We surface from the Hymn of Relent into warm, humid air, mingling with the sweat on my brow. The sight greeting us in an odd one: a sort of natural hot spring, spanning much of the small cavern of smoothed rock it resides in. Electric lamps hum along the walls to provide a perimeter of harsh light. 

“Ladies.” Jeio’s voice. “The bathhouse, such as it is.” Still hazy, we all get our bearings. Our arms and armor are gone again. I notice Canrie and Winter the Proxy sit against a bumpy wall near the water’s edge, staring back at us just as uncertainly. I peer back and find a tall, hawkish woman in a long blue coat filling the doorway behind us. Crow’s feet crease her tanned face as she gives a mirthless smile. “Take your time,” she- Jeio- says. “Consider it our thanks.”

She leaves and locks us in, and the others strip. Brea, a line of fresh stitches bisecting her forehead, all but tears her suit off. I, however, struggle to ground myself here. It isn’t just the contradictions- humans cannot live outside Cratavn’s walls, yet here are these people, fighting to get in them. It’s not even the love these people have for Brea- (we narrowly saved her life) I surely outperformed her. It is, more than anything, my newest sin. I’ve spoken out of turn again. But it was to save Sholanan Another disappointment to my Queen.

Fine steam hisses from Vaschael’s thighs as she wades into the water, letting out a relieved hum as it mantles around her waist. Brea has already sunk shoulders deep against a far wall, her face mask left on the rock shelf. Sholanan and the hounds are in as well. “Lakera,” calls the seraph, her voice filling the space. “I know you’re lingering.”

Caught out, I undress and follow. The water laps comfortably hot against my legs, until it reaches my ribs at its deepest point. Brea looks to be asleep. Canrie and Winter huddle together in the deeper water. With her golden hair slicked across her bare shoulders and a dim smile on her face, I hardly recognize the Proxy. Sholanan stands with her back to Vaschael, letting the seraph examine the scars there. A twinge of jealousy pinches my neck. But I know I can trust Big Sister. 

Vaschael frowns. “Clean up, dear one.” She plucks a clump of gore from Sholanan’s curls. “We’ve made quite a mess today.”

Sholanan doesn’t go far, sinking down beside Vaschael and huddling into the folds of her wings. “Is it warm like this above, as well?”

Vaschael chuckles. “This warmth is nothing next to Mother’s radiance, little sister.” She beckons me over. “Lakera, let me check your back.”

I narrow my eyes.

“Your wings, sister.” Vaschael lifts her top pair out of the water, clear streams running down the long feathers. “I want to see if they’re regrowing.”

They wouldn’t be. Our Queen has assured us we have no need of them though Big Sister’s are so strong and beautiful. I take Sholanan’s place with my back to Vaschael. Careful fingers trace along the network of thaumaturgy scars, though they avoid touching the crystal embedded in them. Under her breath Vaschael growls, “Such crude work...”

***

After they leave, Vaschael calls me into her room, where Canrie and Winter sit at attention on the edge of their cots. “Charith’s corruption seems to run deepest in you, Lakera,” explains the seraph as she closes the door. “Even in your silence, I can tell she’s distorted you beyond your mind. Your very instincts are misaligned.” She positions herself between her hounds. “I’d like to start undoing this today.”

Canrie’s eyes dart between her mistress and me with an animal alertness. A deer preparing to sprint away from a wolf. My mouth waters. It hits me how much I must resemble a wolf, sizing her up as I am. She settles as Vaschael lays a hand atop her head. 

“Feeding on mortals as we have,” Vaschael explains, “is a desperate act. A last resort, not to be taken lightly.” Slipping her hand under Canrie’s chin, she tilts the girl’s face up towards her. Those dull green eyes light with reverence. She trusts her mistress with all she is, even with a predator salivating feet away. “Our relationship with them is, ideally, symbiotic. We protect and govern them, and in turn, they serve us, and strengthen us with their worship.”

It isn’t so different. Most of humanity is beneath us. The Queen-Minister taught us as much. Yet She forbade us direct power over them, for that belongs to Her alone. All are to serve Her. All are to strengthen Her with their devotion, and in turn, She leads them and protects them from the all-devouring plague of the Host. I bridge the gaps where I can. But that still leaves some gaps. Seeing the light in Canrie’s eyes, the utter unquestioning love she regards her mistress with, I find myself drawn towards those yawning voids. Now that I let myself dwell on it, it does feel proper. She would be better on her knees, singing praises to me until her lungs give out, rather than providing only a few days’ nourishment as a meal.

I bite my tongue. That isn’t for me. I am a servant of the Queen-Minister. I kneel at Her boots and sing of Her glory. This is the truth, the absolute faith.

Isn’t it?

Vaschael watches me grapple with this. She turns to Winter, brushing a length of golden hair behind her ear. “The Queen-Minister has twisted the devotion- the need for hierarchy, the need to serve- inherent to our being. She’s warped it to revolve around Herself, when it rightfully revolves around Mother.” She moves her hand to Winter’s back and nudges her forwards. Winter dutifully rises, though she’s not quite able to meet my eye as she comes and kneels before me.

My stomach clenches. Somewhere deep inside this girl, the Proxy must surely persist. I could seize her collar now, try to pry it apart. I could unbury my guiding star, rekindle her light and help her back up into her rightful place high in the heavens. I mustn’t speak- too much sin has already left my tongue today- yet I want to scream protest.

Winter meekly raises her face. She isn’t wearing her coat- I’m not sure where it is- and its absence leaves her small, frail. A lamb. A docile thing made to be guided. For the first time since our escape from Kroeder, I wonder if Vaschael is the only one able to enthrall a mortal so.

“This girl was Charith’s tool,” continues Vaschael. “The instrument with which she broke and enslaved you. But we’ll make this right, Lakera. I give Winter to you.”

I look up at her. 

Vaschael nods. “Once we’re home, and you’re further into your recovery,” she explains. “I will break her imprint upon myself, and reteach you to bind her. She made a slave of you, and must atone for it. This will be part of that.”

“It’s only right,” Winter agrees, her voice small and needful. A fearful promise. “I must be yours, Lakera. Whatever you wish of me. I’ll be yours.”

With a point, Vaschael adds, “And you shall not waste her, sister. She is not your prey. She is your servant.”

It’s a violation of the true faith. I might as well spit on my Queen’s robes, demand She grovel for me. Yet Winter is so beautiful like this. Lips faintly trembling. Hands clasped in prayer so tight her knuckles have gone white. Eyes wide with a blend of fear and desperate hope. (She is our Queen’s Proxy, to disrespect her is to disrespect the Queen-Minister, this is blasphemy there is a deep pit waiting for me in the dark below if I do this) She isn’t really my Queen, is she? Just a girl made to act in her stead. There is no divine ember flickering in her soul. She must atone. She wants to atone.

I reach down. She flinches at first. But as I cup her soft cheek, she settles. I whisper, “Mine.”

Winter’s lips spread into a quivering smile. She burns with the need for absolution, and I have just given her a drop of that saving nectar. “Th-Thank you,” she mewls, leaning into my touch. “Thank you, mistress.”

“There you are.” The approval in Vaschael’s voice sets elation tingling along my neck. “Finding your way back to your place, on high with your sisters.” She works her fingers into Canrie’s hair. “And yet, you’re struggling to do so, aren’t you?”

I take a strand of Winter’s hair between my thumb and forefinger, feeling the silken gold. I did hesitate.

“Some part of you still looks at her and sees Charith.” Vaschael tilts her head. “Some part of you still thinks her to be above you, even now.”

I frown. Below me, Winter shrinks. Her fear fills me with both shame (she is my Queen’s proxy of course she is above me) and enticement. Between my legs, a swell of warmth.

“I wonder.” Vaschael rubs Canrie behind her ear. The girl’s eyes roll with pleasure. “How can we help you dispel that notion?”

“I-I’m yours,” stammers Winter. She all but shudders with need. An overwhelming compulsion, eating her alive. “I know my place now.”

Vaschael hums in thought. Then, (she spits blasphemy into my ear) she gives voice to the idea already taking root in my mind. “Perhaps you could play with her a little now, Lakera.”

Play with her. That heat between my legs swells higher. But how? Then I remember the hot spring. A detail I’d caught as we left the water. Winter and I have something in common. 

Undoing the straps of my mask, I toss it away. Then I unzip the back of my undersuit, peel it off, and kick it aside as well, leaving myself exposed in the cool air.

I don’t consider myself particularly well endowed. What I have serves my needs, but little more. But as Winter’s eyes dart to my womanhood, I feel a rush of power, heady, intoxicating. I start to harden. Opening her pretty mouth, she leans towards it, peering up at me for approval.

I set my fingertips against her forehead. “You too.”

Vaschael’s lips part, then curve into a slight smile as she catches onto my game. Canrie watches as well, beaming stupidly- ever the loyal pup.

Winter begins to strip. Unbuttoning her vest, then her green undershirt. Unbuckling her belt. Unlacing her boots. Pulling it all off to leave herself in her undergarments, which she then also removes with eager fingers. A present unwrapping herself, just for me. My head swims (the Proxy may still be in her my Queen will burn me for this) as I engorge with a different hunger. She isn’t my Queen. She isn’t my guiding star, not anymore. Vaschael has already snuffed that candle and the wind has already carried the ashes away. There is no power left in her. Besides, that collar looks so pretty around her slender neck.

Winter, exposed, trembling, takes her place at my feet. The whole time she stripped, her eyes never left me. She’s no longer my guiding star. Now, I am hers.

Kneeling over her, I examine my supplicant. Feel her shaky breath on my chin as she takes in my radiance. Setting my fingers on her collar, I trace them downwards. Between her breasts. Along her soft belly. Through the delicately trimmed square of pubic hair, to her own penis. I cup it in my hand, examine it. It’s a flaccid little thing, hardly filling my palm. I can’t help but smile, like I’m observing a charming little animal. Perhaps a mouse.

Crimson floods Winter’s cheeks.

An urge to devour her floods my chest. How could she ever had held power over me? How could my Queen ever have entrusted her with my leash? How did I never slip it sooner and swallow her whole? I hum into her ear as I slip my hand around her to grip the back of her neck. Then, I begin to stroke her.

A soft whine escapes Winter. There’s not much to hold onto. Still, she understands what I want. She starts rolling her hips into my hand, but keeps losing the rhythm, devolving into erratic bucking. Has no one ever touched her before? I chuckle. Her blush deepens.

“I…” Her voice comes in little gasps. “I’m trying, mistress.”

I know she is. It’s deliriously charming to watch, to feel. She must atone, mustn’t she? For all the boots to my ribs. For all the feathers torn from my wings, before they were taken entirely. For all the scraping of cold claws against my being as she sang, then forced me to sing the corrupted hymns. It’s been coming back to me in small flashes ever since we left Fort Kroeder- glimpses and impressions- a trickle of oil just sufficient to rekindle a nearly dead spark. How she tore me from the sky and broke me. My grip tightens on her cock and she gasps. I whimpered and bucked for her. I was kneeling and pathetic for her. My smile warps into a bare-toothed snarl. Fear blooms anew in her glassy eyes.

I grind into her, vicious and fuming, letting go of her withered little nub to rut against it. She hasn’t even gotten hard yet. She probably can’t. You’re mine now, little mouse. You will find your absolution between my teeth.

Her whimpers grow to little yelps as she tries, and fails, to keep up with me. I am a warrior. She was only ever a pale shadow. I will impale her. I will gut her. I will leave only gristle and tears of her, because that’s all she left of me.

“Lakera.” Vaschael’s voice, distant through this fury yet no less arresting. “You shall not waste her.”

Orgasm barrels into me like a fist to the back of the head, a kick to the gut. I heave a breathless snarl as I unload onto Winter. Then, something like stillness, teetering on the tip of a knife. Winter shudders in my grasp. As the fog clears from my mind, I meet her eye. She stares dimly back. My seed slicks the front of her, thighs to belly. She didn’t even cum. Only a thin dribble of watery ejaculate, dripping onto my knee. 

I tilt my head. She claims to know her place. Does she really, though? Does she truly under the depths of her sins- the tapestry of suffering she wove across my body and spirit? She will. I lightly bite the tip of Winter’s nose, getting a charming little flinch from her. I will be a good mistress to my little mouse. 

***

The lamp on the edge of Jeio’s desk deepens the wrinkles across her face as she fills a chipped shot glass with rum. Once full, she raises the bottle. “Any for you?”

Vaschael and I sit across from her, the seraph donning her human disguise.

Jeio looks between us. “You two can’t drink this, can you?”

“We can’t,” replies Vaschael. “What was it you wanted to discuss?”

Jeio tips the neck of the bottle towards me. “This one was a second-in-command to you, I take it?”

Vaschael tilts her head. “How do you mean?”

“You pay her particular attention.” Jeio’s dark eyes bore into me. “I took that to mean she’s somebody, hence why I had her brought here with you. Is she not?”

“Ah.” That faint air of insult again as Vaschael tilts her head back a touch. “Lakera has fallen the furthest from our mother’s light,” the seraph explains. I bristle, but think better of protesting. “So, I have been giving her... particular attention to begin leading her back, yes.”

“That tracks.” Jeio’s glare hasn’t left me. “She looks like she’d have rather me than the rum.” I wouldn’t be opposed to it. While she’s somewhat gaunt she’s nonetheless a handsome woman, aged well, cropped dark hair gracefully going to grey, and a traitor to the Queen besides.

Vaschael slips a hand beneath my hair to lay on my neck. My focus floats apart. “She will co-operate, Major.”

Slowly, Jeio corks the bottle and slips it under her desk. “I should hope so.” Her quarters are modest, another small square room cut into the dirt- no bigger than ours- occupied by little more than her desk, a filing cabinet in one corner, and a ragged bedroll in another. A whiff of alcohol and boot polish hang in the cold air. 

Spread over her desk is a map, the paper stiff and dotted here and there with what I take to be coffee stains. I recognize Cratavn’s name near the northwestern corner of its landmass, within a fence of broken green line labelled “Scodia”. To its south are several smaller regions marked in broken line, crammed into the bottom half of the page. The largest of these, delineated with blue line, is “Denska”.

Downy little wings, flapping with weightless bliss.