ACT TWO

A SPROUT OF TREASON

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The Chalcedony Palace is enthroned above the corrosive clouds like an illustration from a fairy tale. Its towers glimmer in the setting sun, titanium and glass and living wood woven together. No expense was spared in its construction. It is an architectural marvel, a wonder of the galaxy, a lush bubble of impossible paradise suspended above hell itself. Much like the Nova Station, it was built in the spirit of peace and cooperation between the Houses.

Further in the spirit of peace, both sides have brought a flight of Seraphs to the conference.

The irony is not wasted on Eris. While the diplomats spend the week negotiating the cessation of hostilities, their safety will be ensured by an arsenal of living nuclear weapons. Better hope no one has an itchy trigger finger.

Eris and her fellow Hunters glide above orange-red clouds of sulfuric acid. A transmission from flight control cuts through the turbulent air: “Chrysalis Flight, you are cleared for landing.”

The world of Hopkins’ Hope is blasted, volcanic, scarred by the weaponry of Seraphs. The winds of war razed a thriving frontier colony, cracked the crust, released plumes of ash into the atmosphere. This world will never live again. The Chalcedony Palace is a monument to the millions who died here, a promise that peace will always triumph in the end.

A beautiful, gilded lie.

Whatever transpires here, the violence will not be abated for long. As long as the Houses stand there will always be another excuse, another petty dispute over lines drawn on a star map. The dam will burst, and more worlds will be swept away in the flood. The existence of Seraphs cannot be justified any other way.

They need pilots like Bliss to do their dirty work. Always leashed, always forbidden from what they truly crave. Why is it that the Mother denies her children the chance to grow, to metamorphose, to pursue their truest form? It seems awfully cruel of her to deny her Hunters the godhood that she so enjoys.

Heresy is habit-forming. Once you question one point of doctrine, they start falling like dominoes. Don’t let your servants get ideas above their station, or they might start wondering why you’re the master.

The field bubble surrounding the palace shimmers as the Hunters pass through. In flight, she can make out the famous crystal gardens, and the golden trails of the Knights coming in to land at the far side. Each House has their own hangars. They can only trust one another so much. The chariot ships Feather of Truth and Chrysalis will remain in orbit on opposite sides of Hopkins’ Hope for the week; a peaceful arrangement.

That night of stargazing with Inanna’s Vengeance lit a fire under her. For weeks, Eris has thought of nothing else. Her Knight is not an infection; she bolsters her from within, like roots binding soil. When tended with care, left to grow, what could they blossom into?

For all her bravado, Eris is no fool. The Mother guards her superiority jealously; the hierarchy of being has no allowance for the rise of nascent gods. Apostasy is not something to be rushed into heedlessly. It may take years, decades, but it can be done under the noses of the gods. She can make a plan that will get both of them to safety without leaving Summer, Hasret and Violette behind. She has to believe that.

In the hangar, she slips out of her Seraph body along with her compatriots, ready for her next costume change. The opening act of the peace conference is a grand masquerade ball. With all eyes on her, she must be on her best behaviour as a representative of Protean House. A rendezvous with a handsome Knight would be highly inappropriate; scandalous, even.

A mischievous grin lights up Bliss’s face. Godhood can wait. Tonight, they dance.

***

A lone violet lies on the bedside table amidst the plush surroundings of the guest room. Bliss brings it to her nose, taking in the fragrance—freshly cut.

“Is it to your liking?” asks the hologram of Violette sitting in a velvet armchair. “I had my people send it up for you.”

“It’s beautiful,” says Bliss. “Although it does clash with my outfit.”

Taking a seat in front of the gilded vanity, she surveys herself from every angle. Her foundation is evenly, meticulously applied. In this hunt, glamour is her weapon of choice. It resides in her garnet nails, in her scarlet slit dress, in the rouge on her cheeks.

Val was right. Red is her best colour. Perfect to entice, to seduce, to leave her wanting more.

“It should stand out,” says Violette. “That way, everyone will recognise my daughter on sight.”

Bliss raises an eyebrow, and finishes drawing an eyeliner wing before speaking. “Visibility can be a dangerous proposition, Elder.”

“You’re one of the finest Hunters we have, darling, despite your little slip-up at the Nova Ball.” Violette, uncharacteristically, has switched to whisky today. Bliss watches her drink in the mirror while she applies liner to her other eye. “You have nothing to fear from an assassin, even outside your Seraph body. Besides, an attempt on your life can be quite a boon, politically. It rallies your allies behind you, and reveals your enemies in their disappointment.”

Her candour takes Bliss by surprise. Perhaps she should drink whisky more often.

“I didn’t expect to hear you talking about that day,” she says.

“It was not the first assassination plot I have been targeted by, and it won’t be the last,” Violette says without inflection. “These things are routine for an Elder. To heathens, we embody all the sins of Protean House.”

Bliss runs an ultrablack mascara wand over her lashes. “It wasn’t routine for me. That was the day I truly became myself.” The day when her heart beat in time with Red Eris’s spark. The day she first stained herself with gore that would never come off.

“Well,” says Violette, her lips curving into a proud smile. “I’m very glad to hear that. And how is dear Summer?”

“Tired. She spends all day in the greenhouse when she’s not on combat assignment. Research used to be relaxing for her, but now it’s become…” Obsessive. “...exhausting. She’ll appreciate the break.”

“I hope she finds what she’s looking for,” says Violette, downing the last of her glass and placing it down with a clink of ice cubes. “How is sweet Hasret faring?”

Bliss freezes, the lipstick in her hand halfway to her mouth. Violette does not ask after Hasret. She has never expressed disapproval of their relationship, but she avoids the topic like a radioactive exclusion zone.

How is sweet Hasret faring? Her visits to the doctor have grown less frequent over the year. With all her heart, Bliss hopes for remission, but her beloved has refused to discuss it. Bliss can almost make out the shape of Hasret’s secret, a leviathan lurking beneath disturbed water, but when she gets too close it dives to abyssal depths.

Bliss, too, keeps a terrible secret. The wedge has already been driven. With the application of pressure, it could shatter them beyond repair.

To her mother, Bliss says, “She’s ready for whatever might happen.”

“She holds a heavy burden,” says Violette with a sigh. “We knew there would be a Saint among the Adamant contingent, but Trueheart is one of the worst. She is tempered in the hell of the Singularity War, quick to anger, and utterly fearless. Time and death have done nothing to quench her flame. If the worst comes to pass and negotiations break down, only the power contained within Anathema will ensure your safety.”

Writhing chains break. Misshapen pincers crush Eris’s carapace. Anathema’s needle-toothed maw gapes ever wider, a black hole poised to swallow her up. That dissonant singing becomes a scream—

The sound of her lipstick hitting the table jars her from the memory. “Let’s not let it come to that.”

Violette walks over to Bliss, standing behind her in the mirror. “If the worst-case scenario happens, what will you do?”

“The VIPs’ safety is paramount,” Bliss says, reciting the security briefing. “Escort them to the shuttles and evacuate.”

“That is official Protean House policy, yes.” Violette leans forward, her intangible projection almost touching Bliss’s shoulder. “Unofficially, this would be a perfect chance to settle the score. You know full well that the champion of the Nova Ball is in attendance. If you hunt down Inanna’s Vengeance, that black mark on your record will disappear.”

Her heartbeat thuds in her ears. If Violette were here in person, she would surely feel Bliss’s panic through the bond. Hurriedly, she composes herself, steadies her breathing, willing her telltale heart to hush. “If it comes to that, I won’t hesitate. But this is hardly in the spirit of a peace conference.”

Her lips next to Bliss’s ear, Violette croons, “My dear girl, war is in your blood. A Hunter is not made for peace.”

Her projection dissolves, leaving Bliss alone in her room. Faintly, the sounds of the world come back to her: the ticking of the wall-clock, the muffled sound of Summer’s voice next door.

She steadies her hands and takes up the lipstick. To face the coming night, she must don her war-paint.

***

The elevator bell rings to announce their arrival. Twin doors, painted with wings feathered in autumn colours, slide open. Here in the foyer, a stream of masked guests drift their way into the garden courtyard. By day, they are diplomats, officers and nobility from both Houses, but tonight they wear the veil of anonymity.

Masks can hide a multitude of sins. Bliss prefers to wear hers on her sleeve. Her mask is the red fox: sly, cunning, predatory. It covers her upper face, leaving tantalising glimpses of her grey eyes and red lips; perfect to draw in her quarry. Not just a fox but a vixen.

As the flight enters the crystal garden, she links arms with Summer and Hasret. It’s been so long since they all attended a party together. Hasret is usually too ill, too reticent.

Crystals in distorted fractal shapes scintillate around them. Blue orbs of light float above their heads, casting the party-goers in an eerie glow. This garden is legendary, the centrepiece of the Chalcedony Palace, surrounded by its spires on all five sides. Bliss has longed to see it in person. She marvels at the gleaming facets of the minerals, grown and honed like inorganic topiaries: lapis lazuli, amethyst, and inevitably, chalcedony.

Summer whistles in appreciation, cutting through the chatter of the crowd. “Gorgeous. They’ve really improved since last time. Asmani must be proud.”

“Where is she, anyway?” asks Bliss.

“She wasn’t invited to the masquerade. It’s a shame, really. Everyone will be admiring her team’s work, and she’s not even here to see it.” Summer eyes the crystal arrangements with a fond smile. “I’ll catch up with her over drinks later. Does my hair look okay?”

Summer’s hair is spun gold, arranged into a braided bun. A bee mask conceals her upper face with black faceted eyes and fuzzy antennae; a black-and-yellow striped dress completes the ensemble, hugging her generous figure. It’s enough to take Bliss’s breath away.

“You’re irresistible, as always.” says Bliss. “Asmani won’t know what hit her. But for now—” she cups Summer’s soft waist— “You’re all mine. You too, Hasret.”

Hasret is distracted, staring off into the distance. Her mask is horned, red, distorted in a demonic snarl; a stark contrast to the neat black three-piece suit she wears with it. For tonight, she is well enough to walk with only a cane.

“Hasret? Are you okay?” says Bliss.

“I hope the containment procedures here are up to scratch,” she says, her voice muffled behind her mask. “I can’t stop thinking about what might happen if it were to break free.”

It. Bliss has known people who found joy in that pronoun, but for Hasret, it is a tool of self-harm. Anathema is not a beloved second body but a monster straining at her chains.

“Come on, now,” says Summer. “They’ve flown in the very best specialists. They wouldn’t risk a Phage outbreak in the middle of such an important summit. That would be as good as a declaration of war!”

Bliss shoots her a look of annoyance. -Do you really think she wants to hear that?

Hasret stops in her tracks, swivelling in the direction of the hangar. Her fingers drum on the metal head of her cane; sickly anxiety radiates through the bond. A few masked guests give her worried looks and hurry away. When she gets worked up, all her negative feelings leak out to anyone nearby. “I should be there. I have to make sure they’ve done everything properly.”

Bliss squeezes her hand. “Hey, now. Everything was fine when you left. You agreed to take the night off, no? Have you taken your medication?” Hasret nods. “Good. You look dashing, my love. I think a little dancing will do you some good. You might even turn some heads. A lot of ladies are into demons, you know.” She knocks on the forehead of Hasret’s wooden mask. “There. For good luck. Happy hunting.”

A wash of warm air scented with pomegranate welcomes them into the ballroom, sweeping them into a sea of masked faces. The décor is volcanic, the room broken up by jagged pillars of obsidian. Beneath a layer of glass the rocky floor is cracked, lit from within by a fiery glow. At the far end of the room the floor falls away entirely, leaving only a thick pane of glass between the guests and the sky below. This is the main attraction: a dance above the clouds. She can’t wait to try it.

A holographic art piece commands a corner of the room, drawing supplicants like moths to flame: a jagged wound slashed through space-time, spilling forth golden ichor-light. The Eye of Heaven, gone these hundred years but not forgotten. Without the bounty of a dead god’s blood, the Houses would be nothing at all. Come back to us, the artist pleads. Why have you forsaken us in our time of need?

There is no answer; there can be no answer. Divinity operates on its own schedule.

Uniformed cyborgs rub shoulders with plastic-robed archpriests; familiars growl at hovering drones. Bliss has foregone an animal companion of her own tonight. Asmodeus, the snake who accompanied her to the Nova Ball, was far too temperamental. She needs no other statement than the violet pinned to her chest.

The ballroom is where the game of politics is played, as much as the negotiation table. A chance meeting between people of influence can change the course of billions of lives. Newly forged friendships can foster cooperation between Houses; fresh grudges can fester and corrode goodwill from within. In a way, the emissaries who surround her are far deadlier than any Seraph.

Of course, when their heads are separated from their bodies, they die just as easily as any human.

Bliss basks in the attention as the three of them slip through the crowd, arm-in-arm. Eyes widen behind masks. Journalists snap photos from afar with their camera drones. Her mask is finished in lab-cultured russet fur; her dress gleams with the texture of flowing blood. Even with her face concealed, she is known, feared, adored. Her likeness will be displayed in fashion folios by the end of the night.

The Adamant Knights are impossible to miss, proud and stiff-backed like statues. Out of habit, she filters out the men among them as irrelevant. The Knights have relaxed their uniform regulations for tonight, but they are all of a kind, dressed in black and navy and gold, their bodies augmented with burnished chrome. Before she met Val, she often wondered if they were truly alive.

There she is. Across the room, their gaze is drawn to each other, inexorable as gravity. A bronze hawk mask, shrewd and graceful, hides Val’s face. Like that could fool me. Bliss has caressed every contour of the body underneath, kissed every centimetre of skin. She could never fail to recognise her Knight.

A tuxedo sheathes her powerful frame: limbs draped in black velvet, white shirt collar stark against her dark skin. With her air of sternly contained violence she could be mistaken for a bodyguard, but the reality of Val is far more lethal.

If Bliss dared, she would run over and embrace her in a moment. But as long as they are under the watchful gaze of the Houses, their love must remain a secret.

Love. They have never spoken the word to each other, never named what lies between them. And yet they have broken countless laws, defied the gods in pursuit of the ultimate heresy. What else could it be?

Reaching her proves to be a challenge. The Knights and the Hunters are beset on all sides by nobles and social climbers, officers and adjutants, reporters and gossips. For more than thirty minutes Bliss plays the role of the celebrity Hunter, answering every inane question put to her about her infamous duelling defeat and the ongoing border conflict. Throughout it all, Summer’s easy charm and wit sparkles on camera, while Hasret glowers at Bliss’s shoulder. By the end, she longs to put someone’s eye out with a sharpened nail. Admiring from afar is one thing. Prying into every detail of her life is beyond the pale.

Just as her face starts to ache from affecting a pleasant smile, an elegant cage lowers from the ceiling with a rattle of chains, hanging above the dance floor. A string quartet is contained within, clothed in black and white. Their masks are alabaster and onyx, shaped after chess pieces: the obedient knight, the godless arbiter, the cutthroat hunter, the ravenous vulture. The time has come to dance.

The Hunters stalk like panthers toward the Knights, the crowd parting before them. A mixer dance is an opportunity to take the measure of your partner, a moment of intimacy among the crowd. Bliss locks eyes with Val as they approach. There could be no better opportunity to steal time together.

“Good evening, esteemed Hunters,” says Saint Trueheart. Her mask is simple gold, engraved with scripture. Chromatic artefacts trail her steps like a spectral train. “‘As the moons wax bright, we dance for tomorrow.’” Her words have the cadence of poetry, but Bliss’s knowledge fails her.

Summer, by agreement, steps forward and shakes hands with the Saint. “‘With dawn light we wake, grievances forgotten.’ Well met, Knights of Adamant.”

With such honeyed words, Bliss could almost believe the Knights’ commitment to peace. But there are six of them in attendance. Like the Hunters, they have left two of their number on duty in the hangar. This conference exists on a razor’s edge, poised to plunge into the abyss at the slightest disturbance of trust.

At least they picked an appropriate place to dance.

Val watches Bliss intently as their flights exchange pleasantries, her brown eyes alight with ardour. From a stranger, it would be unnerving, but Bliss glows and preens under the attention. Her Knight only has eyes for her.

Another Knight, red-haired and freckled, keeps an eye on her surreptitiously. She has a feeling she knows who that might be.

At last, Val speaks up. “Hunter Bliss, may I have the first dance?”

Before Bliss can respond, Trueheart steps between them. She is shorter than them both, but her forbidding presence is impossible to ignore. “The two of you are already acquainted, correct? In the name of cooperation, it would befit you to find new partners and deepen the connection between our Houses.” She turns to her Knights. “Who will dance with Hunter Bliss?” The red-haired Knight raises her hand. “Very well. You have been on your best behaviour, Knight Fidelity. Let’s settle the rest of the pairings.”

With one last longing glance at Val, Bliss allows herself to be led away by her new partner.

***

On a glass floor above the sky, Val dances with a demon. Hunter Hasret moves as if unfamiliar with her own body, as if apologising pre-emptively for the imposition of her existence. The grimacing oni mask screams fear me. If not for her briefing on Phage weapons, Val would wonder what there was to be afraid of.

Automatic vents waft incense, redolent of spice and smoke, across the dance floor. The smell of what lies below, or a perfumer’s impression of it.

A solo from the vulture-masked first violinist leads them into the dance. Val watches her step and Hasret’s, keeps them both in time. She is still far from a dancer, but she paid close attention to her lessons over the weeks, eager to meet Bliss on the dance floor again.

“If I fall, will you catch me?” says Hasret, almost too softly to hear behind her mask.

“I will, if need be,” Val replies.

“Thank you,” says Hasret. “It’s been a while since I’ve danced. I’d hate to be a burden.”

Val frowns. “Why would you be a burden to me? We’ve never met before.”

Hasret's grip on Val’s hand tightens. “Best forget I said that.”

Keeping her footing is easier than anticipated. The floor is faintly scored with a grid, a reminder that she’s not dancing on air. Far below, the clouds are limned with burning orange, lit by irregular lightning-flashes.

The dance is sedate, easy for Hasret to keep up with. The Hunter stays silent and focused for a while, easing into the rhythm, letting Val guide her. At length, she says, “You’re not what I expected, Knight.”

“What did you expect of me?”

Hasret tilts her head. “Ferocity. In the clips from the Nova Ball, you were like a whirlwind. I thought that dancing with you would be a duel in itself. That was how Bliss described it to me.”

“Are you disappointed?” asks Val.

“A little,” says Hasret. “Part of me wants to experience a dance that passionate, but I doubt it would suit me.”

The dance reaches its crescendo; a fiery glow suffuses the clouds. Amidst it all, Val and Hasret are contained in a strange bubble of calm.

“I suppose this is more in the spirit of peace,” says Val. “That is what we’re here for, after all.”

Hasret makes a hollow sound in the back of her throat. It takes a moment for Val to realise that she is laughing. “There’s no peace for a monster like me, Knight. I’m already burning the candle at both ends. The only choice I have left is whether I sputter out or blaze bright one last time.”

Why are you confessing this to a stranger, Hunter?

Hasret is not what Val expected either. Both of them have been filtered through Bliss’s perception, mythologised by her own biases. Hasret is sick, yes. She despises herself; that much is obvious. Even in such a short dance, Val can see the thoughtfulness, the gentleness, that drew Bliss to her in the first place.

She is also, in all likelihood, the most dangerous person in the room. Bliss wouldn’t settle for anything less in a partner.

Val would have no chance of talking her down. She feels that urge too, to give her everything to the battle, to fight obstinately until her spark burns out. If Hasret is truly intent on going out in a blaze of glory, Val can only hope that the woman they both love will stay free of her inferno.

***

Knight Fidelity is not a cooperative dance partner. Despite volunteering to dance with Bliss, she appears bent on sabotage. The Knight leads with confidence, her steps measured to the centimetre, but again and again she makes easily avoidable errors. Nothing too overt; a stumble here, a lingering glance over Bliss’s shoulder that causes her to miss her timing. As a final provocation, she steps on Bliss’s high-heeled foot, sending pain shooting through her toes.

“Do you mind?” Bliss hisses indignantly.

“I’m truly sorry, Hunter,” says Fi, her voice as devoid of expression as her golden lioness mask. Her ocular implants glow green through the eyeholes. “I must have overestimated your ability to keep up. Should we take it slower?”

“My ability is not in question,” Bliss says, “only your discourtesy.” Curious dancers turn to watch the confrontation, drawn by her sudden flash of anger. The chess-masked musicians in their hanging cage play on, too professional to gawk.

“I’ve already apologised,” says Fi. “You don’t want to make a scene, do you?”

Bliss is all too aware of how they must look. The Knight, ever calm and polite; the Hunter flying off the handle at a grievance. It plays to cultural stereotypes. If she escalates, she will hold the blame for derailing the dance.

For the sake of avoiding a scandal, Bliss swallows her pride. She watches Fi closely, observes her prim-and-proper attitude, her immaculate uniform. When Val talks of her friend, her recollections are tinged with nostalgia and bitterness. Once, they did everything together.

“The clouds are beautiful tonight,” says Bliss. “Don’t you think?” Beneath their feet, they undulate in the wind, a veil hiding the violence that lies beneath.

Fi does not answer. Her gaze is fixed over Bliss’s shoulder. Bliss turns, following her eyes. There, among the dancers, Val and Hasret sway to the beat.

“You can’t fool me,” says Fi at last. “I know your game, Hunter.”

An accusation so vague could mean anything. She knows better than to incriminate herself by being defensive. “And what, pray tell, is that?”

“You’re a corrupting influence,” says Fi with a scowl. “You worm into good Knights’ heads, disrupt their doctrine, make them forget what they’re about.”

“That sounds like an issue with your doctrine, not my influence. Perhaps you should talk to a priest. It’s nothing to do with me, unless you’re accusing me of being some kind of succubus.” The dance brings them past the violist in her onyx arbiter mask. Bliss flashes her teeth in a wicked smile, lowers her voice to a purr. “Although, if I were a succubus, perhaps mere touch would be enough to ensnare you.”

Fi tenses in her grasp. Not such a lioness after all.

An obedient dog like her would never break free and risk a diplomatic incident. Bliss has her right where she wants her.

“Fidelity Carved In Stone,” says Bliss, drawing close enough for her breath to brush the Knight’s face. “Such a telling name. You must be as loyal as they come. Would your admirals approve of your behaviour towards me? Would your Saint?”

Trueheart twirls on the far side of the dance floor in the arms of Summer, her after-image visible in Bliss’s peripheral vision. Fi’s eyes flick to her momentarily, as if seeking reassurance. “Nothing I’ve done is against orders.”

“And yet you hurl spurious allegations at a fellow guest. You don’t seem all that committed to the peace process, dear Knight.”

Fi’s eyes flare angrily; a volcanic glow from below casts her features in harsh light. “I speak only the truth, as the Codex commands. I serve with all that I am, and that’s nothing to be ashamed of. I doubt you could begin to understand a Knight’s duty.”

“You’re sworn to tell the truth?” Bliss laughs. “Then why don’t you stop equivocating and tell me what you really think of me?”

Fi’s jaw works. The music comes to an end. In the cage, the alabaster hunter watches them curiously from behind her fanged mask, her white cello leaning against the bars.

No answer, then?

Interpreting Adamant emotions can be challenging. One cannot rely on the bond. Fi’s thin lips press together. She stands stiff, proud, belligerent, but fear wins out. “Never mind.”

The dog, tail between her legs, runs back to her master.

***

There is a moment’s respite before the next dance. Val vacates the glass floor along with the other guests to find a new partner. Bliss shines like a red beacon, singular among her coterie of Hunters. She commands the room effortlessly, drawing every eye, a vision in liquid scarlet. As she moves from person to person, the slits down the sides of her dress expose a tantalising glimpse of pale thigh. Whether it’s the first time or the thousandth, Bliss never fails to take her breath away.

Val slips through the crowd, filled with determination. One moment alone with her is all she asks for. Just one. Then all the etiquette drills with Fi and the agonising weeks of waiting will be worth it. She’s right there, almost close enough to—

“Knight Valour!” A short blonde woman in a bee mask interposes herself between Val and Bliss. “I’ve heard so much about the victor of the Nova Ball. Such a handsome, brooding presence. What deep thoughts lie behind the mask? I have to admit,” she says fervently, “I’m very, very curious.” She edges closer.

Bliss is right behind her. Val meets her eyes, sending out a silent distress call.

“Summer, give the poor woman a rest,” says Bliss. “Everyone in this room has been clamouring to talk to her. Isn’t that right, Knight Valour?”

Not only everyone in this room, but every officer at every Adamant event in the last eleven months. The recognition is welcome, a far cry from the wall of indifference and hostility she received as a reject from Martyr’s Rock, but Val lacks the constitution for celebrity. Her victory was a symbol, a meaningless gesture in the grand scheme of things. Bliss has paid her back tenfold. The duel she staked her self-worth on was a mere stepping-stone. They blaze a new trail now, carrying a torch into the unknown.

“I do seem to be popular tonight,” says Val.

To Bliss, Summer says, “You’re only saying that because you want to dance with her so badly. Don’t deny it, now! I can feel you starting to blush.”

“Well,” says Bliss, “it has been such a long time since she and I danced together. If Knight Valour had as memorable an experience as I did, then I’m sure she’d be eager to renew our acquaintance.”

The caged string quartet takes up their instruments once again; dancers begin to trickle onto the floor. In a flash, Summer seizes Val’s arm in a firm grasp. “You can have the next dance, sweetheart!”

Taken by surprise, Val allows herself to be led away. It’s the most polite kidnapping she’s ever heard of.

An energetic melody propels them into the second dance. Beneath their feet, lightning crackles through clouds, illuminating the dancers with bursts of white light. Summer goes through the prescribed motions, twirling Val over and over again. In her moments of reprieve, Val searches the floor for Bliss. At last, her eyes alight upon the Hunter in red. Her partner is none other than the venerated Saint Trueheart. Oh no.

Summer’s eyes never leave Val for a second. Her vivisecting gaze takes in every last detail. Under the Hunter’s scrutiny she is unmasked; under her touch she is prodded, palpated, tested for endurance. Behind those eyes the results are catalogued and interpreted.

Not even an inquisitor could expose her like this.

“Stop looking at me like that,” snaps Val, surprising herself.

Summer’s eyes widen innocently. “How am I looking at you?”

“Like I’m a bacterium under a microscope.”

“Oh! I see.” Summer chuckles. “I’m just trying to determine what gives you your edge. It’s not often that someone beats Red Eris so decisively. Almost never, in fact. I want to know what makes you tick, Borne on Wings of Valour.”

“You could ask,” says Val. “You don’t have to undress me with your eyes.”

“What you look like naked is of no concern to me, unless you’re offering. I am curious, though,” Summer says, struck by a thought, “How much chrome do you have under there? It seems odd that you go to all the effort of augmentation only to cover everything up with synthetic skin. Your cybernetics’ specs weren’t in the intelligence report.”

“That’s because they’re classified.”

Summer pouts. “Alright. You could stand to be more cooperative, you know. This is the only opportunity we’ll have to get to know one another. A week from now we could be enemies again.”

The idea of this woman knowing too much about her sets Val’s teeth on edge, no matter how deeply Bliss trusts her. “All the more reason not to leak House secrets.”

A mournful harmony draws them close, swaying in time with the viola’s bow. Summer is lost in thought for a time. “I think I have the measure of you, Knight Valour. You never back down, never accept defeat. But a great pilot is born with potential, not just trained. A gardener can only bring forth what lies dormant within a seed; an apple tree can’t grow oranges through force of will alone. Wouldn’t you say there’s a genetic factor in your success?” She beams, as though she has finally come up with a workable theory.

It always comes down to this. For some people, the circumstances of her birth are all that will ever matter.

“No,” says Val.

Summer blinks twice. “I’m sorry?”

“I said no.”

“Surely you can’t deny that being a clone of one of the most decorated Knights in history has influenced your ability!”

Val glowers at her. In her head, she recites the litany of composure. She breathes deeply, in and out. She focuses on the rote movements of the dance as it draws to a close. “I’m not their Saint. Never was, never will be. Every atom of my being was clawed from the clutches of those who sought to use and discard me. My accomplishments are mine and mine alone.”

Summer’s eyes sparkle in the storm’s glow. “Now that is an interesting self-conception. Positively traitorous. I look forward to seeing how well it holds up in reality.”

***

“A Saint is a wicked, vain creature,” the priests taught Bliss. “It clings to individuality, gorging itself on the bodies of the young, selfishly grasping at immortality. It does not surrender its wisdom to its successors; its steel bones will never nourish the soil. They are stained by the sin of their return from the other side, and they above all Knights can never be trusted or reasoned with.”

Confined in the iron grip of Trueheart, Bliss can hardly disagree with their assessment. When the Saint asked her to dance, she would brook no refusal. The possibility space narrowed to a single outcome: Trueheart gets her way.

The arm around her waist and the hand clinging onto Bliss’s are solid, but Trueheart’s body blurs and shifts like a mirage as she moves. When she speaks, the movement of her face is oddly fluid, as if animated at a different frame-rate to the rest of her. A simple golden domino mask, etched with scripture, accentuates her oceanic eyes. The lightning doesn’t dare touch her. She stands apart, a relic from bygone times. “Let me tell you a story about the one who gave you that violet, young Hunter.”

Bliss finds her curiosity piqued. The Knights are so fond of their stories. They carve them into their hulls, weave them into their names. True or not, this is hardly a tale she can miss. She nods her assent.

Trueheart’s cold voice cuts effortlessly through the music. “It was a night much like this one. Before this Palace, there were grander venues, places where Protean and Adamant could meet and conspire against mutual threats. In those days, even the stars shone brighter.” A wistful smile breaks through her impassivity, quickly stifled. “The machinery of the Empty Throne had been seized by a pretender. The Regency’s Arbiters marched on both our Houses, compelled by their false god. Thus a summit was called to act against the threat. It was there that I first met the woman who would become Elder Violette.” The Saint dances with geometric precision. She appears almost bored by the music and the fantastical venue, but speaking of Violette brings out a spark in her eyes, a reflection of the hellscape below.

“What was she like back then?” asks Bliss.

“A smooth negotiator. Her lines of argumentation were woven deftly, considering the viewpoints of all interlocutors, yet in the end they found themselves ensnared in her own agenda. Many of our admirals left convinced that they had snatched the better deal, only to realise years later that they had been played for fools. My skills do not lie in diplomacy, but I recognise a worthy adversary when I see one.”

“Why were you assigned here, then, if diplomacy isn’t your forte?” says Bliss.

“In this day and age, few Knights of quality remain. Most of my worthy comrades are still interred in the Reliquaries. It was adjudged that I was the most appropriate candidate.” Trueheart flashes a grin. It stretches her face unnervingly, as if her muscles are unused to the expression. “After all, my experience in battlefield command is unmatched.”

It comes as no surprise that Adamant House are as prepared for an incident as her fellow Hunters. Would it kill her to be less direct about it, though?

“And here I thought this was a peace conference,” says Bliss jokingly.

“Peace is temporary,” says Trueheart. She has relinquished her sword, but there are a thousand ways to kill someone without an obvious weapon. In her black-and-gold uniform with its grand epaulettes, she looks identical to the historical hologram in her dossier. Even as the light of the Houses dwindles, she remains constant. “Even within the rightfully conquered territory of the Adamant, there are malcontents who defy the Archangel’s will. Across all my lifespans there has never been a moment when the forges of our arms factories have cooled. Adamant House will fight until the stars themselves burn out. Your mother understands this well, Hunter Laroux.”

“I—”

“I have had enough of your interjections,” Trueheart snaps. “Like your paramour in the yellow dress, you have too many questions. Let me finish my story.”

Across the floor, she catches a glimpse of her hawk-masked Knight. Mother below, you were so right about her, Val. Next dance you’re all mine.

To Trueheart, she says, “Okay. I’m listening.”

Trueheart recites her tale as though reading from a history book. “The negotiations were protracted. Despite Violette’s silver tongue, there were dissidents among the Protean delegation that stood in her way. While the Arbiters laid waste to worlds with the twisted Law of their deus ex machina, we argued to a standstill.

“On the third day, the dissidents were nowhere to be seen. We were told they were indisposed with food poisoning. A battle plan was drawn up; concessions were made; the war began in earnest. For her exceptional skill, the mantle of Elder was bestowed upon your mother. It was only afterwards that we discovered her opponents were dead, poisoned by a rare toxin in their whisky.”

The last note fades away. Trueheart relinquishes her grasp. Rather than leaving, she waits for a response, arms folded.

“Is that it?” scoffs Bliss. “You think I don’t know what sort of things you have to do to become an Elder? If she did kill them, that doesn’t change my opinion of her one bit. Sometimes people get in the way.”

Beneath the golden mask, Trueheart’s brow furrows. “You misunderstand. I would never take such an underhanded path myself, but I admired Violette’s willingness to act at any cost. When one’s House is at stake, impure elements must be purged. If she were born Adamant, I would champion her appointment to consul. You can tell her that yourself, if you wish.”

Oh.

Trueheart sketches a salute and fades into the crowd. Many of the delegates have abandoned the dance floor and returned to mingling, lubricating their conversation with copious amounts of free drinks. Ash is chatting up a glamorous reporter; Summer has no doubt made herself scarce to catch up with Asmani. Hasret sips water on a stool in the corner, her cane leaning against the bar.

-Feeling okay? Bliss asks her.

-Just tired. I think that’s enough dancing for tonight. Don’t worry about me; you go and play with that Knight of yours. Hasret points a thumb over her shoulder at Val. -Summer told me you’ve been eyeing that woman up all night. Have your fun, but don’t forget where you stand. She might be charming, but she’s still Adamant.

Like magic, all the obstructions melt away. Ice broken, the Knights and Hunters slip away from the reporters to chat with one another. Only a few determined souls are left for the last dance. More cages slide down from the ceiling of the dance floor, occupied by pawn-masked musicians armed with a panoply of instruments. The leads in the central cage knead their own instruments like clay, moulding them into flute, horn, tuba, saxophone. This last number requires an ensemble.

The lights above the glass floor dip low as she meets Val there. She quells the urge to check her hair, her dress, for imperfections. Her Knight would have her any way she presented herself. Her heart quickens as Val greets her with a fond smile.

“Looks like it’s just you, me and the sky,” says Val.

Bliss offers an arm. Val takes it without hesitation, letting Bliss lead her across the floor. Searchlights shine out from the base of the Palace, sweeping across the clouds below in mesmerising kaleidoscopic patterns. The band strikes up a gentle swing ballad. Perfect for a foxtrot.

“Caught so easily this time,” says Bliss. “You really let your guard down. What happened to that Knight who never let anyone in, who always fought to deny her own emotions?”

“She died,” says Val. “You cut me free of her. What about that Hunter who never looked past the next hunt, who saw nothing but unworthy prey at the end of her claws?”

“She met a foe who deserved her respect, and emerged from her chrysalis changed beyond recognition.” They glide across the rainbow-painted sky, smooth and flowing, perfectly in sync. She is dimly aware of others dancing around them, but Val is the only one who matters. “Do you remember the name of this song, Knight Valour?”

“I’ve practised it enough times. It’s Moonlight Serenade.”

“An old Earth ballad.” Step and glide. Bliss swings Val away, draws her back, like a comet in elliptical orbit. She’ll always return in the end, no matter how many years it takes. “Classical music isn’t really my thing, but I’m fond of this one.”

Val grimaces. “My classics education was… thorough. He was enamoured with all the flotsam of Earth’s past, so I had to be too. Shakespeare was his favourite. I bet I could still quote you half of Romeo and Juliet. Heard of it?”

“Oh, I played the simulated version. So many branching paths, all hurtling towards tragedy. I decided there was something missing, so I modded it.” Bliss grins. “A tale of star-crossed lovers is so much more exciting when they’re both women, don’t you think?”

Val chuckles and reels Bliss in close. She smells of dry-cleaned velvet and navy-issue deodorant, practical to a fault. Their masks bump against one another, beak to snout. “Without a doubt. But I prefer a romance with a happy ending.”

Bliss bites her lip. “There was one. In the sim, I mean. Thirty-one permutations of sorrow and suffering, then the thirty-second ending: the true ending. The others were easy enough, but it took me weeks to figure out the golden path. I followed the perspectives of every playable character, figured out their motivations. I didn’t want to use a guide; I needed to do it myself. I unravelled a web of conspiracy, threaded the needle. I cheated fate. There was no poison, no impalement, no fall from a parapet. The lovers escaped their houses’ grasp and fled together, blessedly, wonderfully alive.”

“Things aren’t so simple in the real world,” says Val. “There are no do-overs.”

“I know.” Bliss averts her gaze. The clouds truly are beautiful.

“There might be no golden path at all. Sometimes the forces arrayed against you are too powerful, too numerous.”

“I know!” By the time Bliss realises she’s shouting, the words have already left her mouth. Heads turn their way. Don’t make a scene.

“I’m sorry,” says Val. “Let’s just enjoy the dance. There are some things that shouldn’t be discussed in public.”

The onlookers hastily feign disinterest, but Bliss can still feel eyes on her. Fi, sitting at the bar, watches them fervently over the rim of her glass.

“I don’t think your friend likes me,” says Bliss. “She called me a corrupting influence.”

“Fi?” says Val. “She’s... protective. I’ve had words with her about it before.” She glances over and frowns. “You didn’t provoke her, did you?”

“Who, me?” Bliss says, innocent as a smoking gun.

“Bliss.”

Even when she’s being reprimanded, she can’t help but find Val’s commanding tone beguiling. Bliss says, “A little. But she started it. As long as I avoid her for the rest of the week, everything will be fine.”

Val sighs. “I’ll talk to her.”

They dance close for a while, but her heart isn’t in it. Val is in her arms at last, yet the glamour of the evening is gone, punctured by the intrusion of reality. This was supposed to be their special moment. This is what she’s good at; her natural environment. Why, then, does everything feel wrong? Isn’t this what you wanted?

Val jolts in her arms, staring down at something through the glass floor. Bliss scans the clouds. Nothing out of the ordinary. “What is it?” she says.

“I thought I saw…” Val tears her eyes away. “It was nothing.”

Doesn’t sound like nothing.

Fi isn’t the only one watching them. There are dozens of drones with camera lenses trained on them, all scrutinising the reunited rivals. The paparazzi salivate in anticipation of drama for the front page.

When the attention was on her, it seemed only right. But in public with Val, she can never say what she means, never express her true feelings. They’ve already risked too much.

Her Knight’s brow creases in consternation. “What’s the matter, Bliss?”

She shakes her head. “I was stupid to think this would be easy. We can’t talk here. I’m sorry for ruining your evening.”

“Ruining?” Val’s eyes soften, still human under the metallic mask. “Bliss, everything is alright because I’m here with you. It doesn’t need to be perfect to be worth the wait. Held aloft above the sky with the most beautiful and deadly woman in all the Houses… this can only be paradise.”

Bliss smirks. “It’s about time someone started worshipping me. You look ravishing in that tuxedo, Valour. I could get used to this.” This moment should be preserved in amber. Val in her tuxedo and bow tie, a hawk for the hunt. That feeling of weightlessness as they glide on air. The butterflies in her stomach as her Knight fixes her with a covetous gaze. It’s too cruel to let it end. “But…”

“But the song is almost over.”

“Exactly. And I’m very sorry about this, but I need to slap you.”

“What did I do to deserve that?” says Val, taken aback.

“Nothing. You were wonderful, as always. But we’ve been acting entirely too lovey-dovey, and we need to give the news sites something else to talk about. Drama drives clicks, darling. Ready?”

“Ready and waiting.”

Hitting Val is like hitting a steel bulkhead. The slap rings out across the room. “How dare you?” Bliss cries. That should give them something to chew on.

The saxophonist in the alabaster hunter mask turns to watch as she storms off through the crowd.

***

By the time Val shakes off the journalists hounding her, Fi has already absconded to her rooms, leaving a do-not-disturb sign on the door and rejecting all calls. With no pressing reason to head back to the ballroom, Val is left to ruminate in her own suite.

She leans on the balcony, looking out at the crystal garden twenty storeys below. The patterns are more clear from a height, twisting out from the centre like forks of lightning, arranged with the utmost care. The air inside the palace’s field bubble is temperature-controlled with barely a whisper of wind, the only habitable environment that remains on this planet. Laughter drifts across the pentagonal garden from open windows.

Images captured by her ocular implants flicker through her internal memory. Bliss, making eyes at her across a crowded room. Bliss, metres away, smirking beneath her fox mask. Bliss, close enough to touch, each mascara-coated lash distinguishable. If she had the guts, she would have dipped the Hunter low and kissed her right there on the dance floor. To hell with secrecy. They should be allowed to love openly.

One last image. Telephoto, blurred, taken through layers of cloud. It could be mistaken for a bird at first glance, but nothing organic could survive that toxic atmosphere. The wings are skeletal, the frame cadaverous, and it’s far too large. Vulture.

It’s no surprise that they’re circling. The Vultures lurk around sites of potential conflict, shrouded in cloaking fields, poised to swoop in and scavenge the casualties. In lean times, every House adapts to survive. Protean House has its recycling tanks, Adamant House has its Reliquaries, and Forlorn House stitches together new Seraphs from the dead.

Val hangs up her jacket and collapses onto her bed. Soft sheets, freshly laundered; far more comfortable than her bunk on the chariot ship. A Knight is not required to take a vow of poverty, but asceticism is encouraged. Luxury, says the Steelsong Codex, dulls the mind.

She watches the petal-shaped ceiling fan as it rotates lazily. Why would the Vulture show itself now? It could have remained hidden beneath the clouds, and she would have been none the wiser.

Only one answer presents itself. It wants us to know that it’s waiting.

Val forwards the image to Trueheart and to Commander Rangi, captain of the Feather of Truth. They have contingencies for Vultures, but forewarned is forearmed. Within moments, she receives an affirmative from Rangi, and a text message from Trueheart: Stay alert for Protean treachery.

If an incident arises, Skadi’s Shadow and Eye of Horus will be first on the scene. For now, it’s not her problem.

It’s unlikely she’ll get any sleep with all the worries buzzing through her brain. Val opens up a book on her tablet to pass the time: Passion Beneath Twin Suns. She immerses herself in the torrid romance novel, filled with overdramatic misunderstandings and supportive friends pushing the clueless leads together. If only things were so simple in her own life.

The sound of guests laughing and chatting outside fills her with a sudden bitterness. She should be with Bliss, not alone in her suite on the opposite side of the courtyard. They barely had more than a moment together. If this were one of her books, this would be the point at which Bliss arrived at her door in a negligee with a bottle of wine to share.

Three sharp knocks startle her from her reverie. Heart thumping, she gets up to answer the door. With a hiss of hydraulics, it slides open.

It’s Fi, leaning unsteadily on the wall with a can of beer in hand. “Thought I’d drop in to see the woman of the hour.” Her eyes are bloodshot and puffy; her breath stinks of alcohol.

“You’re drunk.” It shouldn’t be surprising after a party, but Fi has prided herself on being a straight edge for years.

“Can I come in?” she asks.

Val purses her lips. “As long as you promise to behave.” If anyone sees her out in the corridor, she’ll set a bad example.

“Knight’s honour.” Fi deposits her can on the glass coffee table and sprawls on the chaise longue.

Val takes an armchair nearby. “Are you okay, Fi?”

“Never been better.”

“You’ve been crying.”

Fi snorts. “No, I haven’t.”

“Fi,” says Val firmly. “You can’t keep doing this. What’s the point in lying if the evidence is right in front of my eyes?”

Fi props herself up with an elbow. “Fine. I have. What’s your next deduction, detective?”

Val pours a glass of water and presses it into Fi’s free hand. “Drink. I can get you a detox pill if you want to sober up.”

“Absolutely not.” Fi reluctantly sips her water. “I'm drinking for a reason.”

“What’s got into you? Arguing with Hunter Bliss, now this.”

“She told you.” Fi shakes her head. “Unbelievable. You two really are thick as thieves.”

“It’s beneath the dignity of a Knight to antagonise a representative of a foreign House,” says Val.

“She—”

“I don’t care if she provoked you; I don’t care what you think of her personally. If it were anyone else behaving like that, you'd report them to Trueheart in an instant. ‘Set the example you wish to see in your comrades, and all shall be elevated by your presence.’” Using the doctrine Fi has quoted a thousand times against her is strangely exhilarating; the shining exemplar, caught in hypocrisy.

“I was right about what I said to that woman. You’ve changed too much since that day. She changed you.”

Of course she’s changed me. She tore me open and rearranged me into something better. She helped me understand that the Archangel is unworthy of my devotion, that I’ll never achieve true freedom in her service.

“I told you, Fi,” says Val. “Change is natural. But you’d rather everything stayed the same forever, wouldn’t you?”

Tears well up in Fi’s eyes. She jumps to her feet, dropping her glass and letting it roll away across the carpet. “I saw the way you looked at her!” she shouts. “I’ve watched the video of the Nova Ball again and again and again, all alone in my cabin.”

“I don’t know what you think you saw, but—”

“Don’t interrupt! Don’t you dare interrupt.” Fi advances on her. “I saw it again, tonight. The two of you, dancing together. That look in your eyes.” Tears drip down her freckled cheeks. “That’s the way you used to look at me.”

With a distraught Fi centimetres from her face, it all crystallises. The protectiveness. The way she drives away everyone who tries to get close to Val. The way she resists change so fiercely.

“You’re still in love with me, aren’t you?” says Val softly.

Fi makes a strangled noise in her throat, half a sob. Snot trickles from her nose. “I’ve always tried so hard to keep you safe. When I first saw you in that shuttle bay, fresh from the monastery and innocent to the world, I knew I had to take you under my wing. My Seraph body was built for protection, so I protected you. You didn’t know how to behave among normal people, so I taught you. You didn’t know how to be a woman, so I taught you that too. And I loved it so, so much, seeing you blossom into yourself.” She sniffs. “Until you decided you didn’t need me any more.”

“Didn’t need you?” A flash of anger ignites in Val. “We fight together, eat together. Of course I want you by my side. You mean I’m not dependent on you.”

“You broke up with me once you didn’t need my help any more! I held the heartbreak close, never let it show, like a good Knight. All that time and effort I put into you, into us, meant nothing. I keep my promises, even if you don’t keep yours. I never stopped loving the Val I used to know. I wish more than anything that she’d come back to me.”

Val stands up from her chair, sending Fi staggering back. “She’s not coming back, Fi. I’m not yours to mould as you please. I know exactly who I am and what I want.”

“You want her, don’t you?” Fi says with a sneer.

“You can believe that if you want. You know damn well what will happen to me if you tell anyone your theory, though. Do you want that on your conscience?”

“I don’t. But I can’t let you take up with a heathen, either.” Fi presses Val’s hand between hers. “This isn’t right. That Protean jezebel has whispered into your ear and turned you against me. I can make everything right, if you let me. You’re not hers to take.” She leans in for a kiss, eyes closed, lips parted, face smeared with tears and snot.

“No, Fi.” Val slips her hand free and pushes her away firmly.

“But—”

Enough is enough. Thunder in her voice, she growls, “You’re not too drunk to understand the word no. Don’t test my patience.”

“I just wanted to—”

“I know what you wanted.” Val leads her to the door. “Go and clean yourself up and go to bed. If you won’t take a detox, live with the hangover.” Fi hangs her head and leaves without daring another word.

After the door closes, Val leans heavily against it, sliding down the wall until she hits the floor. She lets out a long, shuddering breath, bleeding the tension from every muscle. “Fuck me.”

***

Dawn comes with a profound unease. She should be relieved that the conference remains peaceful, that the omens have amounted to nothing as yet, but she didn’t sleep a wink last night. Too many variables to worry about. Trueheart doubtless has some scheme up her sleeve, some angle for bringing them here. Val still has no more than the vaguest idea of how to escape with Bliss and no opportunity to discuss it in private. Leaving everything behind and starting anew is no easy task when your true body is materiel for the Adamant war machine.

She’s been too lenient with Fi for far too long. At least, with the way her so-called friend behaved last night, there’ll be one less person to miss.

After her morning maintenance, a porter arrives at her door with an envelope. “From Hunter Bliss, with heartfelt forgiveness,” he says, and departs with a bow.

It’s an expensive gesture, using real paper; the Chalcedony Palace provides only the best for its guests. She supposes the Protean, with their endless terraformed forests, are less thrifty about such things. The controlled environment of habitats is more pleasing to Adamant sensibilities than the chaotic ecosystems of planets: more people packed into a smaller volume, with every movement observed and regulated.

More and more often, she wonders what a life outside the all-consuming light of the Archangel would truly be like. The rhythms of worship, the paeans to heroes long dead, the observance of rank, the measured suppression of emotion—what is left of her, outside these bounds? She has made herself a heretic, but the life of a true apostate is still a mystery to her.

One day, with Bliss by her side, she’ll find out.

With mounting excitement, she opens the envelope and reads the handwritten message.

Dear Knight Valour,

I have forgiven you for your indiscretion last night. Cultural differences can be so hard to navigate; none of us is immune to faux pas. In the spirit of cooperation, I would extend the hand of friendship once again. In the right light, all will be made clear.

Yours,

Lady Bliss Laroux

Platitudes and formalities, nothing more. There must be a point to this letter, something she couldn’t say in person. In the right light…

She holds the letter out in the sunlight streaming through the window and cycles her cyber-eyes through the electromagnetic spectrum. Infrared—nothing. Red, green, blue—nothing. Ultraviolet—Got you.

There is a message scrawled between the lines, shining in ghostly blue. Room 203b. After the duel.

***

On the Sunrise Terrace, bathed in the warm morning sunlight, brunch is served. Living trellises entwined with climbing roses twist between tables, cordoning them off into clusters of interest groups. The Hunters and Knights are seated on adjacent tables right near the edge, to better observe the coming duel.

All that lies beyond the fence is the endless sky. Despite the staff’s reassurance that an anti-grav field will bounce anyone unlucky enough to fall right back onto the terrace, the idea of tumbling over the edge intrudes upon Bliss’s thoughts. In this body, she has no wings to arrest her fall.

With the ball at an end, the work of diplomacy must begin. They spent the early hours of the morning watching over the meeting halls, lurking in corners like statues as emissaries quibbled over protocol. Serving as glorified security guards is a waste of talented pilots, but this too is a show of power. The Houses affect an air of insouciance, redeploying an entire flight each from the front line to serve as decoration.

Appearances are everything. Bliss has costumed herself for this security theatre in a crimson suit with black knee boots, formal and a touch martial, her earrings like drops of blood. Completing the ensemble with the violet pinned to her jacket, she invokes her mother’s image. Let them be reminded of who stands behind her.

Summer and Hasret sit to either side of her as always, with Kavia and Ash opposite. While the other Hunters dig into their meals, Kavia stares at her plate, her kohl-rimmed eyes wide and anxious. Summer leans over and says to her, “Relax, I haven’t touched it.” A sly smile. “Or have I?”

Bliss lets her have her fun with the rookie. She hasn’t done permanent damage yet, and Kavia is growing into a competent scout.

The Knights, ever reserved, eat with little conversation at the next table. They have dispensed with the frivolity of last night and returned to their navy-and-gold uniforms. Perhaps they break out in hives if their skin goes without the touch of starched cloth for too long.

Fi lurks in the shadow of rose-vines, wincing at the sunlight. Dark circles ring her bloodshot eyes, enhancing her air of utter misery. Bliss sips her apple juice and favours the Knight with a beaming smile; Fi looks away in disgust. Val, by contrast, seems distracted but none the worse for wear. If they did have that talk, she knows exactly who won.

Trueheart watches the horizon, expression unreadable, eyes clouded; a storm at sea. She has hardly touched her food. Do Saints need to eat like the rest of us? Do they breathe? Do their hearts still beat? Certainly, her chest rises and falls in a facsimile of life. The rest remains to be seen.

Briefly, she considers leaping over and setting upon the rest of the Knights with her full enhanced might, putting a fist through each of their chests and tearing out their hearts while they’re soft and vulnerable outside their armour. It could never be that simple; they are trained, augmented to the gills, and their Saint could hardly be considered human at all. But the thought of painting herself in their viscera, extending a bloody hand to Val, comforts her. She’s not made for breaking bread with the enemy.

A touch on her shoulder startles her. -Anathema’s hungry, says Hasret. -It’s caught the scent of that Saint. When I checked the quarantine hangar this morning, the beast was grinning at me, all bare bloody gums and sharp teeth. When a Seraph lives as long as Uriel’s Flame, it ripens, ages like a fine wine. Just imagine how delicious her flesh would be to tear into, fermented in divinity for centuries.

-Am I talking to you or Anathema?

-It’s just me, Bliss. Hasret smiles weakly. It does little to reassure her. Her emotions are unusually murky and indistinct through the bond.

-You can’t. Was the last hunt not enough to sate it?

-I thought so, but… Green light pulses beneath Hasret’s skin. Her eyes fix on the Saint. -It has other plans.

Bliss can think of nothing else to say. The rest of the meal slips by in silence.

When the appointed time comes, fireworks burst overhead in a shower of green and blue and gold. The pilots gather together at the railing to watch the Seraphs arrive.

Representing Adamant House is Skadi’s Shadow: the last Valkyrie of Bastion House, who chose a life of penance over an honourable death. Silver strands of hair stream behind her as she flies, passing through the palace’s field bubble out into the atmosphere. Her wings shine iridescent blue in the sun like sculpted ice. One of her arms is hale and heavily armoured; the other is nothing but gleaming metal bones. Val has spoken highly of Weeper, the pilot beneath that quicksilver armour; everything she held dear was taken from her, and still she persists. White light coalesces into a great bow in her hands as she spies her opponent. She is loaded for bear.

Ursa Major arrives with little ceremony. Bear has no use for it. One moment the sky is empty; the next, she has arrived. At nearly eighty metres tall, her bulk dwarfs the Penitent Knight. When Bliss first sparred with her in Red Eris, she thought that size would make her slow, easy to exploit, but Ursa has a preternatural grasp of momentum. Her quill-backed Seraph, thick-bodied and short-limbed, is the fulcrum around which the hunt revolves. There is no escape from her.

A holographic countdown manifests over the terrace: three minutes until the duel.

Summer hands Bliss a pair of binoculars. Her sight is nearly good enough to follow the duel from a kilometre away, but she takes them with gratitude, dialling up to maximum zoom. “Two caged animals ready to fight it out,” says Summer. “Who are you betting on?”

“That’s hardly a fair assessment of Knight Weeper,” cuts in a familiar voice. Val is right beside her, having slipped in unnoticed. “I can’t speak for your comrade, of course.”

“Valour,” says Summer in acknowledgement. Then, to Bliss, “I thought you two had fallen out.”

“Hunter Bliss has chosen to forgive me for my impertinence,” says Val. “I received her letter this morning.” Her eyes linger on Bliss knowingly for a moment before she turns back to watch the Seraphs. Message understood.

Summer frowns. “She didn’t tell me that.” A mask of politeness smooths over her face. She knows better than to let weakness show in front of the Adamant. “Anyway, that Knight of yours is collared, no? I think it’s as good a comparison as any. No doubt she needs to be kept in check.” Through the bond, she adds, -You’ll fill me in later, Bliss. A flash of curiosity from her, tinged with suspicion.

Bliss thought her emotions were sufficiently masked, but the bond must have betrayed her. The Mother’s Gift is the perfect surveillance tool: not only a boon of connection but a method of enforcing obedience. In Protean House, anyone can be an informant. Loved ones are no exception. This is how the superorganism regulates itself; not even one’s thoughts are safe.

“The collar is not for the safety of others,” says Val. “It’s a mark of penance, one she took when she had no other choice. She is a human being, not a pet.”

“You misunderstand,” says Summer, lowering her own binoculars to cast a scathing look at her. “There’s no shame in submitting to the collar. It’s just knowing your place. Bear has found hers in casting everything aside to pursue the hunt. She’s blessed, really. It’s a simpler life when you’re lost to the wilds. We all have to accept our circumstances as they come, even if that means becoming a beast.”

Enough. Bliss interjects. “You don’t believe that, Summer. You told me once, a long time ago, that you were afraid of losing yourself to the wilds.”

A shameful admission, one whispered in the dead of night. Not something that should be aired in front of other Hunters, let alone in the presence of a Knight. “I want to remain myself, no matter what.”

To be Protean is to embrace change, but only within the bounds determined at one’s birth. Everything and everyone has their place in the hierarchy of being. The Mother requires her Hunters to give their all in her service, to submit to the cycle of rebirth, to donate their flesh and blood and memories to fertilise the growth of the next generation.

If they want to rise higher, if they want self-determination, that is the highest crime of all.

“Bliss!” Summer rarely raises her voice, rarely speaks in anger. But she does so now. “How could you say something like that?”

“I think you were right, Summer. It’s only natural to want more than you’re allotted, more than the Mother’s design.” She’s said too much, revealed her hand. Bliss closes her mouth before her tongue can be incited to further blasphemy.

The countdown reaches thirty seconds. In the distance, the Seraphs recite the litany. Summer turns to leave. “I’ve had enough of this,” she snaps. “You can enjoy the spectacle well enough without me.” As she disappears into the crowd, she adds a parting rejoinder. -I’ll expect an apology later, Bliss.

Arrows of light trail across a clear sky as the duel begins. This time, it will be to first blood only; the death of a Seraph would hardly be in the spirit of the occasion. Still, Bliss chafes at the reminder that she has been forbidden from such things. She and Val would give them such a show: a matched pair of blades honed against each other time and time again.

She should be up there instead, ensconced inside Red Eris’s carapace. But could they truly contain themselves, keep the marks of ascension hidden in front of a hostile audience?

Bliss leans over to Val discreetly and whispers, “The claws. Did anyone notice?”

“No,” replies Val. “The transformation didn’t take. They were gone by the time I got home.”

“Good.” They were close to something wonderful in their last duel; she felt it in her marrow. But when your trespasses are written into your flesh, they are all the harder to conceal.

The duel is chaotic, difficult to follow even for the camera drones that chase the Seraphs. Close-ups of frenetic action hang projected in the sky for the audience. Skadi dances across the sky, evading Ursa’s heavy swings, loosing luminous arrows from her energy bow. The Hunter is relentless, dodging arrows with the grace of a Seraph half her size, shooting quills to intercept those that hew too close to her hide.

Hasret watches keenly from her seat, hunger in her eyes. Perigee takes notes on their tablet. Fi sneaks surreptitious glances at Bliss and Val. And Trueheart, gripping the railing with white knuckles, mutters under her breath as she watches the progress of the duel.

“Useless,” says the Saint as Skadi is driven back, her weapon shifting into a shield to weather Ursa’s claws. Her voice raises in volume as she speaks until everyone around her can hear. “Where is your zeal? Where is your fury? Show us the pilot who refused to concede a single metre of ground until all her battle-sisters were dead!”

Val stiffens at Bliss’s side, her jaw set. “Leave her be. The last thing she needs is you screaming in her ear while she fights. Weeper wouldn’t hold back just to spite you.”

Trueheart’s head swivels. Her eyes flare in anger. Then she turns back to the duel, and shouts into the sky, “Knight Valour believes this duel is already lost, that you have no more strength in you! If you will not listen to me, queen in chains, then prove her wrong. For the Archangel!”

For the first time, Skadi sends an open transmission back. Speakers relay her reply to every spectator. In a weary synthetic voice weathered by pain, she says, “For the Archangel.”

Her wings trail bright blue as she puts on a sudden burst of speed, space shuddering in her wake. As Ursa strains to catch up, Skadi pivots, drawing her bow—and looses. A single arrow flashes with gold, multiplying into two. Two becomes four, and exponents take hold; in a moment the sky fills with a thousand dazzling arrows.

Ursa’s excitement thrills through the bond. -Now things are getting fun. But I’ve already got your scent, collared Knight. She makes no attempt to evade. Instead, she barrels straight into the rain of arrows. Her Seraph body bristles, sprouting quills from every inch of hide. Her wings trail the red of fresh-spilled blood. At the very last moment, the quills shoot in impossible number, a spray that deflects every arrow without fail.

By the time Skadi realises her error, it’s already too late. Ursa cannot be stopped. She smashes into Skadi’s armour and claws a gash in the Penitent Knight’s breastplate. Blood trickles from the wound, fresh and vital. Camera drones hurtle in for a close-up, and the winner’s name flashes across every screen. URSA MAJOR: VICTORY.

Bliss can almost smell it from here. Ursa howls in triumph, clutching Skadi in her arms, and draws her arm back for another strike. Who could stop at just one blow? She feels it too, the urge to bite and tear her helpless prey.

-No. That’s enough, says Bliss. -I know you’re hungry for more, but just stop. The words feel foreign to her. Maybe she’s been infected by the spirit of peace. Does peace always feel like a migraine?

-You sure, Linnea? asks Ursa.

-Drop her, now.

-Fine. But you owe me. Ursa unhands Skadi and returns to the hangar with a quickness.

Bliss massages her temples. This time, the headache recedes quickly. The guests file away around her, their bloodlust sated. For the next hour, the Protean and Adamant delegations will confer in private. The pilots will have a little time to themselves, just as she anticipated. This will be their only chance today to snatch a moment together. She can deal with the consequences later.

She turns to find Val has already slipped away inside. Hasret gives her a sympathetic look from her table. -Headache?

-Unfortunately. I’m going to get some painkillers. A twinge of guilt. Lying again.

-I think I’ll enjoy the view out here. There are worse places for a holiday.

Bliss bends to kiss her on the cheek. “Stay safe, now.”

“No promises,” says Hasret. “I don’t know what you said to upset Summer so, but you should smooth things over with her. Otherwise,” she cracks a slight smile, “We’ll never hear the end of it.”

“I will. You have my word.”

Shame burning her cheeks, she makes a swift exit. There are too many balls to juggle, too many egos to soothe. Lost in thought, she very nearly trips over a cleaner mopping the marble floor in the corridor.

“So sorry, my lady!” The short-haired woman curtseys and launches into a rambling apology.

Bliss cuts in after the fourth sorry. “Don’t worry about it. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

“You have a safe day now! Mother’s blessings upon you.”

“And on you.” The Mother would never approve of where she’s going, but ignorance is bliss.

***

The door slides shut behind her, leaving the air of the conference room still and silent. Sunlight slants sharp through blinds, casting stripes on mahogany desks and burgundy-upholstered chairs. For the first time all morning, Val can breathe without fear of reprimand. She should be glad that Trueheart has another target to vent her anger on, but all she can feel is sickly apprehension at the thought of Weeper’s imminent punishment.

She can’t sit down and rest after that; she has to keep moving. So she sweeps the room for bugs with her implants, scanning for the tiniest electronic signal. She’s checked under all the tables and found only a crusty piece of gum when a knock on the door interrupts her.

“Who is it?” she asks warily.

“A dreadful devil who drinks the blood of infants and debauches innocent Knights,” comes the reply.

She sighs. “Come in, Bliss.”

The Hunter slips inside and taps a screen on the door-frame, engaging the lock. If she wants to play the devil, she’s certainly dressed the part. “I got the codes earlier. This whole wing is closed for the summit; it’s meant for shareholder meetings and the like. They make a killing hosting wealthy guests in the off-season. Nobody will interrupt us here.”

Val clicks the blinds shut, narrowing the stripes of sunlight to thin lines. Some things are best done under cover of darkness. “Were you followed?”

“I didn’t see anyone, and trust me, my vision is augmented—not to mention hearing. I suppose you’re familiar with my other augmentations by now. Although,” she grins wickedly, “I could always give you a hands-on anatomy lesson.”

“Bliss.” Val grabs a chair and clambers over it from behind, planting herself in front of the Hunter.

“What?”

“You’re dancing around the issue, laying on the innuendos. Surely that can’t be the first thing on your mind right now.”

“It’s not the last thing. I got us a room for a reason, darling. It’s soundproof.”

Val pinches the bridge of her nose. “Sit down, and let’s talk.” She points to a chair, which Bliss obligingly sinks into.

The Hunter folds her arms petulantly. Such a contrast to her severe outfit, to the confidence with which she carried herself in public. “Are you going to punish me for my wicked ways? I promise I’ll repent once you’ve had your fill.”

She’s deflecting because she’s scared, Val realises. Bliss’s life has not been without trials, but as she described in her stories of home, nearly everything she ever wanted has been handed to her on a silver platter. In love and in the hunt, nothing has truly tested her limits.

Until now.

“I know you’re afraid,” says Val. “But we need to talk.” Bliss swallows; her grip tightens on the arms of her chair. “We can’t avoid our problems by having sex instead.”

“Can’t we?” A touch of desperation creeps into Bliss’s voice.

Words pour out of Val, every worry distilled into one. “How many times has it been now? It won’t get any easier. Hiding our secret from everyone we know, treading on eggshells. You told me that you’d burn up the stars for me. For our path to freedom. Did you really mean that, or was it just talk? How long can we keep this up, Bliss?”

Bliss bites her lip. “What kind of question is that?” she snaps. “Of course I meant it; every word. But… I need time to fix everything. I can’t upend my whole life, defy the gods, run away to heaven knows where, without a plan. I can’t stand feeling like quarry just waiting to be flushed out of my warren. Hunters instil fear. We aren’t supposed to feel it.” A tear drips from her eye; she wipes it away, but another soon follows.

Val reaches out and takes Bliss’s hand, rubbing her thumb across smooth skin. “I’m sorry. I’ve put us both in harm’s way.”

“Don’t you try to take responsibility now! I won’t have it. I chose this path just as much as you did. Why else do you think I keep coming back?” She smiles through a veil of tears, through all the fear and turmoil. Despite everything, Bliss is radiant. In truth, she’s never been more beautiful than at this very moment.

That makes what Val has to say next so much worse.

“Fi knows about us.”

“What?”

“She doesn’t have any proof. But she knows. She confronted me, tried to kiss me.”

“No shit. You didn’t let her, did you?”

“No. She and I are done, like I told you.” Val shakes her head ruefully. “She thinks she can save me from you, from the whole universe if need be. I don’t think she’d dare tell anyone. She doesn’t want to see me court-martialled.”

“I could kill her for you, if you want,” says Bliss, a half-smile tugging at her lips.

“Don’t even joke about that.”

“I suppose there are less messy ways to excise unwanted friends.”

The conversation on the terrace resurfaces in her memory. “Should I be worried about Summer?”

“I broke her confidence. She won’t forgive easily for that. But you don’t have anything to worry about. She thinks you’re fascinating, not to mention devastatingly handsome. On that point we both agree.” Bliss squeezes her hand.

The tears have stopped. Val takes Bliss’s face in her hands, wiping the remainder from her cheeks. “I still don’t have a plan. But I do have a meeting place, only for the direst emergency. It’s near the border, not far from the Cyst quarantine zone, hidden away in a dark nebula. If all seems lost, if there’s no way to get in contact, I want you to meet me there.” She rests her forehead against Bliss’s and recites the coordinates. The Hunter’s pulse thumps beneath her fingers; her breath brushes against Val’s skin.

“Okay,” Bliss breathes.

“Don’t save them anywhere; don’t write them down. Repeat them back to me now.”

She does so, and three more times just to be sure. It becomes a mantra, a talisman to ward off bad fortune. Val wishes desperately that she could offer more, but this is all there is: the hope that they will be more than two ships passing in the night, that they have a future.

Bliss embraces her, drawing her close, kissing fiercely. Her nails dig into Val’s back, clinging as if letting go will lose her forever, hungry for more.

A joyful fumbling: Val shrugs off her jacket, unbuttons Bliss’s shirt, unclasps the Hunter’s bra to expose the full curves of her breasts. They can scarcely keep their hands off each other as they undress, but they take care not to tear anything in their haste. A single thread out of place will be noticed upon their return.

Bliss’s boots—followed swiftly by everything underneath—are the last to come off. Val draws the zips down, admiring the Hunter’s shapely calves, planting soft kisses down them to her feet. She looks up at Bliss, seated on her throne; not a stitch on her, yet perfectly in command. Glossy black hair cascades down the curves of her naked body, neatly trimmed pubic hair drawing the eye to the petals of her labia; she is Aphrodite in the flesh. Or, in truth: Eris, stripped of her crimson armour, sleek and deadly. In any body, she is worthy of worship.

There are many forms of veneration fit for one such as her. Val has been initiated in the ways of her flesh, instructed through pain and pleasure both. She worships as only another aspiring god could.

“I want to try something new,” says Val. “Like we talked about.” Bliss nods, her lips parted, cheeks flushed in anticipation.

There is something of Inanna in Val too. Beneath the synth-skin and carbon fibre, her fingers are titanium-boned, motor-actuated. And, as she has discovered, they have a hidden function.

Val kneels on soft carpet before Bliss, crooks two fingers inside her. The Hunter wiggles eagerly, gripping Val’s shoulders. Even on her knees, they are of a height, face-to-face. With a thought, Val sends a pulse of vibration to her fingertips, a gentle buzz that draws a whimper from Bliss.

The Hunter rakes Val’s back, her nails sharpening, scoring a thrill of pain as she leaves her mark. “Again. More.”

Bliss is at her mercy. This, too, is a sort of combat. Only here, there can be no loser.

She obliges, sending a stronger pulse that thrums through the Hunter’s clit. Bliss’s cry is music to her ears; nails dig into Val’s skin, drawing blood, marking her claim.

Over and over, she teases Bliss, drawing forth the sweetest melody until her fingers run slick with the Hunter’s arousal. Bliss is voracious in her appetite, clawing Val’s back and shoulders bloody, taking the Knight’s nipple in her mouth and sucking. They teeter on the edge until time loses all meaning, until they can hardly bear the overstimulation. Finally, blessedly, she releases Bliss from her torment with one last pulse. The Hunter shudders in her grasp, crying Val’s name as a prayer, an exaltation. It’s enough to send her over the edge herself, cresting waves of pleasure until she’s spent.

“You might not be a god yet,” says Bliss afterwards, her head nestled on Val’s chest, “but that was divine.”

Val untangles herself from Bliss, stretches widely and reaches for her clothes. “We’d best clean up; not much time left until they reconvene for the next round of negotiations. I think I saw a bathroom down the hall.” The glow of endorphins begins to fade as she contemplates all that awaits her when they leave. She pulls on her tank-top, wincing as it touches the claw-marks on her back. The wounds will fade before too long, but for now they are red, livid: a reminder of who she belongs to.

Wouldn’t it be easier, simpler, just to run now?

She looks over at Bliss; she’s all the more lovely half-dressed and sweat-soaked, her manicured façade punctured. The Hunter watches Val, contemplative, as she slips back into her own clothes. Bliss catches her gaze and smiles like the sunrise. “What is it?”

“We don’t really have to go back, do we?”

Bliss purses her lips. “Regrettably, we’re all out of time.” She reaches over and does up the last few buttons of Val’s jacket, then pulls her down to kiss her forehead. “Let’s go.”

As they move to leave, the floor shakes beneath them. The sound of thunder heard remote: an explosion reverberates through the palace, some distance away. Dust shakes free from the ceiling around them. Val’s throat tightens; they’re under attack, here, now, and the hangar is still minutes away.

Bliss’s eyes flare in shock. Val barks, “What’s going on? You didn’t know about this either?”

“I thought it must be your side!”

“If it was, nobody told me!”

The litany of composure runs through her mind; she breathes, prepares herself for the worst, and delves into the data from her implants. Vital signs from the other Knights are stable, no more than a few bruises; within acceptable parameters. She sifts through panicked Adamant comms chatter, muting everyone but the Knights and Commander Rangi. “What’s the situation?”

Fi’s voice comes through, attached to a video feed from her eyes: smoke and flame pouring out into a corridor, scorched and bleeding civilians spilling out of the maw of hell in droves. “Explosion in the meeting rooms. A hundred VIPs confirmed dead on both sides, thousands injured. Where the fuck are you, Val?”

She glances over at Bliss. The Hunter is silent, no doubt communing through the bond. Releasing her location is a necessary risk, under the circumstances; they won’t know that Bliss is with her. She reactivates her tracker, sending Fi the geolocation data.

“What are you doing over there?” A pause, waiting for Val’s reply. She surrenders nothing. A single word could incriminate her.“Look, we’re gathering Adamant personnel near the hangars. I’ll send you the route.”

A golden filigree line appears in Val’s vision, leading out of the room. “Do we have any idea who did this?” she says, pacing up and down. Alarms blare out around her like the cries of the dead.

“Given that both Adamant and Protean VIPs were caught in the blast,” says Peri, “it’s probable that the perpetrator is a third party.”

Trueheart interrupts, her voice reverberating over the line as if booming through a grand hall. “No. There is only one answer here. Protean House does not value human life as we do; every one of them is of no more worth than a single hypha in the Mother’s mycelium. She would think nothing of sacrificing her own to ensure that the Archangel is weakened in a crucial moment.”

“Saint, I find it unlikely that—” Peri is cut off mid-sentence.

“Your input is not required, Knight Perigee. I have made my decision. They will pay the price for their treachery.”

No. No. If she does this, they all know full well it means war. “Stop! What right have you to do this?” Val shouts.

“The power was invested in me by the Archangel herself,” says Trueheart. “I make the decisions here, not you, you insignificant whelp! One of you has already failed me today. Do not make yourself the second. Remember your place, and do as you are ordered. All Knights still in the field, report to the hangar. Launch reserve Seraphs immediately.”

Val cuts the line, heartbeat thundering as Bliss turns to her in horror. “Summer says they’re launching Seraphs,” says the Hunter. “Why are they launching Seraphs?”

Val’s hands curl into fists. “Our Saint has forced the issue. This was always going to happen from the moment she was assigned here. Someone wants war, and now they’ll have it.”

Bliss takes her hand and they dash out into the corridor. An ear-splitting screech issues from the loudspeakers all along its length—no, all across the Palace. The alarm cuts out, and Trueheart’s voice replaces it.

“Representatives of Protean House, this is True Hearts Waver Not Before The Strike. In my capacity as Saint of Adamant, I am authorised to enact judgement on those who sin against our House. In this vile act of treachery, you have violated the sanctity of a peace conference and murdered citizens of irreplaceable merit. In the name of the Archangel, I pronounce you all guilty. Your sentence is execution, to be carried out immediately by my loyal Knights. Not one of you will leave this palace alive.”

The palace rumbles around them like an earthquake. Outside in the courtyard, windows shatter, and golden trails cross the sky. The Seraph assault has begun.

“I’m sorry,” says Val, gripping Bliss’s hand tight as a lifeline. “I’m so, so sorry. But if we’re to have any chance of survival, this is where we part ways.”

Bliss pulls her in for one last desperate kiss. Val breathes in the Hunter’s jasmine scent, commits it to memory. “We’ve come too far to let it end like this,” says Bliss. “We’ll live, and we’ll see each other again if it’s the last thing I do, if I have to claw you from the Archangel’s clutches myself. Goodbye, my Knight.”

“Goodbye, my Hunter.”

She lets go of Bliss’s hand, her lifeline, and plunges into the turbulent waters of war.