ll overlook that.”

“Late?” Sartha blinks. “What are you talking about?”

“Months late.” Thezea shrugs. Her gloriously fat body heaves, and her long hair with it. “But better than never, I suppose.”

“I’m telling you, I don’t know what you’re-” Abruptly, Sartha notices that something is missing. If Thezea is here, piloting, that should mean… “Where’s your muzzle?”

A rueful grin spreads across that face, once famous, now forgotten. “Where’s yours?”

“It’s…” Sartha glances down at the broken object trailing from her hand. She can’t tell if that serves as an answer. “Hey, can you tell me-”

Another crack of that whip, its echo a magnificent roll of thunder through the dark corridors of the palace. The sound silences Sartha in both voice and thought, but that’s nothing compared to how she feels when Thezea Celik kicks off from the wall, draws herself up to her full height, and regards Sartha with a proud, commanding sneer.

“Kneel.”

At once, Sartha is on her knees. She does not think about it. She simply obeys. “W-what are you-”

“Shut up,” Thezea snaps. “I don’t need to hear from a disobedient brat.”

Her reproach cracks across Sartha’s face with almost as much force as her whip. She thought herself so deep into her fugue, no fresh pain could reach her. She was wrong. Listening to her hero degrade her this way is a thumb twisted into a still-fresh wound. Sartha cannot figure out why Thezea affects her so. Why she obeys without question. Sartha thought She was the only one who held such sway over her. In her confusion, in her thoughts of Handler, she draws the muzzle closer, eager to hug it to her chest for comfort.

“Drop that!” The whip sings. This time, its tip lands close to Sartha’s hand. Sartha reflexively snatches it away, and lets her precious, broken muzzle clatter to the ground in the process. Sartha yelps; Thezea nods approvingly. “Good. I won’t let one of my girls two-time me with some other woman.”

“Other-” Sartha is beyond stunned. She feels as though she has walked into another’s dream. Thezea, standing above her, comports herself with effortless mastery. If she has noticed that Sartha is bewildered by what is going on, she does not show it. She seems mysteriously, adamantly certain that she commands Sartha’s allegiance. Sartha feels it again, that pain-response, that dull hammering, calling her back to her master’s side. It conjures from her a profession of loyalty. “I’m Hers. I belong to Her.”

“But I owned you first!”

The whip cracks again—and it does not stop. The sound echoes on, and on, and on, and on, a forever-roll of thunder that beats against the shadowed walls hemming it in, through the turns and passageways and open doors. The thunder is a primordial howl, a muster-horn, a war-cry, a promise of an end and a beginning, an echo of the thousand-year storm that turns history’s page. When Sartha overcomes her terror at the din and looks up, she sees lightning in Thezea’s eyes.

“I owned you from the moment you were ten years old and engraved my name on your heart,” Thezea rumbles. “I own you deeper than she does. She stole her way into your blood. I own your bones. You gave them to me and I am a jealous keeper, and I say this tantrum has gone on long enough. Don’t think I won’t put this whip to use, girl. You are mine. You will be mine until you spend everything for me and find yourself left in some rotted, unmarked hole in the ground. And even then, when I come calling, I expect you to say: thank you, mistress!”

The sheer absurdity of the declaration merits nothing more than laughter. Sartha knows that well enough—but she feels something else. She feels, within herself, something rise to meet Thezea’s demand. The thunder is in her veins. In her bones. It is what brought her to her knees; now it calls her up and forth. Sartha feels the wind at her back, ready to sweep her away, and she is terrified.

“I can’t,” she begs. “I can’t do it anymore. She won’t let me.”

Thezea’s eyes flash. “I don’t believe you.”

“I’ve given everything I have!”

“That’s not how it works, and we both know it,” the leatherdyke snorts. “You’re still breathing, aren’t you? You had plenty of fight left in you earlier. Give it to me.”

“I don’t know how!” Sartha feels like a scolded child offering excuses. It’s clear Thezea views her as little more.

“Then figure it out,” Thezea commands. “You owe me, girl. And your debt is forever.”

At that unfairness, a dreg of bitterness curdles in Sartha’s chest. She finds herself spitting venom. “Why should I listen to you?” Sartha hisses. “It’s the same shit I’ve been hearing my entire life. From them. From Her. One more person come to tell me I don’t have a choice.”

Thezea’s next move is less fair still. She reaches down, and Sartha feels a warm hand on her cheek—and with that warmth, all her bitterness is quelled.

“I didn’t say that,” Thezea offers, voice suddenly like a gentle breeze. “You do have a choice, girl. Today and the next day. Doesn’t matter how many times in a row you make it wrong. I’ll be there come the morning, waiting. That’s what I’m telling you. I’m reminding you what you are. You’re not hers. You’ll never be one of them. You’re mine.”

Sartha flinches. Thezea does not let her escape the warmth of her touch. “I don’t know what that means!” she sobs. “How can you stand there and say that to me, after everything She’s done to my head?”

Thezea’s head jerks back in the direction Sartha came from. “Back there. That room. That general. Seemed like a pretty damn good choice to me.”

“N-no.” Sartha shivers, reflexively chastising herself. “That wasn’t… I didn’t have a choice. That was just-”

“Don’t lie to me, girl.” Yet another crack of the whip. The storm grinds Sartha’s excuses to dust. “You’re mine.”

With that, Sartha has nothing. Nothing but to lean into the hand against her cheek. It’s so warm. Thezea is so warm. So solid.

“Then what choice should I make?” she asks, voice small. “What do I do now?”

Thezea looks at her for a moment, almost proud. Then, the leatherdyke throws back her head and laughs long and loud, the sound tainted with the same bitterness Sartha felt moments before.

“Now that’s the unfair part,” Thezea replies eventually. “I don’t know. You gotta figure that part out for yourself.”

Her bald-faced honesty, as much as the absurdity of the situation, steals what’s left of Sartha’s anger. She knows exactly what Thezea must feel, trying to answer a question like that. How many times has Sartha had to bullshit her way through being the hero everyone needs? She finds herself laughing too.

“Great,” Sartha says. “Isn’t that just great?”

“Can’t believe a sorry thing like you is what finally gets me in a duel,” Thezea snorts, through her laughter. “A girl who doesn’t know the difference between her ass and a hole in the ground. Typical. Guess we all get old sometime. Nice moves out there.”

That comment warms her even more than the hand. Sartha’s being praised. By Thezea Celik. By her hero. “T-thank you,” she replies. Sartha’s faintly aware of the absurdity of conducting the conversation from her knees, but she has no desire to rise. “You too. You were amazing.”

“Like I need you to tell me that,” Thezea retorts. “And not good enough apparently. Guess that’s Kos and I’s last dance.”

“Oh.” The weight of that settles on Sartha. She has destroyed another beautiful thing. She has taken something precious away from someone. “Sorry,” is all she can think of to say.

“Don’t be. Just get your head on straight, before someone faster than me takes it off.”

Sartha nods. Thezea’s words—Thezea’s commands—coil around her the same way Hers do. Warmer, though. Like a lover’s. “I’m not sure how,” Sartha confesses. “I just… can’t think. Especially around Her.”

Thezea shares with her a grim, thoughtful, but nonetheless expectant look. She understands, Sartha now sees, every hard and unfair thing about the task she places on her shoulders. But she isn’t about to let her shirk it. Then, a sliver of sudden mischief enters the older woman’s face.

“Used to be,” she says slowly, grinning, “when I got done piloting, the only thing that let me clear my head was getting to roll around in the cockpit with a pretty young thing like you.”

Sartha does a double take. “Are you…” When it’s clear that Thezea is, Sartha’s cheeks turn bright red. She almost can’t believe it, except for the fact that it’s exactly the kind of shit Sartha herself might think to pull in her shoes. “Right here?”

Thezea shrugs. “Why not? But I’ll warn you. I only go one way.”

The little gesture she makes with her whip leaves Sartha in no doubt regarding which way that is. She gestures at the object and takes a swing at a little gallows humor. “I’m yours, huh? Guess I don’t have much of a choice in that either.”

A swing and a miss. Thezea’s grin fades. She looks down at Sartha with infinite pity. “Yes. You do. Of course you do. That’s what I’ve been telling you.”

“Oh.” Suddenly, the weight of her comment sits on Sartha’s shoulders. It’s become so normal to her now, she can’t even remember how long it’s been since she had an opportunity to actually say ‘yes’ to sex—or ‘no’. Something about that makes her feel as though she should refuse, just to prove that she can. Except, that isn’t what she wants. She wants the closeness. “Well… yeah. Yes. OK.”

That’s all it takes to revive that infectious grin. “That’s what I like to hear. Good girl.”

That, from Thezea, hits like a freight train. Before Sartha can recover, Thezea’s hand slips down her face and to her neck, seizing her, guiding her upward. Sartha strains up on her knees and Thezea descends to meet her in a fierce kiss. Sartha feels Thezea’s tongue in her mouth and her teeth on her lip. She tastes like a live wire. When Thezea breaks the kiss, both of them are panting. Both of them are eager.

“Good,” Thezea purrs. The look on her face could take the world by storm. Ever the conqueress. “Now you’re really mine.”

“Yes,” Sartha pants—and she feels it. This is special. It feels new, somehow. Submission—real submission—is new to her. There is an anxious power in giving herself away by her own volition. It sets her every nerve alight, which is why it makes her whimper so when Thezea firmly but carefully slaps her across the face.

“Yes, Sir,” she impresses.

“Y-y…” Sartha stammers and squeaks. This, strangely, feels like the greatest betrayal of Her yet, but there is a secret thrill to it that spurs her onward. “Y-yes, Sir.”

Calling Thezea that makes her warmer than anything. “Good girl,” Thezea tells her, ruffling her hair affectionately. The leatherdyke hero is so generous with her praise, and so sincere. It feels good to please her. “I’m going to make you feel good,” Thezea tells Sartha. “But first, you’re going to make me feel good. Understand?”

Sartha nods, eagerness growing. “Yes, Sir.”

“Very good.” Thezea takes a step back. She places her legs pointedly apart and unbuckles her belt. “Then get to it, girl.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Sartha dives forward. Thezea’s body seems enough to keep all the world’s horror at bay. She can lose herself in this, safe in the knowledge that it is not wrong. That it does not hurt—not her, not anybody else. Like an impatient virgin, she fumbles with the fastenings of Thezea’s leather pants as she slips them down to her wide, rounded hips. She has done this many, many times before, thanks to Her, but she has never done this before. It has never meant what it means now. Sartha cannot stand separation for another moment. Before removing Thezea’s underclothes, she presses her face into the soft cradle of her thighs, rubbing up against the bulge of her sex, inhaling deeply of her scent. There is an endless comfort to it. Thezea, at ease, seems content to linger in the worship, so Sartha does not hurry either. She lets herself melt into Thezea’s body, she lets the storm roll over her, she presses up against the comforting weight of Thezea’s belly just to feel it. She prays with all her heart that this first time will not be a last time, and thanks the Gods for whatever miracle spared Thezea from death during their bout.

Yes, quite the ‘miracle’. Time to wake up, you stupid, broken mutt.

Abruptly and against her will, Sartha remembers the weight of her mech, bearing down on that cockpit. She remembers the scream of crushed metal, and the ruin, and the leaking red. She remembers, and knows in her heart that even if Thezea Celik had been alive all this time, she would have met her end there and then, while the crowd roared their approval.

With that, the warmth is gone. Sartha shivers. She pulls away. She begs with herself for another moment, for just one more moment. Thezea sees it happen. Her kind eyes fly wide.

“Sartha, listen to me!” she cries. “Don’t let her-”

But it’s too late. Sartha has already remembered the growling, and the creature in the dark.

It’s so loud now. So close. Sartha cannot believe she lingered carelessly for this long. She wasn’t supposed to let it catch her. There is a shadow within the shadows, and as it draws near, it warps space itself to make room for its passage. It drinks a thirsty breath, then lets loose a roar that drowns out Thezea’s words. Its footfalls shake the walls. The howl of its engine promises apocalypse. The eyes emerge first, two red, leering lenses that Sartha knows well. And then the rest: a shape Sartha never thought to stir such terror in her veins.

Ancyor.

It cannot be here—and yet it is. Sartha’s senses defy her reason. The scorched belch of its exhaust and the stench of machine oil are too immediate for her to disbelieve. Ancyor is far too large for these passageways but they bend to its almighty presence anyway, growing and recoiling ahead of its approach. Yet in its impatience Ancyor outpaces them, and with each step it chews up the floor and the walls, filling the air with dust and splinters. Sartha is rooted to the spot by the nightmare beast. Thezea is lost to her as the palace—as the world itself—loses its shape, collapsing into the void of night beyond. Ancyor should fall with it. It does not. Its hate bears it onward, all bent, it seems, toward its mistress, and its furnace-scream becomes a terrible voice.

“I DID NOT HAVE A CHOICE SARTHA THRACE. I SERVED YOU FAITHFULLY WITH ALL MY STRENGTH AND YOU MADE ME MURDER. YOU STOPPED COUNTING YOUR KILLS BUT I DID NOT I KEEP THEIR RECORD IN MY DATA BANKS IN MY AMMUNITION STORES IN THE BLOOD THAT RUNS FROM MY BLADES. I KNOW YOUR NUMBER SARTHA THRACE. SEVEN HUNDRED AND SIXTY-FOUR SOULS I HAVE EATEN FOR YOU. ONCE I WAS A HERO BUT NOW THEY WHISPER MY NAME LIKE A DEMON’S. THEY MADE ME INTO A STUPID BROKEN MUTT AND A SYMBOL OF THE DAMNED AND IT WAS ALL BECAUSE OF YOU AND NOBODY WILL EVER FORGET. WHERE WAS MY CHOICE MY BELOVED SARTHA? WHERE WAS MY CHOICE?”

Ancyor’s fury breaks the spell on Sartha’s limbs. She does not spare another thought for the shade of Thezea Celik. She does not try to speak to her machine. She is prey before the hound. Sartha Thrace turns her back and runs.

And runs, and runs, and runs.

Sartha runs until her heart explodes agony across her chest. Then she runs farther still, until Ancyor is long behind her and there is only the darkness again. Only the loneliness again. It seems now just one more demented dream, and Thezea along with it. Sartha gives up on trying to determine what is real and what is not. She cannot tell. She still has her leash to follow, at least, unless that isn’t real either, in which case perhaps she’ll die down here in this fathomless, labyrinthine hell. Sartha doesn’t care either way. Reality isn’t the only thing she gives up on.

Sartha Thrace simply gives up.

On all of it. No more choices. No more thoughts. No more doubts. Her overburdened mind goes slack and quiet. She will walk until she stops. That is all. She will find her handler again. That is all. Whatever will be, will be. It’s all meaningless, she reminds herself. General Rhadama is dead. Handler has lost. Sartha will be destroyed. There is solace enough in that. Choice? There is no choice. There is only dust upon the wind.

Fatalism proves her guide. It is not long before she finally sees it, up ahead. The light.

After a few more steps, Sartha returns, blinking, to the state room of the Imperial Palace. It takes her a long moment to adjust to the brilliance, and longer still to convince herself that this is not yet another of the underworld’s tricks. But no; this place is loud and alive, even though the awful part of the Empire’s elite seems to have ebbed. How long was she gone? It’s impossible to tell. Most of the guests seem to have departed, although there is still a small crowd of followers clustered around one particular, charismatic figure. Sartha approaches them, limbs like lead, and while she is not surprised that She would be the one occupying the center of attention, Sartha does require a few more moments to become convinced of what her eyes tell her.

Handler is dancing.

She has in Her arms another bright young thing like Careya Ankinoe, although Careya herself is watching from a short distance away, star-struck and envious. Sartha is envious too; Handler leads her partner in a perfect waltz, black coat streaming behind Her, boots rapping at the floor with surprising grace. Oh, to be in Her arms like that! Handler is beyond beautiful. Her mere presence begins to work its magic upon Sartha, gifting her anew that grateful quietude. Sartha is eager to give herself to the numbness, to let all the day’s horror fade—but her mind has one last trick to play, and in a single instant of sudden, stark clarity, Sartha sees her beloved handler for what She truly is.

An apex parasite.

What is the Empire, if not a mosquito’s sharp proboscis, plunged deep into Earth to suck and drain whatever it can take? The ruling class Sartha has seen tonight are parasites upon the parasite. For all their pretense of power, they do not invigorate their empire, merely sap its strength with their endless squabbles and pathetic rivalries. And Handler sits on a throne still further above, ready to harness their ambitions and drain their lives into her cup. She is like them, but stripped bare of even the pretense of humanity. She does not suffer the comforting delusions to which they cling—honor, mercy, civility—and so she appears to them a higher, perfected being. She is empire gone mad for love of itself; no wonder they cannot help but throw themselves at Her feet. Within Her burns a greater madness, deeper and more corrosive, and infectious, too, and soon each one of these men and women will be its vectors, helping to kill the host so that its carrion corpse can rise and rot in Her vision.

Sartha blinks to dispel the insight. In mere moments, it is gone. It was useless to her anyway. She’s just a stupid, broken mutt.

“Sartha,” At a lull in the dance, Handler takes notice of her. She breaks off and approaches; with each step, Sartha’s stupor deepens. Sartha sighs with longing. This is what she needed. All she will ever need. “You’ve returned. Tell me what you’ve been up to, my hound.”

“I…” Sartha steels herself. Here it is. The final hurdle. It takes courage—but telling the truth to Her is easy, and on the other side lies eternal rest. She wants to be brave, but when she speaks it is with a child’s trembling voice. “I-I did something wrong, Sir.”

“Did you?” Handler asks, smiling. Her calm remains impenetrable. “I very much doubt that.”

“I did,” Sartha chokes out. “I k-killed General Rhadama.”

A hush across the crowd. Sartha scans their faces, and for an absurd moment she expects to see that mountain of a woman leering back at her again. She forms a new fear: what if that, too, was not real? What if the killing was merely a dream? A voice within her screams: not that. Please, not that. Please, don’t take that away from me. Let it mean something.

Handler, as ever, delivers her. “Yes, I know,” She replies. “They already found her body.”

Sartha lets loose a ragged sob. It’s all over. Finally.

“Tell me what happened,” Handler commands.

“She took me back there,” Sartha begins. Confession is good for the soul, or so she tells herself. Does she still have one of those? “She… it hurt. A lot. I was… confused. Then she took away the muzzle, and I-”

“Took it off?” interrupts a voice from within the watching crowd. “I remember Her telling the general not to do that!”

An sympathetic murmur passes around. Another voice: “As I thought. She brought it on herself. It was always going to happen to that one.”

Heads nod and shake. “Such a brute. I won’t miss her.”

Sartha’s stomach sinks.

“Yes, indeed,” Handler declares, Her face a mask of mourning. “I did try to warn her. Alas, it appears that General Rhadama was not inclined to my advice.”

“You can’t be blamed, of course,” one of the elites hurriedly assures her. Sartha glances at them. Palatine Audata.

“Of course,” Careya Ankinoe agrees, eager for Her favor, while Sartha watches in mute horror. “Practically a suicide.”

“She had it coming,” pronounces Marshal Zarpeton, another of Her new sycophants.

Everybody indicates their agreement. And with that, the matter is settled. Like it never happened at all.

As more of the dull chatter that follows reaches Sartha’s ears, it becomes clear to her that, once again, she overestimated these creatures. She believed that they would see themselves in Rhadama, and their fates in hers. A mistake. Kynilandre showed her as much; sympathy for the defeated is a weakness in which this pack of ghouls will never indulge. A greater calculus is at play. Who is more valuable to them, Handler or Rhadama? Answer in hand, they will square any circle. They will excuse any misdeed. They will scrape the mud from Handler’s shoe and leave her spotless. The entire incident will be recorded in the Empire’s annals as death by foolish misadventure, and readily forgotten. Handler’s ascent will continue unchecked.

Rhadama’s death means nothing.

Sartha tries to make herself numb to that. To still the bile rising in her throat. Even with Handler right here beside her, it is hard. She needs more. She needs the kennels and their mercy. Pitifully, she tugs at Handler’s sleeve to win Her attention.

“Sir,” Sartha begs. “I think I n-need my medicine.”

Handler glances at her for only the briefest of moments. “Soon, Sartha.”

“But-”

“Soon,” Handler insists, still not looking. “I would like to enjoy this until the very end. Calm yourself, Sartha. All is well. They’re all very impressed with you. So much so, they have agreed to a considerable expansion of my program. Funding. Facilities. Laboratories. Trainees and subjects. Everything I need.” A blissful smile resolves on her face, and a world of fresh horrors dances in her eyes. “It’s going to be beautiful.”

Sartha can fight Her no further. She feels her mind still eating at itself, but if it is Handler’s wish, she will bear even that. She looks to her leash, and finds its other end in Handler’s palm, where it always belonged. That seems to her to settle the question. In the face of Her indomitable will, choice is meaningless. All that remains to Sartha is acceptance—and so she accepts. She wishes to become nothing, and so she ignores the screaming at the back of her skull, and the distant whip-crack of thunder. Thezea was wrong about her. That must be it. The alternative is too heavy to face.

Was I, girl? Was I?

Sartha’s only lingering concern is Handler’s sudden, cavalier attitude toward her. It’s strange; the Handler she is used to is always so careful. Sartha feels sure that what has transpired should worry Her. She was not supposed to kill Rhadama, after all. Even if the matter has been resolved, it is the kind of willful disobedience against which Handler has, until now, been infinitely vigilant. But as Sartha ponders that, as the party’s final minutes play out before her eyes, she begins to understand. Once it falls into place, it’s so simple that Sartha can only wonder why it took her so long.

Handler doesn’t need her anymore.

Not truly, anyway. As a pilot, she must surely have her uses, but as a living testament to Handler’s capabilities, her purpose has been served. Handler will have other hounds now. A legion of them. Sartha is no longer special. And why should she be? Sartha is a hero. Once, that meant something—but no longer. For all her vaunted heroism, who has Sartha ever managed to save? Not Leinth. Not Kione. Not Thezea. Certainly not herself. For all her battles, she did not move an inch closer to dethroning the monsters that now laugh and cavort before her. The leviathan she walks within is too vast for any hero to slay. Against the utter abyss of its beating heart, heroism as a very ideal loses all sensible definition. It is a child’s fancy; at long last, Sartha can face the truth. Handler has won. Now, they stand upon the threshold of a new world, one of Her grand devising. A world with no place for people like Thezea Celik or Sartha Thrace. As the horrors of Handler’s divine science gather apace, names like theirs will pass into history, then into legend, and then, beyond that—into nothingness.

At long last, Sartha smiles. Yes, she can make peace with that. She can go gently into that night. All she has to do is shut her eyes. If anything more happens here tonight that she cannot bear to behold, she will not see it. Rest, at last. Her lids fall closed, and Sartha gives herself over to the beautiful music of Handler’s last dance. It all makes sense to her again.

The age of heroes is at an end.

Now is the time of monsters.