From the Fort behind us, a rifle shot shatters the cold air.

There’s sharpshooters atop the walls, watching our backs. The enemy is still out here. We’ve heard them a handful of times now, quiet singing or girlish laughter echoing through the crags. The troops can’t come down to help us search. Not after the nephilim entranced and cut down fourteen of them last night. Even the Proxy is forced to observe from afar. Guiding star though she may be, touched by divinity, she too is still human.

Nephilim- that’s what the Proxy has named the doll-things. False angels. Perhaps a crude attempt by the Host to mimic we Virtues, before they finally claimed one of us. I’d glimpsed the Fort’s medics dissecting one last night, after they’d seen to the wounded. Beside the operating table sat a pile of armor and machinery, flecked with rust and blood after being pried off of the body of what otherwise appeared to be a human woman. At least until the medics cut her open, paused to exchange looks, and began to pull out slick greenish entrails. The dead nephilim’s expression was serene even then, a hollow smile on her waxy face.

An icy breeze rakes across my eyes. Above the clouds are as grey and jagged as the highlands around us. Sholanan, at least, stays close to me, head raised and scanning around like an eager puppy. There’s a little more spring in her step now that she’s settled into place in our choir, under my dutiful guidance. I keep watch on her almost as much as I do our surroundings. Guilt clings to the back of my neck. It claws and bites at me for letting Imeshan be taken. If my beloved sister pet were to be spirited away, I’m sure it would tear my throat wide open.

Sholanan’s head pops up as she notices something down an incline to our right. She turns to me, seeking permission to investigate. I pat Brea on her shoulder to get her attention, then we all inch down the slope towards whatever it is. A fine dusting of snow has settled over the dirt and bristly yellow grass, but I quickly spot what’s interested Sholanan. A face mask like ours.

We’ve almost reached it when Sholanan pauses. Brea and I do as well. We ready our SMGs and listen. For a moment, just the breeze quietly groaning through the hills. Then, a musical giggle. Muffled as if to not let some joke slip early. Coming from the boulders at the bottom of the slope.

From the Fort, another gunshot.

We back away up the slope. Below, a breathy voice whispers, “Come back, bright ones. Your sister misses you.”

We search a little longer before the gunshots become more frequent, and the Proxy orders us via radio to return. Then we report to her that we found nothing but that last trap, and are dismissed to stew in our failure. Sholanan refuses to leave our room, watching the door as if she still expects Imeshan to walk in. I sit behind her, holding her close. An attempt at comfort, for her and myself. Trying to distract from that gnawing guilt with her soft black curls and the shape and warmth of her body. She’s so tense, muscles primed as she waits.

Brea lays on her own bed, blinking up at the ceiling. I do almost wish she’d look over at us, so she’d see Sholanan in my arms. Yet now that I’ve beaten her, at least in this, she won’t even give me that satisfaction. I try not to dwell on it. It’s a trifle, really, compared to another lost sister. It’s only baffling that after such antagonism between us, Brea seems to have lost all interest.

I hum to Sholanan in hopes that she might relax, might soften for me. She just stares at the door, tight as a wound spring.

Imeshan’s loss has rippled beyond us. A single ambrosia tank has been installed in another former ammo closet, in which we take turns soaking. That afternoon I go to take mine, winding through the half-lit halls. A dense silence fills the corridors today, the surviving troops still reeling from last night’s attack. The few exchanges I do overhear are not optimistic.

“...Came out of nowhere, simple as...”

“...Heard they got one of the angels, too...”

“...If the angels are droppin’ now, what the hells are we meant to do...?”

“...Maybe not the worst thing, you see the way they look at you...?”

Little of interest. Not until I pass one door and hear, “Your Grace, I swear to you.” The Proxy, hardly above a whisper.

I pause.

“Yes,” she continues, “We’re searching for her. Just this morning, the Virtues were searching for hours.” A pause, another voice faintly audible over the phone. “Yes, Your Grace, they found her mask.” Reply. A heartbeat of hesitation before the Proxy replies, “It was a trap. The enemy had an ambush waiting for them. They were unable to—”

The Queen-Minister raises her voice, just enough for me to hear. “I don’t have time for excuses, girl.”

“Yes, Your Grace, of course.” There is a wound opening in the Proxy’s voice. Every other word starting to fray at its edges. “But this is a difficult situation, we—”

“Oh yes, it certainly is difficult,” snaps the Queen-Minister. “As you well know. You do know, don’t you, pet?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” The wound deepens. Fear bleeds into the Proxy’s voice, her words coming faster. “I apologize. I’ll have the Virtues resume the search later today.”

“Yes, you will.” Queen-Minister Charith’s voice is jagged steel. “You will retrieve my Virtue, and you will tame my seraph, and you will make yourself a worthy investment.” Those last two words bear the sharpest points of all.

They find marks. When the Proxy speaks again, she is no longer our unquestionable warden. She’s a frightened girl, dreading her Goddess’s wrath. “I will, Your Grace. I swear on my life.”

“So you do,” cuts in the Queen-Minister again. “You will recover Imeshan and process the seraph by midwinter, or I will discard you in the same gutter I dredged you out of.” A pause, as long and heavy and cold as the air in this narrow corridor. Then, flatly, Her Grace asks, “Understood, pet?”

The Proxy replies, “Yes, Your Grace.” Quiet again as the Queen-Minister lowers her voice out of my earshot. The silence is broken every so often by the Proxy giving another blank reply. “Yes, Your Grace. At once, Your Grace. I will, Your Grace.” Then a final, “Understood, Queen-Minister,” before I hear her set the phone down. The Proxy just breathes then. Long, quivering breaths. Several of them, before she inhales deep and steadies.

I suppose I’m listening out of a sense of responsibility. The Proxy has always worn a cloak of invulnerability. She is armored in the Queen-Minister’s authority, alight with the spark of divinity Her Grace has bestowed upon her. Yet she isn’t divine. Hearing this, I now have to grapple with this disquieting truth. Our guiding star is mortal flesh, fragile within her barrier of starlight. I must do more to assist her. Without her guidance, we would be lost.

It’s helpful, then, that I have two ways to aid her now: find Imeshan, and enlighten Vaschael. We do search the highlands again that afternoon. We find nothing, not even another trap laid for us. The next morning, however, we’re woken by a measured knocking on our door. The Proxy, composed again, collecting me for our day’s work.

***

There’s an intercom installed in Vaschael’s room. At random intervals, music blares through it, the sound scratchy and staticky. It’s almost unrecognizable as music. Of course, it doesn’t need to be pleasant. It just needs to keep the seraph awake. Exhaustion grinding away more and more of the old delusions she commits herself to, until she’s opened raw and pliable to the Proxy’s guidance. This morning, however, it’s hard to judge how effective this has been. As usual, Vaschael lifts her head to watch us enter. She’s a resplendent sight, bound and kneeling, her wings splayed out over the concrete. If the last week and a half has weakened her resolve, she’s hiding it well.

No matter. Enlightenment takes time.

“Such strength,” muses the Proxy, hands folded behind her back as she approaches our captive. That scared girl I glimpsed yesterday has returned to her hiding place, if she ever really existed beyond that moment. My Proxy has returned. Cool smile, regal poise, penetrating eyes. “You never did tell me how long you were down here searching. It must have been some time, though.” Standing over Vaschael, she tilts her head. “The damage to your armor, the empty spaces on your ammo belt, the wear on your weapons. Such devotion to your sisters, and to your mother’s orders.”

Vaschael glowers up at her, silent.

“It’s a shame.” Getting down on one knee, the Proxy brushes a fingertip over one of the wings covering Vaschael’s eyes. “Such glory and power, wasted on misplaced faith.”

The seraph’s lips twitch.

The Proxy traces her finger downwards along a delicate feather. “What does she have you doing up there? Your kin don’t descend very often.” Reaching the feather’s tip, she cups Vaschael’s cheek in her gloved hand. “So what else have you been doing?”

“That doesn’t concern you.” Vaschael speaks with all her usual gravitas. But I can see now this place is wearing on her. Her light is dimming. Even her halo’s glow has weakened since we last came to her. Her radiance betrays her, even if the rest of her facade is holding.

The Proxy is a patient teacher, of course. “If the Silver Goddess keeps you occupied with it while leaving her people to die, it very much does concern me. Imagine if all your sisters descended to join the war effort. Even just the seraphim! The Host could be dealt with in a fortnight.” She strokes a feather between her thumb and forefinger. “On that note, it concerns your sisters here, who have been shown the truth and come to humanity’s aid.”

“That was...” Vaschael’s voice flutters out. For a moment I imagine myself in the Proxy’s place, toying with those delicate wings. “That was already their mission.”

“Oh?” The Proxy pauses. “What exactly was their mission, then?”

“To help humanity,” Vaschael continues, angling her face towards me, “free itself from Charith.”

The Proxy gives me a sidelong glance.

I had suspected something like this. While no specifics were ever relayed to me, our choir had obviously been doing something before our enlightenment. If there were other mortals opposing the Queen-Minister, despite her efforts to wrest them from the jaws of extinction, why should the Silver Goddess not hold similar delusions?

“Lakera.” Vaschael’s chains rattle as she tries to turn towards me. “You must remember something. They can’t have taken all of you, sister.”

My Queen and her Proxy have taken much from me. I’ve missed none of it.

The Proxy affords Vaschael an indulgent smile. “It’s said the seraphim are the purest souls in all creation,” she says, lowering her face towards my wayward sister’s. “They’re born in fire, burning away all sin and avarice, fear and doubt. A being of absolute devotion, absolute resolve. It’s really very admirable.” A leather-wrapped thumb runs over porcelain skin. “Again, a shame to see it wasted so.”

Vaschael’s attention remains fixed on me. “Sister. Plea—”

The Proxy backhands her across the cheek, leaving a stark pink mark on her ivory skin. Taking her chin, the Proxy continues, “You are squandered up above, Vaschael. We need you here.”

The Proxy is about to say more when Vaschael asks, “What happened in the attack?”

“Nothing of note,” the Proxy lies.

“No,” Vaschael insists, “You were interrupted as the Fort came under attack. Then everything went very quiet. Normally I hear soldiers outside, even if only their footsteps as they pass by. But since that night, it’s been sile—”

Another backhand, sending Vaschael flagging to one side. She recovers at once, straightening to meet the Proxy’s face. When she speaks again, her voice is softer. “Something did happen, didn’t it?”

The Proxy grips Vaschael’s jaw, fingers pressing into those ivory cheeks. “That doesn’t concern you,” she replies with a hint of mocking.

“What was it?” There’s something gentle- almost maternal- in Vaschael’s tone. “Tell me what happened.”

The Proxy freezes up. Nothing changes in her demeanor. There’s no great break in her composure. She simply stops, glaring down at Vaschael.

Vaschael sees something in that pause and seizes on it. “What is your rank? Canrie is sure you’re an officer of some sort.”

I watch the Proxy, waiting for her riposte. She has something in mind. She always does. The longer she simply stares, however, the more unsure I become.

Vaschael’s one free eye shimmers as it studies her. “You... Condition my sisters, and then lead them in the field, is that it?” Steel links tinker as she raises her head. “You don’t look very old. I’d expect such a task to go to someone more seasoned.”

The Proxy remains still, her fingers twitching around Vaschael’s face. I consider intervening.

Vaschael’s voice lowers to a cloudy whisper. “It seems a lot, I think. Putting such dreadful work on one girl.”

The Proxy’s hand snaps to Vaschael’s halo and tears it from her head.

As always, it starts slow. A trio of golden eyes, previously covered by her halo, blink in the center of Vaschael’s forehead. The seraph smiles. “You won’t let me be hollowed, dear one.”

The Proxy stands, the halo all but dangling before our captive’s face. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Her eyes twitch. “You want me for whatever you’ve taken my sisters for.”

Stepping back, the Proxy flashes a mirthless grin of her own. “And if you don’t return, more of your sisters will come.”

“Per...” Vaschael flinches, and swallows hard. Her wings tremble, lightly rattling her chains. “Perhaps. But I am here now.”

The Proxy cocks an eyebrow. “And? Your radiance is meaningless, remember?”

The rope over Vaschael’s eyes shudder as the wings beneath them spasm. Above, the calming shimmer of her exposed eyes degrades into flickering. “D-Does it?” Absolute resolve, even as the first strings of golden ichor leak from her lips as she speaks. Spitting them out, she fixes the Proxy again. “Wh-When you needed four of my kin, and your m-mockery of our hymns, to capture me?”

Heels clatter across concrete as the Proxy storms up and kicks Vaschael hard across the jaw. An arch of gold flies from the seraph’s mouth as she crumples, cheek against the cold floor. Her eyes flash at me, like a signal light calling for aid. “You’re right,” the Proxy says. “I won’t let you die here. I’ve only started with you, Vaschael.”

The seraph spits out another wad of glimmering ichor. Her shakes have worsened, and much of it ends up staining her lips and chin.

“It took me months to lead each of your sisters to the truth.” The Proxy’s smile widens, moreso than I’m used to, more resembling a snarl. “Three on average. You have a long way to go, my seraph.”

Fighting her emptying body, Vaschael shakily raises her head, liquid gold trailing from her bottom lip. “And if... S-Something else ha-happens...?”

Grabbing a fistful of auburn hair, the Proxy jerks Vaschael’s head up to met her face. “Nothing happened.”

“S-Ssso you’re...” Ichor bubbles out of Vaschael’s mouth as she speaks. “Allwaays s-so frail...?” Her resilience is almost unsettling. By now we’ve pumped enough sedatives into her to kill several horses. This seemed to weaken her at first, yet when we come to her now she seems lively enough. Is she developing a resistance to the drugs, her divine constitution too hardy for them? Do they even effect her now? If so, what else will she come to resist?

The Proxy snaps me back to the present when her hand cracks across Vaschael’s face. The seraph crashes to the concrete again. Steel sings as spams wrack her body. Leaning down over her the Proxy repeats, “Nothing happened. Say that.”

“Ssssuch a mm-mask you wear...”

“You do not know as much as you think, seraph.” The Proxy’s voice has been steady as always, alternating between kindness and coldness as needed. Until the end of that sentence, when her voice suddenly quavers. Seraph.

“I knnnnow...” My sister’s voice has shrivelled to a damp rasp. “Th-That Crataaavn is f-faiilling...”

The Proxy sets her heel on Vaschael’s neck. “Say it, Vaschael. Nothing happened.”

“Uuunrest... D-Dwindling troooops and... Res-s-sources...” More lies, I’m sure. But again, her insistence is disquieting.

The Proxy presses her heel down. “Cratavn is strong, and nothing happened.”

Vaschael’s answer is a weak, wet gag.

There’s no trace of a smile on the Proxy’s face as she glares down at Vaschael. Under her boot, the seraph’s trembling is fading. Machinery grinding towards final breakdown. Finally the Proxy removes her foot, and crouches to slip Vaschael’s halo back down over her forehead. The seraph gasps and sputters, dragging her cheek across the concrete as she fights to rise.

“How lucky for you,” the Proxy says, her words curt, “that I indeed can’t let you die.” Stepping back, she adds with a point, “But I will let you come close as often as needed.”

Back on her knees, Vaschael tries to raise her head but only manages to meet the Proxy’s waist. Ichor drips from her chin and glistens on her cheeks.

“That will have to do for now.” The Proxy beckons to me, and we make for the door.

“Little one.” Vaschael, voice weak and hoarse.

The Proxy, face blank, leads me out into the hall.

“I saw you.” The seraph’s words follow us. “I forgive you, little one.”

***

When I return to our room, I find Sholanan curled up asleep and Brea missing. This should be a comforting sight. Instead, it sits ill in my stomach. Something else to keep an eye on, in accordance with my new oath to the Proxy. The last thing she- or the Queen-Minister- needs right now is for one of my sisters to stray from our duties. I plant a light peck on Sholanan’s cheek, then go to search for Brea.

I start at her favorite haunt: the prison. Cold must hangs in the air here, kissing my brow like cobwebs, and electric lights buzz along the ceiling. All but one of the steel cell doors stand ajar, the cramped concrete cells within barren. Odds are this place has never seen much use. Brea isn’t here. She must have been recently, because the eye-level hatch in the one closed door is open.

I haven’t actually seen the little hound since we came to Fort Kroeder. I’ve heard her voice, muffled through the steel, when I passed by to find Brea watching her through the hatch. Those pretty freckles and green eyes flash in my mind. A quick look won’t hurt. Motivation, if the girl is to be a prize, or a brief but harmless diversion if she isn’t. I peer through the hatch.

Canrie is curled up in the corner, alone save for a thin bedroll and a waste bucket. Her face is hidden beneath a curtain of dishevelled sandy hair. She hugs her legs tight, if she worries the limbs might fall from her body. Denied a look at that sweet face, I tap on the door. Her head snaps up. Corpse eyes stare back at me, glassy and ringed with black hollows. She’s grown gaunt and pale down here. How sweet it would be to treat her to hearty stew and fresh rolls, perhaps a tall flagon of ale. Plump her back up, like she was in the truck all that time ago. A twofold kindness- to her, and to myself.

She stares a long time without blinking. Finally she asks in whisper, “It’s you, isn’t it, Lakera?”

I nod.

“I could tell.” She’s sinking back into her corner, like the cold grey walls might take her in. “The others look so peaceful, but you’re...” The girl’s eyes drift down to her mud-caked boots. “You look sickly. All of you, like you’re being starved.”

I take in ambrosia once a week and we get hearty rewards when earned. It’s been enough to sustain me, enough to let me serve Her Grace.

Canrie meets my eye again. “Lakera,” she whimpers. “You’re not well. Please, you have to go with Miss Vaschael. She just wants to take you home.”

Her pleading is sweet. I long to hear her sing for me. What a shame my radiance no longer seems to effect the girl, now that Vaschael has claimed her.

“You have to set her free.” The little hound blinks hard, the black around her eyes inflaming to pink-red. “Please, Lakera. You’re unwell here.”

A fresh peal of hunger roils in my belly. I certainly can’t have it now- perhaps punishment for my hubris in Illenka- but a meal is a pleasant thought.

Canrie’s lip trembles. Wiping her eyes, she unfolds herself and stands. “If you want,” she says, “y-you can have me. You want that, right?” Her voice strangles out at the last word. She sniffles and composes herself. “Lakera, you... You can have me. As long as you free Miss Vaschael and go with her. Okay?”

I could gorge on her, then continue to aid the Proxy. Canrie would never know I didn’t uphold my end of this bargain. The only reservation I’d have is the possibility of punishment, for feeding out of turn.

“Lakera.” She’s all but begging. “Please. Swear it, and I’m yours.”

Swear it. Is she still expecting me to reply? Even after I hadn’t ever before? Even after all the time Brea has spent in here, watching her in silence?

Unless Brea hasn’t been silent.

It would be helpful if I could break that vow of silence as well. Questions swarm in my head about what Brea might be telling her, what conversations the two might be having. But I uphold my vows. Closing the hatch, I leave Canrie to resume my search. I ultimately find Brea suspended in the ambrosia tank, oxygen mask affixed over her face and eyes closed as if in sleep.

I can’t question her, not directly. So, I go to the Proxy’s office, where she sips a tall mug of burnt-smelling coffee as she writes in one of her notebooks. A faint fatigue weighs down her voice as she asks, “Yes, Lakera?”

“Proxy,” I inform her, “I suspect Brea has been speaking to the prisoner.”

She peers over at me, not urgent but attentive. “And what leads you to suspect this?” I tell her. She gives a thoughtful hum. “Brea has been acting odd lately, hasn’t she?” Turning back to her journal, she concludes, “Keep an eye on her. I’ll question her later.” Whatever the outcome of this questioning is, I never learn of it.

The next day, our choir searches the highlands for Imeshan’s trail again, and finds nothing again. Then the Proxy calls me for another session with Vaschael, this one brief and uneventful. She tries to teach Vaschael the true hymns, and I pluck more feathers from my sister’s wings when she refuses to learn. Night rolls in. Sholanan and I lay together as always, making gentle but immodest love. Nothing rough. Just enough that Brea, cloistered on her own cot, can’t ignore us. She spends our play time laid on her side away from us, still as a log. I know she isn’t asleep, though. I know she can hear. As I hold Sholanan afterwards, I listen to her toss and turn.

An old fantasy finds its way back into my mind: Brea curled up against me, head hanging in defeat as I work my fingers into her short hair. Perhaps she could benefit from the discipline I gave Imeshan.

Sleep takes us for a time. Eventually I hear a vague rustling across our room. My mind, caught between dreams and waking, takes a moment to identify the sound. By the time I recognize it as blankets shifting, I can also hear feet padding across concrete, and the door creak open. I spring up just in time to see it shut in the dim light of my halo.

Blinking sleep from my eyes, I shake Sholanan awake. She whimpers and curls in on herself, before finally turning her shimmering eyes up at me. I nod to Brea’s empty bed. My pet blinks, before something like realization dawns in her stare. Getting up- we sleep in our undersuits now that winter is closing in- we slip on our masks and set out to find Brea, going to the prison first. We find all of the cells open now, a faint whiff of waste hanging in the frigid air. My heart drops. How did Brea even get the keys? Has she been plotting behind our backs since the moment we set foot here?

Next we hurry to the Proxy’s office, and I knock on the door. To my surprise, boots clack across the floor on the other side immediately. It swings open to reveal the Proxy still in her full uniform, immaculate save for the dark bags gathering under her eyes.

She asks, clipped, “Yes?”

“Brea has freed the prisoner.”

She snaps to attention. “Where are they?”

The only place I can think of is Vaschael’s prison. The Proxy sends Sholanan to rouse the garrison, then storms down there with me in tow. As we descend the last set of stairs, the Fort’s siren begins to wail above. The door is shut, but I can hear chains rattling and metal hitting stone within. My guiding star throws it open.

We are moments too late.

Canrie kneels before Vaschael, undoing her collar, while Brea hauls the steel nets off of the seraph’s wings. Vaschael, hands freed and resting in her lap, raises her head as we enter. “Brea,” she rasps.

Brea is already storming around her wings to intercept us. It’s an absurd notion, of course. Stoppable by a single word. The Proxy, scowling like death at her, says it. “Halt.”

Brea does. Only for a moment, before she keeps coming.

Something tilts askew in the universe. I feel it shift in the stagnant air. This isn’t me playing around behind the Proxy’s back. I have never looked our leader in the eye as she gave me a direct order and disobeyed her. She carries our Queen’s authority. She is imbued with the spark of divinity, the mandate of the heavens. Brea has defied that. When the Proxy snaps, “Brea, halt,” she pauses for another heartbeat, and then does it again.

The Proxy reaches into her coat and withdraws the tape recorder.

Brea finally stops as the Hymn fills the room like thick smoke. She and I raise our faces to the concrete above us, united again, however tenuously by the droning. I hear Vaschael scream at the edge of my awareness. Somewhere with her Canrie cries, “Turn that off! Stop that!” But the Hymn roars on. It carves us empty before refilling us with purpose.

Vaschael’s screams have turned to words. Choked and half-coherent, forced out through whatever pain wracks her. It takes shape as the words to a hymn. One, I realize, which sounds very much like the Hymn. When the true music ends, she is still speaking.

“Vaschael,” growls the Proxy. “Be silent and kneel, or I will have your sisters make you.”

The seraph goes quiet, save for her heavy breathing. Then, she starts to sing the Hymn. Around my head, my halo tightens.

“Lakera, Brea. Subdue her.”

That purpose in me should ignite. The Proxy’s voice should propel me, for her words are the Queen-Minister’s words. I do try to obey. It’s like pushing against a wall of sun-warmed stone, however. So heavy that I know I won’t budge it, so pleasant to the touch that I only want to doze against it. But I must obey. Even as the pressure around my temples distorts into disorienting vibrations. I manage to turn my head towards them.

Vaschael stands, however unsteadily, her wings drooping to the floor around her like the legs of a tripod. A flaking crust of dried ichor clings to her face. She’s still singing.

A gloved hand vices around my arm. “Do something, damn it,” snarls the Proxy, dragging me towards my wayward sister. I want to tell her I’m trying, but my feet tangle under me and I’m only just able to stand myself. I’m shivering despite the warmth welling up in me, the vibrations of my halo sinking into my skull and my grey matter. The Proxy shoves me forwards, sending me teetering forwards--

--strong and careful hands catch me. I’m pulled up to look into Vaschael’s face. Her voice thrums through my flesh. I can’t see her eyes, covered as they are, but I feel the love in her phantom gaze. I feel it against my skin as she strokes her thumb across my brow. It’s almost dazzling, my mind so rattled within my skull it almost feels as if I’m floating. Through the haze comes... Love as well? Elation? Remorse? Big Sister, it’s you. Big Sister, I’ve missed you. Big Sister, I’m so sorry.

I notice a trail of amber liquid running from one corner of her mouth.

Tearing my eyes from her, I force my head to look down. At our feet is an empty vial, clouded with orange-gold residue.

“Stop this.” The Proxy, her voice a flat bludgeon. “Or I will kill your pet, seraph.”

Vaschael’s song comes to an end. I crane my head over my shoulder to find the Proxy, one fist full of Canrie’s hair as she holds the girl down on her knees. In her other hand is her service pistol, pressed to the top of Canrie’s head. If the little hound feels any fear, it doesn’t show on her slack face, her eyes alight with a calm awe as she stares up at her mistress. Above her, the Proxy glowers, the fine muscles of her face twitching. This doesn’t happen. She holds our leashes. Our unwavering guide and unquestionable master.

“Brea,” says Vaschael, calm as snow. “Disarm her.”

I’d almost forgotten Brea was here. I’m reminded when she crashes into the Proxy, ripping the pistol from her hand and shoving her up against the door. The Proxy doesn’t order her to stop. The Proxy doesn’t make a sound. A glaze falls over her eyes and she gapes wordlessly, dazed by this sudden violent blasphemy. Canrie, now freed, picks herself up and scurries to her mistress’s side. Vaschael fans out her wings to let her huddle behind them, like a child behind her mother’s skirts.

With a whine I try to wrestle free. I must obey the Proxy. I must protect her--

“Hush, little sister.” Vaschael wraps me in an embrace, too strong to fight, so effervescent that I don’t want to. “It’s going to be alright.” She peers up. “Brea, bring her here.”

As Brea drags the Proxy over to us, I notice something. Peace has returned to my sister’s eyes. “Stop,” barks the Proxy. “Brea, you are blaspheming against the Queen-Minister! Stop!” Then, locking eyes with me, “Lakera, do something!” With each word her composure cracks a little more. I see her now. She is not our Queen. She is not herself divine. But more than that, I see the truth of her: that frightened girl on the phone is real. She is the true Proxy.

It’s wrong. So wrong I feel nauseous. Yet I cannot deny it.

Planting a tingling kiss atop my head, Vaschael moves me aside. She then grips the Proxy’s arms. Our guiding star- falling now- squirms but her strength has never been in her body. “Vaschael,” she says, trying and failing to keep the fear from her voice. “I wasn’t lying. I’ve never lied to you. Things have changed down here, more than you and your mother know. You must listen—”

“I have heard enough.” Vaschael’s voice booms around us. I notice a hint of satisfaction on her face. The faintest curl of a smile. “Sisters,” she orders, “hold the door. I won’t be long.”

Big Sister knows best. I can’t stop myself from following Brea to the door and standing against it. Down the hall, a storm of boots and voices approaches. We brace.

Vaschael slides her hands up to the Proxy’s shoulders. Our fallen star does nothing to resist her. She shivers as the seraph slips off her trench coat and tosses it aside, leaving her in a white vest and trousers over a green shirt. Then Vaschael turns her around. Her face twitches between impotent rage and stunned terror.

“You don’t understand,” says- pleads- the Proxy. “Vaschael, I—”

“No more.” The seraph’s fingers press into her shoulders, making her flinch. Lowering her face to the Proxy’s ear, she says, “Sing with me.”

The last I see of the Proxy is her eyes bulging with naked fear, before Vaschael’s wings enfold her. Then the seraph sings, her voice the calm, cool depths of the ocean, its pull gentle yet inexorable. It’s a hymn, of course. One which lightly stirs recognition, deep in my mind. Did we ever sing it with the Proxy? The light of her wings and halo strengthen with her voice until it floods the room, I have to squint to see.

Within her tomb of wings, the Proxy begins to scream. “Stop!” I can just make out feathers rustle as she thrashes. “Lakera, help me!”

Another whimper rises in my throat. I almost obey. I almost run to her and pry Vaschael’s wings apart. Then a torrent of bodies crash into the other side of the door, the knob rattling, shouting voices half-audible beneath the heavy curtain of the seraph’s voice. Big Sister knows best. Where do those words come? What should they mean to me? Why does my halo begin to vibrate again, scattering my focus so I can only push my back against the door?

“He-Help!” Just a scared girl. Shrieking until Vaschael raises her voice into an all-encompassing contralto and drowns her out. I feel that voice, the words of that hymn, sweep over the folds of my brain. Big Sister knows best. Big Sister must be heeded. Our fallen star is subsumed entirely into Vaschael’s glory, until I catch her voice wailing along with the hymn.

I try again to go to her. Big Sister does not know best. Our Queen does. But this time I’m stopped by Brea throwing her arm across my chest, holding me back. “Lakera,” she shouts, “Let this happen.” Anger erupts in my core. So Brea isn’t just a thief and a braggart, trying to upstage me, trying to steal Sholanan. She’s a traitor. I could kill her. I could break her limbs and-

Another crash against the door drags me out of my rage. I push back.

Radiance consumes us, the air heating as the hymn swells. I have to close my eyes against the light. Through the chaos, something grabs my notice. On the other side of the door, the soldiers are no longer shouting. Even their efforts to break in have waned. Instead, they’re singing along, as well. A breathless, disjointed choir, slowly pulling itself into harmony.

Vaschael orders, BE NOT AFRAID. It’s a whisper by my ear. It’s the rasp of strong winds. It’s the roar of heavy artillery.

Silence descends. In the resultant void, the Proxy softly whimpers.

I AM NOT MY LITTLE SISTERS. Indignation. Restrained anger. Even I shrink from it. YOUR RESOLVE WAS NEVER GOING TO OUTMATCH MINE. YOU WERE A LAMB SEEKING TO TAME A LIONESS.

The Proxy’s whines grow into a shrill, keening cry.

AND NOW, Vaschael concludes, YOU ARE MY HOUND.

“I—” The inconsolable woman-child who had been our mistress flounders through her sobs. “I am your hound.”

“De...” A sniffle. “Devoted to the Silver Heaven, and to you.”

Outside the door, very faintly, I hear voices whisper along with her.

The light fades. As it does, I see Vaschael’s wings parting. The sight inside makes me ill, makes my head throb with the wrongness of it. The Proxy sags in Vaschael’s arms, her face a rictus of childish sorrow as she quietly weeps. Around her neck is a shimmering silver halo.

“There you are.” Vaschael rests her cheek atop the Proxy’s head. “Back where you belong. You have much to atone for, little one.”

The Proxy’s mouth tries to shape the words but all she manages is a hiccuping sob. She nods.

“Not to worry.” Vaschael does nothing to hide her smile now. Canrie creeps out from behind her, attention fixed on her new fellow held in her mistress’s arms. “I will guide you. I’ll show how to set right your blasphemies.”

The Proxy screws her eyes shut. “Y-Yes, miss.”

“Good girl.” Vaschael plants a soft kiss atop her head, and releases her. “Show me to my arms and armor.”

The Proxy does as instructed, still sniffling as she comes to the door. Brea and I step aside to admit her, and she heaves it open to lead the way out. Vaschael and Canrie follow, before the two of us do as well. Out in the hall, another spectacle awaits. This one, however, incites less dour feelings in me. Kneeling along the corridor walls are at least a dozen soldiers, heads bowed. Some wear vacant, almost peaceful smiles. Some are silently crying. Some are despondent. A halo glows around each of their necks.

I pause by one. A woman, short dark curls bundled in a tight bun. I cup her chin and lift her face to meet mine. Tears streak from glazed eyes down her tan cheeks. “I am devoted,” she says in a shaky whisper. “Angel, I am devoted.”

A different hunger awakens in me. Does only Vaschael have this power?

“Lakera.” Vaschael, calling me from the end of the hall. “Come, sister. We have a long way to go.”