Run, Rabbit Run!

Chapter One

“It has long been known that our planet is upheld by the wings of ten thousand seraphim. Looping forever in the dark ether, an eternal dance overhead. A million eyes burned away by holy fire. They are unseeing and unaware of our existence. For this reason, we Monks of the Quill must write and record all of human existence, acting as impartial eyes for our protectors. This has been our way, since the beginning to the end of—”

A river of black ink splattered the page. It was Dulce’s fault. It always was. A fat, grey cat with wide cheeks and copper eyes, she often made it her duty to upset inkwells, walk across holy texts, and settle in for a nap directly over still-drying parchment. A heretic she was, with no reverence for the ten thousand seraphim circling in space. Many a sacred book of the monastery bore her defiant signature—a track of paw prints immortalized in black and sometimes red ink.

“Dulce! Please, get off! Shoo!” begged Paz, giving the cat a light shove. She pushed back defiantly, against the young student’s hands. Purring loudly, she settled on the page and stared deep into Paz’s eyes, blinking.

That’s the end of that, Paz thought. It would be foolish to even try and move her now, as all motivation to finish today’s manuscript was over. Cats had a way of passing their lethargy onto others, and Dulce was exceptional at it. Mopping up the ink with a used rag as grey as Dulce’s fur, they salvaged whatever was left in the inkwell and set it aside with the rest of the bottles.

It had been terribly slow that day anyway. A student of the monastery was expected to transcribe at least twenty-some pages a day, but it was a tedious process—undisguised busy work to weed out the indecisive and scare away the lazy. Only the most dedicated of academics could ever hope to achieve status as an official Eye of the Seraph and earn their own quill.

Ten years of service at the monastery, a full copied transcription of the Seraphia Scriptura, and one Magnum Opus. That was the basic requirement. So far, Paz had already served five out of their own sixteen years of age and transcribed precisely five hundred and sixty-five pages of the Seraphia Scriptura.

But the opus… Despite their best efforts, it was yet to be written. Not even a single sentence. Inspiration had all but eluded them. It was a worrisome thorn at the back of their brain, a blockage of imagination Paz daily tried to pluck out. To think, students even younger than them already had a draft plotted for their own epics.

Paz took to organizing their bookshelf, fighting the nerves that came with thinking about it. Their room was small, a standard size for all students. One humble cot, a desk for writing, and a bookshelf. Though it took up the most space in their little hole of a room, Paz still had too many books to fit. The tomes on the shelf were the most frequently referenced. Encyclopedias, technical books on calligraphy, history books, basic dictionaries. The stack of books leaning next to their writing desk were mostly illuminated texts of various subjects; both helpful in learning techniques and endlessly distracting, their intricate lines demanded to be stared at.

Then there were the secret books, the ones Paz knew were either not allowed on the premises of the monastery at all or would earn them the disapproving looks of the senior monks. These tomes were pushed far under Paz’s cot, only to be brought out during the evening.

Most were frivolous adventure books Paz would sneakily purchase whenever they went to market. Shallow tales of quests and dragons, the occasional mystery. Of all these, the continued story of Sir Krono the Conqueror was a favorite. Not just a favorite of Paz’s either; a secretive cabal of Sir Krono fans populated the halls of the monastery, passing volumes back and forth and whispering about the fictitious barbarian king’s latest dramatics. While such books were not explicitly forbidden, they would earn eternal disrespect from the monastic order, so chapter books of Sir Krono were kept the same—under a cot alongside decks of card games and other miscellaneous vices.

The forbidden texts, the volumes truly banished from the monastery, were pushed the furthest back, amongst the dust and lost socks. Paz never talked about these over dinner with their peers. These, Paz had brought with them all those years ago when they arrived—books from their old home on the Peninsula handed down to them from a line of grandparents to children. Paz knew encyclopedias on the Old Speech were dangerous, but they couldn’t bear to part with them. Not only were they one of the few things Paz had of home, it was a guilty curiosity that drove them to study these writings over candlelight while the rest of the monastery slept. It wasn’t what these mostly forgotten books said that made them taboo, it was what they could do. Paz was always cautious when removing them from under the bed. With an eye on the door, they quickly swiped at the spine, dusting what they could and pushing them far back, hidden behind Sir Krono’s storybooks.

Dulce croaked, a raspy excuse for a meow. Only she knew of Paz’s secrets and, just like all cats, had no respect for authority and would never snitch. Sighing, Paz paused their arranging to give her some attention—a scratch behind the ears, a little rub under the chin.

“What do you think? Am I a big, empty-headed failure?”

Dulce purred. 

“It’s not my fault; all the good stories are taken.”

Drool dribbled from Dulce’s chin, and she took to rolling over, exposing a belly that was not supposed to be touched, or retaliation was inevitable.

A knock at the door rescued Paz from further melancholy. It was Student Ackley, his face burnt red from a day’s work outside. The heat of the Southern Scrape was unkind to northerners such as him, but he was grinning through chapped lips all the same. He had a mysterious mess of cloaks in one hand and a pole in the other, which he excitedly used to tap at the door frame.

“What’s that for?” asked Paz. 

“Wasp nest. You’re up.” 

“But I thought Master Duma took care of it?”

“He thought it would be robbing us students of a character-building moment.” Student Ackley shoved the capes and pole into Paz’s ink-stained hands.

“But why should I do it?”

“You’d deny yourself a character-building moment?”

“You’re the one who got caught smoking yesterday. If anyone should be building character, it’s you!” Paz pushed back.

“But I have to work on my Opus today—what about you?” countered Ackley.

Paz couldn’t argue against that. The guilt of an unfulfilled duty twisted their stomach. They hung their head, and Ackley brightly assured them not to worry—he’d be spotting the ladder, and the cloaks had mostly been proven thick enough against wasp stings.

The cloaks were indeed thick, as well as unbearably suffocating. Paz felt condemned, making the long walk to the noose. The old, wooden halls of the monastery were already hot from the fresh summer day, and Paz boiled within the protective cloaks and crudely made burlap hood. They could hear snickering from the other students as they shuffled and tripped. Everyone knew of the wasp nest that had been slowly growing under the eaves of the stables for the past few weeks, but no one had done a thing about it, passing along the duty amongst each other like a hot potato. At last, it had finally landed in Paz’s lap, scalding.

Outside, the weather was no better. Paz could feel the red dirt paths emanating heat, burning through their sandals and into their shins. The buzz of wasps could already be heard, and Paz had a mind to quit the monastic life altogether upon seeing what the nest had become.

Like a waxy tumor, the thing clung to the underside of the stable. Normally donkeys would be dozing safely inside, but since the wasps, they had been safely removed. For an embarrassing amount of time, the stable now served as a canvas for the nest while the monks busied passing the removal duty between them.

Student Ackley placed a ladder under the now massive nest and handed Paz a tin pump with a little rusted spout that dripped a noxious substance.

“Just spray it with this first, then I’ll knock it down,” he instructed, before pulling a burlap hood over his head.

Paz sighed heavily, looking at the worryingly small pump in their hands. One of the great tenets of their faith was Inevitability. The Seraphim could not see the activity of men, but each beat of a wing caused a ripple effect that dictated the course of time. If such a ripple meant Paz was to be stung to death by a barrage of wasp stings, then it was to be so. Though, Paz thought as they climbed the ladder, they surely hoped they would fall and break their neck first.

The stable roof wasn’t very high. Still, as Paz climbed, the view revealed itself: a seemingly endless roll of desert, the dirt famously red as ever. It was an unusually clear summer day, so much so that Paz could even see the spired towers of Kor Kura in the distance. Trails of smoke poured from the industry of the city, reaching for the sky.

“You okay?” Ackley called from below, smug in his relative safety.

Paz nearly dropped the pump as they awkwardly reached the underbelly of the nest. The wasps instinctively beat their wings at an invisible speed, the noise increasing. Some already crawled along Paz’s hood and up their covered arm, abdomens undulating, testing the burlap. Swallowing down sheer panic, Paz nodded in reply, unwilling to even breathe.

Hooking a leg on the splintery wrung of the ladder, Paz pulled back on the little pump handle, aiming the spout as much as they could at the nest. They knew this wasn’t going to work. But, they pushed down on the handle anyway, facing inevitability.

Nothing came out of the spout. Rusted shut with age, it took Paz another shake of the pump to make the tiniest stream of poison. It wasn’t enough to do actual damage, but it was plenty to anger the wasps. In an instant, the warning drone of the nest escalated to a scream of rage. A billion specks flew in front of Paz’s eyes, and they fell backward, sky, desert, and wasps blurring before their eyes.

The air knocked out of their lungs as they hit the ground. There were the sounds of the ladder crashing and the panicked cry of Ackley—then the wasps themselves. Adrenaline moved Paz as they wriggled away from the massacre of the wasps, keeping low to the ground as they dragged along, weighted down by the protective cloaks. They didn’t feel any stings yet, but they were not going to wait around for it. It wasn’t until they crawled to the wood fence separating the stables from the main road did they finally wobble to their feet, turning back briefly. Ackley, it seemed, was getting the worst of it as he had been standing directly underneath the nest when the swarm had begun. He yelped and cried out as fellow students from within the relative safety of the monastery pointed and laughed.

So it was, so shall it be, Paz thought, not without a smidgen of satisfaction. But the swarm was not to be contained to one area, and soon Paz found themself running from the stinging tornado of insects across the old desert road and to hills beyond.

The hills of the desert were mostly free of vegetation. Ruddy sand occasionally peppered with brambles, bushes, and curious tar trees, their black bark spiked and oozing with sweet amber. It was difficult to traverse nonetheless; the sand was no friend to travelers. But Paz had lived in the desert long enough to acclimate to its movements, and they reached the peak of a low hill soon enough, peeling off the protective burlap robes at last. They dripped with sweat and gasped in the dry air of the day, looking back at the monastery below. It was chaos now as Elder Monks, now hidden under cloaks and blankets and armed with their tin pumps, sprayed desperately at the wasps. As they did so, they fell and ran into each other, less like their stoic selves and more like actors in a pantomime.

Was it a great sin to crouch on a distant hill and watch from afar rather than turn back and help? Surely it was. And they would face the guilt later. But Paz was exhausted from their sprint, and the hill, with its singular tar tree, was much too inviting a place to leave just yet. It wasn’t an unfamiliar spot. Paz had often lunched up here when on goat-herd duty. To the left was the old well, mostly unused but still filled with tepid water at the bottom. To the right was the empty stretch of desert. The goats had seen to eating up what little vegetation was left, a necessity in preventing fires. And beyond was the city, a half-day’s travel on foot, but still big enough to be seen from the hill.

It was a solitary custom of Paz to revisit the hill every eve of late summer, for it was then that the Feast of Saint Gusti was held in the city. From that spot on the hill Paz could see the many fireworks shot off from the spired towers. As a follower of the Seraphim, they were not allowed to partake in such a festival themself, but surely, they thought, it wouldn’t be total damnation to watch from afar.

Paz sat in the shade of the tar tree, removing one of the spines from its trunk. The amber that oozed from the spike was sugary sweet, a treat of nature. Contentedly they sucked up the sap, their eyes roaming the soft hills of the desert lazily. To think, this would soon be muddy and half underwater once the Feast Saint Gusti was over and the stormy season would begin.

The Southern Scrape’s climate was always fickle, so Paz took time to enjoy these little moments of calm and take in the sight of the beauty of the desert hills.

There was a curious shape in the red sand, just at the foot of the hill, halfway under a barren bramble bush. So subtle a shape that Paz momentarily thought it a shadow. But they kept returning to this shadow, noticing how solid it was. Very odd for a shadow.

Curiosity would surely be Paz’s downfall. That’s what Master Duma had told them once when Paz had asked about the Old Speech. Paz knew that Master Duma was probably right; why else would he be a master? But Paz couldn’t help it. Every day Paz lost to that great demon of curiosity, and even now they lost, leaving their comfortable spot under the tar tree and its sticky, sweet amber. They coasted slowly down the side of the hill and approached this mysterious shadow, which proved to not be a shadow at all.

It was a rabbit—black-furred, with large ears and a long, wiry frame. It was larger than a wild rabbit, rivaling even the gigantic Dulce.

Paz thought it dead. Its eyes were closed, and its fur was matted, with little nicks and cuts telling the story of a rough and ill-spent life. Still, it was a beautiful creature all the same, and Paz felt a deep ache in their heart to see it. They crouched down to inspect its frame better, reaching out to tenderly stroke its unmoving ear.

Its eyes shot open, as red as the sand it rested on. The creature stared wildly, taking a shaky, singular gasp of breath, one that seemed to require more strength than it possessed.

And then it spoke. 

“Help me.”

Chapter Two

Kor Kura was not built with comfort in mind. It wasn’t meant to be simply lived in, to be a place to raise a family and earn a mild wage. Kor Kura was built to be worshiped. Every brick and stone, as red as the impossible mud it was built over, was intended by design to inspire awe and intimidate all who visited. It was designed to be unforgettable, to stand out from the expanse of the desert and shine across the brackish waters of the sea. The ruby of the Southern Scrape, the crown jewel in the Holy Empress’s crown, may she live forever.

It was also a pain to navigate.

Karmen waited, biting her cheek as an overturned cart blocked her path. The ancient donkey pulling her cart stamped its hooves, impatient at the delay. Before it had lost its axel, the cart had borne cages upon cages of chickens, all of which had broken free of their prisons after being dumped on the road. Clouds of pillowy feathers reigned, and the birds, brainless in their freedom, fluttered and cackled aimlessly. The street was instantly backed up. Pedestrians tried diving for the wayward birds, eager for a free meal, while wagons stalled and donkeys brayed in distress. A string of camels on their way to be sold at the markets didn’t help the congestion of the street, their fatty humps swaying while they irritably stamped at the chickens.

This would all have been prevented if the road was a little wider, but that would have gotten in the way of the lovely, new buildings. Their stone sides were as spiked as the tar trees, tall enough to poke at the sky’s underbelly and grand enough to let everyone know that whoever owned these buildings was very rich.

As for Karmen, she just wanted to get through the day. Auntie Milla had been furious all morning, raging through the butcher shop about who knows what. But of course, Karmen had to see to it that whatever it was had been dealt with. Karmen, make sure the boys pull the fireworks shipment in tonight. Karmen, make sure the boys don’t roughen up Mr. Hernández too much. Karmen, make sure the boys don’t drink on the job.

“Where is Dogsbody?” Karmen asked, the thought of drinking on the job reminding her.

To her side, slumped in a mountainous heap of shabby highwayman’s clothes, was an imposing bear of a man, dark-cloaked and lazily tearing through the morning gazette.

“Hugo,” Karmen demanded, elbowing him.

The man called Hugo perused the paper, chuckling at the occasional caricatures of political figures.

“Dunno. He had to do a thing last night.”

“What thing? He was supposed to be at the docks.”

“Yeah. But he was called to Orozco’s palace at the last second, so I had Bo take care of it.”

The very mention of the Orozcos made Karmen’s skin crawl. She gripped the reins tighter, maneuvering the old donkey around the overturned chicken cart. Staring ahead and ignoring the ever-dull pain in her arm, she tried to keep calm. Just get through the day.

“Oh? What for.”

“Who knows? I saw ‘im last night and he seemed kind of ruffled. You know how it is. Dealing with Mer—uh, that lady.”

Hugo tiptoed around a name Karmen already knew he meant to say. It was an agreement between everyone working under Blanca and Co. ever to mention her name. Calmly, Karmen took a slower backroad path through narrow alleyways. The barrels strapped to the back of the cart shifted, the road uneven and uncared for.

“Whatever it was, he said he took care of it and went off. Probably to The Twin Goats.”

“Of course he did,” Karmen groused. “How many times have I warned you? Only—”

“—drink off the clock,” interrupted Hugo, rolling his eyes. “Thing is: we’re never off the clock, are we? Hm? Ever since you-know-who got us by the throat, it’s been nothing but work.”

“You know why we have to.”

Hugo huffed, irritated but unwilling to push the matter further. He knew perfectly well the predicament they were in and how difficult it was, especially for Karmen. He was an ass, but he knew when to pull back.

Their journey through the alleys of Kor Kura quieted, the noises of the city filling the uncomfortable space between them. Overhead, the buildings leaned just enough to feel as if they were ready to fall over at any moment, crumbling under the weight of their own decor. Alongside them, walls were plastered with hundreds of posters, flyers, and signs crying for a passerby’s attention. The grocers promised half-off on everything, a new kind of dye recently invented and now ready for purchase, a warning over spoiled meat from the advisory of health.

Occasionally peeking from behind these advertisements and announcements, a bold image of a green devil’s face fluttered. With a face made of leaves, it grinned menacingly. There were no words indicating what it was trying to sell or what it even was. But there were a lot of these posters, carrying this strange face that looked both happy and sad. It was an oddity as these images had only popped up months ago without any preamble or explanation.

It was no concern of Karmen’s. The city was filled with all sorts, all looking to be noticed, to be seen and heard and worshiped. Just like Kor Kura itself. Just like that woman who held her family in a tight grip. A dull spike of pain gnawed her arm. She rubbed at it, her strange appendage. Even as they pulled the cart up to its destination, it still needled.

“Hey,” Hugo said as he helped remove the barrels from the back of the cart. “Josephine is tough. We’ll get her back.”

Karmen couldn’t reply, she didn’t have the voice for it. Nodding in quiet appreciation, she pulled the last barrel off the cart with her un-afflicted arm with a single swing. The barrels were heavy. Their insides sloshed as Karmen dragged them to a very large, very unusual-looking pit. Not quite a well, but too large to be a sewage grate, a metal cage covered the entrance, which required Karmen to unlock with a key. She wished they didn’t have to hassle with the cover, but with so many people poking around in places they shouldn’t be these days, it was needed. Removing the top of the barrel off with a crowbar, Hugo eased it to the side of the pit, carefully tipping it over.

Blood poured out of the barrel, along with chunky bits of viscous meat. It splashed in some water far below, too dark to see. Karmen stood by, arms crossed, keeping watch as Hugo unloaded each barrel into the pit. There were many a passerby, but all knew that if you saw someone with a yellow sash around their waist standing with their arms crossed, you should probably look the other way and go about your business. Especially if that person was Karmen Blanca, the first daughter. Unusually tall, with a rapier slung at her side, she stood as intimidating as one of the many marble statues decorating the streets of the city.

She winced, looking down at her arm. Her affliction, her strange appendage. It had hardly felt the same since it had been warped into the shape of a half-feathered bird’s wing. Wrapped in bandages to prevent its occasional weeping of an untold oily substance and propped in a sling, the unnatural wing was kept manageable. Despite its frequent pain, Karmen paid it no mind.

*******

It wasn’t unheard of that animals could talk sometimes. Paz may have been confined within the duties of monastic life, but they weren’t sheltered from such knowledge. The world contained many mysteries, some of these more documented than others. Cursed objects, people, and animals were something that existed, and Paz, with a blasphemous curiosity for the Old Speech, had secretly hoped to encounter them in person one day. That ancient language whispered into the ear of a man could unravel him, remolding him into any form the speaker so wished if they knew what they were doing.

This must be such an unfortunate soul, observed Paz. Gently they picked the cursed creature up, supporting its head as one would a child. Paz thanked the Seraphs for the old well nearby as they hurriedly shuffled through the red sand, whispering encouragement to the dying thing in their arms. The well was in ill condition, with its sides crumbling away, but there was still plenty of water, and the bucket still swayed easily on the frayed rope.

The rabbit didn’t speak again, even as it settled in the shade of the well and was given water to drink. It drank fast and breathed slowly. Its eyes remained open and fixed on its surroundings, occasionally glancing at Paz while it lapped water from their cupped hands. There was a human awareness behind those ruby eyes, confirming Paz’s suspicion that this was no ordinary, talking rabbit. But who was this person, then, trapped in such a state? There was only one way to find out…

“Hello, my name is Paz. I’m an eye for the Seraphim, or rather, I’m studying to be one. Are you cursed in any way? Or are you a conjuration of some sort?”

The rabbit pawed at its face after finishing its drink, eyes staring Paz down.

“My name is Catarina De’Angelique Orozco, only daughter and heir of Raùl Orozco,” the animal said. The voice did not emanate from the animal’s lips but from a muffled place deep within its chest, an intangible murmur of an adolescent’s voice, commanding and authoritative.

The rabbit, who referred to herself very grandly as Catarina De’Angelique, waited for some form of recognition from her rescuer. What she received was merely a puzzled expression on the student’s softly rounded face.

“You have heard of me, correct?” she snipped.

“I haven’t, sorry? I’m not caught up on local politics. I’m from the Peninsula.” Paz smiled apologetically while they sprinkled some water over the rabbit’s head, cooling the animal.

Catarina huffed in annoyance. “Well, I’m a very important person. And I’ve been wronged as you can see.” 

“Yes!” 

“And I seek bloody revenge.” 

“Well, that’s understandable.”

An awkward silence befell them. As Catarina’s strength returned, her annoyance with Paz’s passivity grew. She ground her rabbit’s teeth irritably.

“That’s understandable? Don’t you want to know how? And who?”

“I suppose that’s your business? I don’t like prying. Well, unless it’s for my Magnum Opus… otherwise, I practice impartiality in all things,” Paz recited politely.

Catarina huffed, lifting herself from the ground shakily. There was a pride to her stature, even in her humbled appearance. An imperious tilt of her head spoke of power and influence.

“That interloper. That apostate Merouda. So-called ‘goddess of the second sight.’ She’s the one who did this to me. She wanted me out of the way. Changed me into this beast and tossed me aside. Had one of those grubby little Blanca Boys try and twist my head off. But I fought back. I’m an Orozco, and that’s what we do, hm!” She thumped the ground with her back foot, huffing proudly.

“I ran from that fool. Took me all night. I was planning to lay low here in these wastes until I was sure they’d think me dead. Hm, ironic that I almost die for real.”

“The desert isn’t a friendly place,” Paz agreed.

“Now I must return to Kor Kura. I have enough of an influence there to form the crew I need to execute my bloody plot.”

“And that is?”

“To kill Merouda of course!” She bared her teeth impatiently. “To take my rightful place as head of the Orozco estate and lead the city into a new era of power!” She lifted herself on her haunches, raising her head to be as tall as possible. Her proud rabbit’s head rose from the shadow of the well, the light of the sun illuminating her as if the holy fire of the Seraphim themselves set her black fur alight.

Paz’s heart stopped. Their blood ran cold, the desert air drying their lips in an instant.

It was a revelation—there was no other word to describe it. Master Duma had described such events before when a moment in time so clearly demands to be written down. A string in the tapestry of life dangling loose, asking to be followed to its very end.

This must be it. The story—that unique event they had been waiting to center their Magnum Opus on. A quest for righteous revenge; the defeat of evil by a pure maiden so wronged. This would be a worthy story for the Seraphim indeed.

“What are you doing?” asked Catarina, taken aback by Paz suddenly kneeling at her fuzzy black paws.

So moved was Paz by the moment, they crouched further until their nose touched the desert ground.

“I have had a holy revelation, Lady Catarina. Please, let me follow you on your quest for revenge. I promise I will be as impartial as the air itself. Please—your story will be my Magnum Opus. I’ll finally become a monk… please.”

Catarina’s ears wiggled thoughtfully. 

“Well, I am an important person, and important people should be written about. I’ll let you accompany me on my mission,” she conceded. “But you must promise me one thing.” 

“Of course!” 

“Never contradict me.”

Paz nodded, awkwardly offering a hand. It was a tricky business, shaking a rabbit’s paw, and despite the seriousness of the situation, Paz found themself fighting back a giggle at the absurdity. But Lady Catarina Orozco was not someone to be giggled at, even when she was cursed in the form of a large rabbit.

It was still early on in the day, but Catarina decided she would wait until the next morning to make her return to the city, which meant staying with Paz at the monastery. Not an easy request, as cursed creatures of all shapes and sizes were as taboo in the monastery as books of the Old Speech were. So when Paz returned with Lady Catarina, they had to hide the noble within their long outer robes, a conspicuous disguise. She was a large rabbit, and anyone who noticed Paz quickly and guiltily treading the monastic halls would take some interest in the fact that instead of wearing their student outer robes properly, they had them improperly removed and wrapped around some obviously hidden object. On any other day, Paz would have been reprimanded and Lady Catarina discovered.

However, the wasps had proven to be a huge diversion, as they had yet to be calmed. Monks and students alike hurried past Paz without a second thought, nets, tin cans of poison, and blankets in their arms. Paz saw it as another sign that this quest was one to be taken. What were the odds of running into a cursed rabbit on the same day that a swarm of wasps attacked the monastery? Truly, the Seraphim were commanding Paz to write this story down. Warmth flooded their heart as they reached their room, shutting the door behind them and propping a chair just underneath the doorknob for a fraction of privacy.

Catarina crawled out of the robes, wrinkling her nose at the modest surroundings. Paz began packing in earnest. Their journal, which had remained unused until inspiration for their Opus had struck, was finally removed from its dusty spot on the shelf. Rolls of pencils and extra sheets of paper were added to a large rucksack while Paz babbled excitedly, more to themself than Catarina.

“Master Duma will understand. He himself went on an impromptu trip when he was writing his Opus. I’ll just need to write a note.”

Paz ducked under the bed and pulled out the latest book of Sir Krono they had only gotten halfway through and a deck of playing cards they were exceptionally, if embarrassingly, good at. The two forbidding compendiums on the Old Speech were also retrieved, Paz seeing them as too rare and precious to be left alone, even hidden under the bed.

“What are those?” asked Catarina, her ears pricked, suddenly interested. 

“These?” Paz instinctually glanced over their shoulder, despite no one being there. “I’m not supposed to have these books. They’re dictionaries—well, no, more like a collection of essays really—on the Old Speech. There’s no actual written example of the tongue but—”

“Yes there is,” Catarina interrupted, blunt. “Merouda has a whole book of that devilish language. It’s how she turned me into this.”

“Written down?”

“Yes.”

“This Merouda, she has the Old Speech written down? Like, the actual words?”

“Why else would I be a damned rabbit? She spoke these words at me, my bones broke, my flesh fell off, and it felt like my whole body was turned inside out.”

“Do you know where she got this book?” asked Paz, their dark eyes widening. They crouched in front of Catarina, holding the little compendiums close to their chest. “As far as anyone knows, no one has actually written the words of the Old Speech. Not even a whole alphabet has been recorded—those who do speak it only know a few words passed down by generations. Lady Catarina, do you realize that somehow this Merouda has—?”

The door abruptly rattled. Frantic knocking followed soon after, and the voice of an elder monk called from beyond, frantic.

“Student Paz! Emergency assembly!”

Paz jumped out of their skin, quickly tucking the compendiums in their rucksack and fumbling the drawstring closed.

“I’ll be right back, Lady Catarina! Please just stay hidden.” Stumbling through the door, Paz tugged their outer robes back on, giving a final backward glance to Lady Catarina before slamming the door shut.

What a curious youth, Catarina thought. Truthfully, Paz was only a year younger than Lady Catarina, but Catarina Orozco had matured far beyond most seventeen-year-olds through years of higher education and sheer circumstance. She sniffed, observing the small room Paz called home: the simple clay walls lined with cracks, the wooden beams overhead, all splintered and cobwebbed. The monks of the Seraphim were known for their modest lifestyle and devotion to the written word, so much in contrast with the opulent cathedrals so associated with Saint Gusti. She never understood why her father was so adamant about his devotion to the faith, even going so far as to keep these odd, humble little monks out, with their endless scribbling and babbling about angels and planets. Of course, that same stubborn devotion her father had for anything in his life is what ultimately led to Merouda taking control.

She had no hands, but if she did, she would bawl up her fists and punch the shabby clay walls as hard as she could. Instead, in a fit of fury and passion at her sorry state, she tore at the bed with her rabbit’s teeth, taking up the corners of the blanket and shredding them, huffing and thumping as she gnawed.

There was a nagging fear in her guts. Once she returned to Kor Kura, would anyone actually help her? She had friends, but did she have allies? Did she have people who would be willing to align with her plan, even in the face of all the newly acquired power Merouda had? With all her guards and even the chief inspector on her side?

Catarina had always felt important; from the moment of her birth, she was surrounded by a fleet of carers, nannies, tutors, doctors, and guards who treated her with near reverent respect. She had no delusions of grandeur, she knew exactly what she was.

But at that moment, in that strange little room filled with books and cobwebs, she suddenly felt very small.

*******

“Dear Master Duma, I must apologize for my sudden absence. I was unable to explain to you in person my recent revelation, as we were all busy doing battle with the wasps. In some ways, I feel it easier to write you this letter instead, as I often fumble over my words in person (something you are well aware of.)

I have had a revelation, a call from the Seraphim for a Magnum Opus of great importance. Imagine, sudden inspiration! It finally happened! I will be following my subject matter in her endeavors in Kor Kura, though I am advised by my subject to keep everything a secret for now.

Unfortunately, I don’t know when I’ll be returning. She has some opinions on how long her quest will take, but between you and me, I have my doubts it’ll happen within a week as she says it will. Hopefully, I will be back by the end of summer. I know I will be behind in my transcription of the Sola Seraphima, but at least I will have a full draft of my Magnum Opus written and done. Finally!

I give deepest affection to everyone at the Monastery, and please give Dulce plenty of chin scratches in my absence.

Student Paz”

Master Duma chuckled, shaking his head. The letter was unexpected but not unwelcome. He had been advising the young and creatively stumped Paz to travel for a while, and though abrupt, he was glad they finally took the initiative—revelation or not. His only real grumble with Student Paz leaving so soon was the absolute disarray they found their room in that morning: blankets torn to shreds as if some wild animal had attacked them. There was no explanation for it in the note, and Dulce was not the one to blame as the cat hadn’t so much as caught a single mouse since it meandered its way to the monastery. But Paz had always been one of the more eccentric and secretive students.

As for Paz, the half-day journey to Kor Kura had been an emotional one. They had never been to the city before. The furthest they’d ever traveled was their initial journey from their faraway home on the Peninsula to the monastery. It had been an incredibly long trip, one filled with hope and tears and not a bit of regret. It was their family’s dream to have a monk in the family, and it would have been shameful to disappoint them, to turn around at the monastery's door after the week of travel and leap into their mother’s arms, tearful and begging to go back home. Paz was nothing but dutiful and had entered the life of a student with a stiff chin.

So it was surprising that as the imposing cityscape of Kor Kura drew close, they felt a tightening in their chest and a deep loneliness—very strange indeed, for they were hardly alone. Paz had elected to hitch a ride on a farmer’s car, settling in the back with stacks of fresh sugar melon and at least five other travelers, equally cramped and sweating in the summer sun. The stormy season was still weeks away, but clouds had already begun their migration over the Scrape, the air electric and eager to drizzle.

Lady Catarina sat alongside Paz, but remained silent during the ride. Both Paz and Catarina knew the existence of enchanted things was controversial. Not unheard of, but it would require more explanation than it was worth. There was also a matter of reception, as opinions varied depending on region. For the most part, a born and bred Southerner would shrug away her existence, or tut-tut at the idea of some wild witch doing this to an innocent girl like Catarina. But if there was someone from the North, there would be panic and an attempt on her life. Victims of the Old Speech were seen to be as evil as the language itself and were treated as such.

Perhaps it was the lack of communication with their traveling companion that made Paz lonely, so used to having a fellow student or Monk to talk to. Fighting back the feeling, they jotted down some flowery descriptions of the city as the cart rolled up to the gates.

Gigantic—no. Gargantuan? A gargantuan mechanical mass…

An ever-expanding, mechanical mass? Paz hummed. Perhaps that was too negative a description of Kor Kura, as if it was some disease growing out of the side of the Southern Scrape. But how else were they to describe such a monstrosity? The gate alone was this wrought iron thing, all interconnected locks with cogs that whirred invisible within. A blackened rib cage that slowly shrieked open, setting teeth on edge and sending birds flying overhead. Impossibly tall as the stone walls, it allowed a deluge of carts, donkeys, camels and people inside and out. Like a giant mouth, the gates vomited the crowd into the desert.

It was so different from the Monastery, even more than the shoreline towns of the Peninsula with its thatched roofs and wooden walls. Stepping inside Kor Kura was an overwhelming experience, and Paz struggled with the right words to use as they fumbled with their pen and paper, trotting along behind Catarina as she cut through the crowds with an intense purpose. It

was difficult going, as the cobblestone road was ill-kept and treacherously damaged, occasionally whole chunks of street were rejected from the red clay earth they had been precariously built over. It was the great tragedy of Kor Kura, that such a grand city as this would be built over an empty lake, its muddy underbelly a poor choice of support. No matter what the city planners and architects did, they could only slow the descent, not stop it completely.

Paz observed the buildings, for all their height and glory, most were tilted precariously, despite the iron beams and many supports that tried to keep them straight. Tripping over another gouge in the road, Paz nearly lost sight of Catarina, who seemed to know her path despite the chaos of the crowd. She bounded, her underbelly red and muddy as she went, twisting between legs or ducking under carts. Paz barely survived getting trampled by a line of pigs on their bustling way to the slaughterhouse. A narrow row of buildings seemed to be where Catarina was headed. Without explanation she ran, arriving at one particularly tall door, all iron workings with decadent floral designs. Decorating the stone walls was a common design of a twisting, serpentine dragon holding its tail. Paz was so taken with this motif they had to draw it out, as crudely as their poor skills allowed.

“Stay here. I need to call on some friends,” ordered Catarina.

“Outside? But it looks like it’s gonna rain..” Paz said. They had noticed the occasional fat droplet of water sprinkling their journal pages, and the gathering clouds overhead promised more soon.

“They wouldn’t like y- They wouldn’t appreciate a stranger.” “But you’re a rabbit. Will they even recognize you?”

“Of course, they’ll recognize me! I still have my voice haven’t I? Besides, I’m sure they’ve all been wondering where I’ve been. I was supposed to visit them yesterday for coffee. Now just, wait here. I’ll promise it’ll only be a moment.”

Catarina paused, waiting at the door. Even as a rabbit, Catarina never showed a lack of poise. However, she cleared her little throat and awkwardly cocked her head to the side, silently alerting Paz to her disadvantage.

“Oh,” Paz reached up and knocked on the door. 

“Thank you,” said Catarina, quietly.

A doorman, dressed in fine brocade and a starched neck ruff answered the door. He stared at Paz, stone-faced.

“Madame Domínguez does not entertain solicitors.” The doorman sniffed and made to close the door when Catarina spoke, boldly rising to her haunches.

“Ahem! Please disregard my current animalistic state. I’m Catarina D’Angelique Orozco, and I seek my friend Madame Domínguez’s company.”

The doorman remained as unemotional as a marble icon, despite the talking rabbit at his feet. He peered down his nose at the proud creature and made to give her a light shove with his boot.

A curious voice called from behind him, a feminine voice of refinement.

“Catarina? Is that you calling? Please, come.”

The lady rabbit turned to give a quick, proud nod at the rude doorman, hopping inside, black tail pointed high. The iron door shut behind her, and Paz was left alone to wait under a darkening sky.

And wait they did, for a tedious length of time. Taking the opportunity they went back over their notes, adding more descriptions of the city, erasing some unneeded anecdotes. Soon, pages were filled with little doodles of the many dragon motifs seen throughout the city, bent and twisted into ouroboros. Paz regretted not paying attention to their illumination studies, as their renditions resembled the scribblings of a child and did the actual designs little justice. Overhead, a drizzle picked up. They were thankful they chose to wear the common traveler’s garb instead of their traditional monk's attire, and not just for the rain. A student of the Seraphim would have been turned away at the gates, so some subterfuge was necessary.

It was when the drizzle grew heavier did Paz start to worry. Tucking themself close to the stone walls and hoping the high-hanging roofs would provide some shelter, clinging to their rucksack. What if Catarina found the assistance she needed and left? What if she forgot all about Paz standing out in the mud and rain? What if the revelation Paz was so sure about was nothing but-

The iron door swung open. The doorman, as stony-faced as ever, held a kicking and bellowing Catarina by the scruff of her neck and tossed her to the streets. She cried out, cursing in a way that Paz didn’t think a noblewoman could. The doorman retreated in an instant, the door closing on Catarina’s face.

“How dare you! Estel! Curse you and your entire, poisonous bloodline!” She spat, scratching her paws against the door. “You dare turn an Orozco away! You will- I will- Once I regain my rightful place I will see to it that this entire block of garish condominiums burns to the ground!”

“Did it not turn out well?” asked Paz, eyeing the ever-darkening sky warily.

“What do you think? That miserable waste of noble breeding refused to assist me in any shape or form.”

“But I thought she was your friend?” Lady Catarina took a deep breath, her little rabbit’s heart beating fast. “It seems, that she is not.” “So, what shall we do now?”

“We’ll wait out this summer rain. Tomorrow I’ll seek out my uncle. Though I doubt he’ll even be in the city right now.” She was resolute, regaining her composure despite the rain. Together Paz and Catarina left for dryer places, leaving the row of homes with their iron doors and dragon-bedecked walls behind.

Finding lodging was trickier than either of them had planned. Since Lady Catarina had escaped her enemies with only the cursed fur on her back, Paz was forced to bankroll their endeavors. Their meager traveler’s allowance saved over five years was not enough for the finer establishments, not even the common ones. Catarina wasn’t much help, as she proved to be insufferably picky with her tastes. 

She turned her floppy-eared head away from almost everything they came across. Paz, despite all the patience that a life of humble living taught them, could no longer handle the aimless wandering in the rain and red mud of Kor Kura. Ahead, a wooden sign depicting two leaping goats with fishtails attracted their attention. The Twin Goats pub was filled to capacity with a crowd of shouting, drunken revelers. A warm light glowed invitingly behind warped glass windows, and Paz couldn’t help but stare eagerly at the steaming plates of halibut and veg being passed from merchant to customer.

“Absolutely not.” Catarina shook her head. She stood close to Paz, under the protection of the traveler’s cloak.

“I know. I’m not supposed to hang around in places like that.” sighed Paz, wistfully “Couldn’t afford it if we could- wait, look!”

Leaning next to The Twin Goats was a ramshackle barn, likely reserved for any travelers who happened to take up the night. But the door was unlocked, and a single lantern beckoned from inside.

“You expect me to stay there? Like a common vagrant?”

“Well, We’re kind of vagrants right now, aren’t we? C’mon, it’ll be better than lungs full of water.”

Paz didn’t wait for Catarina. They ran to the barn, slipping on the muddy road. The smell of sour hay and animals slapped Paz in the face as soon as they entered, but it was thankfully dry. Relieved, they flopped onto of a barrel of prickly hay, removing their drenched traveler's cape. Lady Catarina didn’t follow right away, and Paz thought perhaps she would stubbornly stand outside in the rain for the rest of the night. But comfort ruled over modest surroundings, and eventually, Lady Catarina was at Paz’s side, shaking off the rainwater and instinctually wiping her ears.

“See? It's not so bad in here.” Paz said. They poked through their rucksack, removing a roll of flatbread. Graciously they tore the humble bread in half and offered some to Catarina. She turned her head away, ears flickering.

“You gotta be hungry.”

“I am. But I- I can’t eat that, it is difficult to eat human food...now.” She scratched at the dirty barn floor, pensive.

“Oh, I see. What about some hay?” “You expect me to eat urine-soaked hay?”

“It's not all bad, here I’ll find you something.” Paz was adamant that the hero of their Magnum Opus at least have something to fill her rabbit’s belly. Where would Paz be if Lady Catarina died of starvation before her quest properly began? At the corner of the barn was a pile of loose alfalfa hay, green and clean. Taking fists full of alfalfa, the smell reminded them of refilling the Monastery’s hutches. How curious, to be so far from home and still finding themselves feeding a rabbit.

Suddenly, Paz leapt back.

Snoring asleep under the alfalfa hay was the grubby figure of a man. An empty bottle barely clutched in his unconscious hands, he was completely dead to the world. Paz assumed he was

one of the many beggars of Kor Kura, threadbare was his carmagnole jacket, and messy hair tucked under a floppy cap. Quietly Paz made to put the alfalfa hay back over the beggar, politely returning his blanket, when his red-rimmed eyes suddenly cracked open.

He seemed bewildered, gaping blearily around the barn, when he spotted Catarina. Sitting bolt upright he pointed, a wild silver-toothed smile spread across his face.

“Oi! Miss Rabbit! I’m supposed to kill you!”

Chapter Three

 Lady Catarina was always told never to run in the palace halls. Nobility never ran. They were poised; they’d stare their opponents down with locked eyes and heads held high. Only fools, cowards, and peasants run. 

But, when the alfalfa-covered ruffian with the silver teeth dizzily lunged towards her, she ran. 

The barn door was shut, but not enough to prevent her from getting away. She frantically squeezed her long body between the doors and darted into the warm summer rain. It was nearly dark, but the lights of the city made time ambiguous. Long shadows crisscrossed each other in the streets, cast from the leaning buildings. Catarina bounded between them, her claws scraping into the ruddy mud. She was faster in this odd rabbit’s body, but even then her pursuer was close behind.

He was the same bedraggled man who had tried to strangle her just the other night when all the world was a blur and her body still ached from Merouda’s curse. At this point, she hadn’t even realized she was in the body of a rabbit, so fast had the witch of the second sight summoned one of those Blanca boys. She had fought him then, with unfamiliar teeth and half-formed claws. She had gotten away. She had run, like fools, cowards, and peasants run. 

And what of Paz? They could hardly react before both man and rabbit bolted out of the barn. Their hero was now being pursued. Paz grabbed their rucksack and made to chase after them, but a moral quandary froze them.

A Monk of the Quill, an eye of the Seraphim, must be, above all things, as impartial as the air. Would chasing after Catarina, and even attempting to rescue her, be an act of partiality? Would they be interfering with the natural course of their hero’s story? Paz worriedly fussed with the straps of their rucksack, the rain growing thicker with every second. Surely, Paz had already saved Lady Catarina once before. Did the Seraphim calculate how many times they were allowed to keep their hero alive? What is quantified as an observation and a choice?

Looking up, Paz could just make out the famous clock tower of Kor Kura, silhouetted against the setting sun. The face of the clock was lit from within, a soft glow like some Cyclop's eye, overlooking the city, seeing the lives of its citizens run their course. So unlike the Seraphim, blind and unknowing, somewhere out beyond the atmosphere. 

Perhaps, Paz thought, they didn’t need to know all the details of their Magnum Opus. It wouldn’t be a sin to follow behind, just to see what would happen next. They ran out into the rain, following the sloppy tracks of man and beast left in the mud, so obvious even in the growing summer storm. 

It was the rain that exacerbated Kor Kura’s roads. The earth of the lake-bed flared under its prison and oozed up, between cobblestones and bricks. Carts stalled, wheels stuck fast and hapless travelers sprained ankles and lost shoes to the mud. Paz tripped and slid as they caught up with Lady Catarina and her pursuer. The man had her cornered between a nonsense alcove of half-crumbled wall and an old iron gate. She had tried to leap through the bars but the strange man had grabbed her at the last moment, catching hold of her back feet.

“What a lovely coincidence “Miss Rabbit!” Saint Gusti himself must be smilin’ down on me today.” 

The man’s accent was similar to Student Ackley’s, Paz noted from afar as the struggle carried out. The moral quandary wriggled its way into their heart. Now it burned as they watched poor Catarina struggle against the attacker. 

“Paz! What are you doing? Help me!” Catarina ordered. The man had her by the scruff of the neck, but her bared teeth kept him from getting a proper hold of her.

Would the Seraphim find out, Paz thought? Master Dumas told them that a dishonest Magnum Opus would cast its writer into oblivion. Following Catarina to simply observe was one thing, but to help was certainly another…and had they already done more than enough? If this wasn’t to be their Magnum Opus, why force it to be so? Swallowing back that feeling of earthly empathy, they took a step backward, the rain splattering loudly in their ears. They could see Catarina’s ruby eyes widen, their animal’s face unreadable. 

Just one step back, away from participation and towards earning that quill. Just like their family always wanted. Just like they wanted.

Paz stumbled into someone, and before they could utter an apology, a strong hand clamped down on their head, pushing them easily out of the way. 

“Hugo! There ya are. Look it here, see? I got me that rabbit after all!” The ruffian attempted to smile while struggling with the uncontrollable Catarina. 

Hugo was the saddest-looking man Paz had ever seen in their life. Broad slumping shoulders with shaggy unkempt hair and mustache. Everything from the brim of his hat to his off-white neck ruff drooped. Still, he was an intimidating sort, if by height alone. Paz felt their blood run cold as he walked past them, stomping through the mud and rain. 

He slipped just a little bit. 

“It took you long enough,” Hugo grumbled. 

“You know how hard it is to track down a single rabbit in this city? Who else is clever ‘nough to find such a needle in this haystack? Dogsbody, that’s who! ” he shouted over the rain. The man who referred to himself as Dogsbody proudly thumbed his chest. Catarina dangled furious in the air, her legs kicking in all directions. 

“Yeah, yeah. Hurry up and put that thing out of its misery,” Hugo said, pulling his black rider’s cloak over his shoulders. 

“I’m- Trying!” shouted Dogsbody. Catarina was tiring, but still he couldn’t quite grasp ahold of her neck. It grew apparent to Paz that perhaps Dogsbody wasn’t so comfortable with strangling a defenseless, cursed rabbit to death. Hugo seemed to notice this too, though his arms were crossed and his scarred face solemn. There was a flash of unmistakable fondness in his eyes as he watched the small man struggle. 

“Any day now, Dogs.” 

“I’m tryin’!” 

Hugo rolled his eyes, and snatched Catarina out of Dogsbody’s grasp in an instant.

“Let go of me! I’m Lady-“ 

“Sh sh.” Hugo whispered quietly, barely audible over the rain. “I don’t want to know who you are. Just relax.” His hand slowly wrapped around her small throat. He closed his eyes, and Lady Catarina for an instant, stopped her struggle. There really was no way out of this. 

“Stop!” 

Hugo and Dogsbody snapped their heads towards Paz, both surprised. They hadn’t even paid the youth any mind. Paz, too, was surprised by their outburst. Guilt grabbed hold of their heart. They knew in that instant they had breached impartiality, but still, instinctually, they ran to the men, pleading over the rain. 

“Please stop! I - I don’t know who you are but please, please don’t harm her. She’s the hero of my story, you see? My Magnum Opus.” 

Hugo and Dogsbody stared stupidly at Paz, blinking.

“I’m trying to be an Eye for the Seraphim, a Monk of the Quill. I need her alive. Please just let her go!” 

Lady Catarina was quiet, her little chest heaving as she dangled in the air. Hugo turned away from Paz, shaking his head at Dogsbody in flippant confusion. 

“Kids, eh?” he chuckled, nonchalantly. Quickly, he made to twist Lady Catarina’s head off her body once more… but he couldn’t. 

Furtively, he glanced at Paz once more, then back at the rabbit. Her velveteen, black face, pathetic and soaked in the rain, gazed back at him with ears pulled down.

“You know what. Maybe Saxa Hortus could use some company,” Hugo said, nodding towards Paz. 

In an instant, Dogsbody grabbed Paz by the shoulders and shoved them along the water road towards a donkey-drawn wagon. Paz didn’t even have time to fight against him as they were thrown into the back. They tried to get up, but a knife to their throat made Paz freeze. 

“Don’t move,” rasped Dogsbody. He crouched beside Paz, his wild hair dangling wet over wild eyes.

A sack was plopped next to Paz, with a cursing Lady Catarina squirming within. The wagon lurched forward, and Paz could do nothing but repeat the names of the Seraphim in their head, willing their body to calm. 

“Two birds, one stone, eh?” Hugo called over his shoulder as the wagon rolled forward. 

“Terrible- I’ll see to it that you’ll both be beheaded in the streets!” Catarina cried out, nearly inaudible within the sack.

“Aww, see here Miss Rabbit. None of this is personal, eh? I had orders to see ya dead, direct orders from Merouda of the Second Sight herself.” Dogsbody’s voice dripped in some untold bitterness. His face scrunched in disgust, the very name Merouda was like biting into the peel of a lemon. He nodded towards the struggling Paz. “And we all know how she feels about your lot. Real unfair if you ask me. You little scribblers were never much of a bother.” 

Paz shuddered. How foolish they had been to reveal who they were. Stupid. This situation they found themself in was a natural punishment for interfering. Self-flagellation was discouraged by the Monks, but mental self-flagellation was a different story altogether. Paz took a cat o’ nine tails to their heart the whole miserable wagon ride. Every bump in the road they took as a sign from the Seraphim that they were very displeased indeed. 

As for Catarina. She never gave up. She cursed and protested and threatened to the point where even the seemingly unflappable Hugo grew tired and irritable with her. When the cart finally drew to a halt, he roughly grabbed the sack she was trapped in, flopping it over his back.  Paz was removed with the same amount of dignity, A knife still placed at their neck while Dogsbody directed them towards a strange, metal well. Covered in an iron cage which Hugo removed with a ring of keys, rainwater dripped loudly down its hollowed throat. 

Paz barely found their footing when Dogsbody roughly shoved them over the side of the well. Paz screamed.

“Ay, c’mon now, you’re a monk eh? Show the beyond some dignity.” Jeered Dogsbody.  Hugo said nothing as he dropped Catarina into the pit, her cries and curses echoing all the way down. Paz lost their balance in an instant, falling face-first into darkness. 

The rain poured overhead as Dogsbody and Hugo gazed into the strange pit. Hugo’s face was as dark as the summer storm.

“You alright?” Asked Dogsbody, tapping the back of Hugo’s knuckles with his own. 

“Tired” 

“I still have a tab open at the Twin Goats. Shall we be off then?” 

“Yes.”  Hugo groaned, dragging a hand over his scarred face “Oh gods yes.”

********

Never was there a more ugly building than Blanca’s Butcher Shop. Like most buildings of its age, it leaned aggressively to the side, its foundation forever sinking into the lakebed. Wooden slats rotted from decades of summer storms and the constant breeze of the sea. It was one in a row of businesses standing between the rest of Kor Kura and the docks, its perpetual stink of blood mixed with the many fisheries nearby. 

Milla Blanca hated fish. It turned her stomach ever since she was little, even the smell made her think of the sea and being violently ill on the sea. So she did her best to keep the stench out of her office with the help of the thin, leaf-wrapped cigarettes perpetually clenched between her teeth. She didn’t like smoking either. But it was better than smelling the fish. 

But what Milla Blanca hated more than fish or smoke was a fuss. The fuss of clunking her boy's heads together whenever they bumbled another smuggling job. The fuss of having to resell illegally licensed muskets at a lower cost. The fuss over maintaining the endless money pit was their failed venture into banned marmot racing. It wasn’t even banned anymore, now they just had a fleet of fat, spoiled marmots (which admittedly, Milla refused to get rid of.) 

And of course, the biggest fuss of all. Merouda.

A whole year it’d been since she found herself an unwilling pack animal for that so-called Lady of the Veil. Merouda of the Second Sight. Horseshit was what it all was. Since then it’s been nothing but the most inconvenient of work. Her men wasted, and some of them died doing things even the once-feared Milla Blanca found intolerable. She was dishonest, yes, her family’s history a constant push and pull between legality and criminality, but she never considered herself a brute. 

She lit up her cigarette, frowning at the fumes filling her lungs. She really did hate smoking. It was just all such a fuss. 

“The fireworks arrived?” Karmen asked, examining the list on Milla’s desk. 

“Should be in a couple of days,” Milla grumbled, rubbing her eyes. 

“She wanted ‘em last week.” 

“Well, she’s going to have to wait.” 

Karmen picked at the old, splintery wood of the desk. Her brows furrowed, she watched Milla smoke and play with the fat marmots in their elaborate pen. 

“How long, Auntie?” 

“I told you, a couple days, damn..” 

“No. How long until we can be free of this woman? When can we get Josephine back?” 

Milla sighed. 

“Last I heard our Josie’s fine. We’ve done our part for a whole year. Merouda said she’ll be done with us once the Feast of Saint Gusti is over.” Milla coldly repeated a promise she had made over and over again.

Karmen physically reeled from the mention of Merouda’s name. She stood up, tall and proud, unable to keep still. Her rapier swayed on her hip as she paced the office. 

“You know she’s a liar. For all we know Josephine is some misshapen, cursed, thing.” Karmen looked down at her wing, bounded and oozing. Milla turned from the cages, arms full of wriggling marmots.

“I’m doing what I can.” She puffed on her cigarette, tired and thoughtful. 

“I know,”  Karmen said. No matter how angry she got, she couldn’t escape the fact that this situation was her own doing. She had defied her family. She had put her sister in danger. It was her burden, and whatever was the outcome of this, it would ultimately be her fault. 

The door of the office swung open, upsetting the marmots. They leaped out of Milla’s arms, squirming their way into every forbidden nook of the office. Hugo and Dogsbody staggered inside, arms slung over each other’s shoulders, a bottle in each hand. 

“Rabbits dead. Did my duty I did. Hurrah.” Dogsbody shouted all too loudly, taking a messy swig of the bottle.” 

“What the hell are you talking about?” Milla groused, trying to grab one of the marmots that had squeezed itself behind an old cedar chest. “And what’d I say ‘bout drinking on the job?” 

Dogsbody shrugged, sloppy and loose-limbed. The only thing keeping him on his feet was Hugo’s hand on his head, cradling it like an infant. 

“Witch shite.” Hugo explained quietly. He was just as blurry-eyed as Dogsbody, his black hair pressed sweaty to his brow. 

“We sent them down to Saxa’s.” Slurred Dogsbody. 

“Saxa’s?” Milla shot up from the cedar trunk, squirmy marmot in hand. She marched up to her very drunk boys, her brow heavy and pinched. There was a real fear in her eyes.

“I thought I told you two. No more trashing bodies there. Pigs and blood only. You know how she gets..” Her voice was shaken, hushed, as if the walls could hear. 

Dogsbody hiccuped. 

Milla was short, and squat of build. Even Dogsbody was a healthy three heads taller. Still, she commanded all the intimidation of a drill sergeant. 

“I realize you two are both too washed to remember this. So I will save you a proper skinning until tomorrow morning.” She growled.  “Karmen! See to it these fools get to bed.” 

Karmen groaned. It was a chore dealing with Dogsbody and Hugo at any time of the day, but especially when they were drunk. Despite both being two grown men somewhere within the age range of thirty and forty, as soon as they were under the spell of ale they became as soft-headed and silly as children. Being a nanny was something Karmen never aspired to be, and yet here she was helping two fierce goons of criminal notoriety walk down a flight of stairs. They stumbled and giggled. Halfway down they began singing. 

“Karmen.”

“Yeah?”

“Do you remember when me and you and Josie did that thing?” Hiccuped Dogsbody. 

“When we did what?”

“When we put a head on the horse statue.” 

It wasn’t a head, it was a large melon as Karmen recalled. And it wasn’t just a horse statue, it was the newly constructed commemorative statue of Sir Louis Savonarola VII. Karmen was only a child then, and Josephine was younger still. Dogsbody always was an oddball, even as a youth, a runaway from some obscure northern county. It was astounding to remember having childlike admiration for him. Karmen and her sister had always yearned for an older brother, and Dogsbody had been the unworthy replacement. She couldn’t help but smile at the memory of them sneaking out that night, her climbing the bronze statue trying to balance the melon on her shoulder. She almost dropped it. Auntie Milla had punished the three of them afterwards of course, but it had been such a laugh that it was worth it. 

The butcher shop had a room that was originally intended to store skins but was now often used as a place to store anything that needed to be kept away quickly and quietly. This included Hugo and Dogsbody who had unofficially claimed the room as their own. The rest of the Blanca boys all had homes and families except for Hugo and Dogsbody. All they had was each other, and as much of a pain as they were, Milla couldn’t bring herself to kick them out. 

“Yer not gonna tuck us in?” Hugo mumbled, his drunkenness having turned the corner to woozy incoherence at some point on their journey down the stairs. 

“Have fun in the morning.” Karmen said, lightly shoving both of them inside and closing the door behind them. 

Outside the summer storm slowed. It was still too early in the season for a real hurricane, the kind that only rolled in after the Feast of Saint Gusti. Karmen leaned against the window and watched fishermen returning home, lonely punters wandering from one pub to the next. Across, a pair of camels tied to their post licked at the rainwater trickling down their long faces.

Karmen hated it here. She hated the crooked, leaning towers, the mud, the fickle weather, the underlying smell of something burning in the distance. What she hated most of all was being trapped there, smothered under the name Blanca, her head just above the red mud and sinking lower every day. 

Something strange forced her to look up from the camels. Overhead was a building amid construction, its skeleton just a mass of iron girders overlapping each other, planks of wood a pathway for the construction workers. Nighttime was treacherous, and usually, the planks were unoccupied at night. 

Except for now. There was a single figure standing aloft, leaning up against a half-built wall of stone. Karmen could just make out a grotesque face, unmoving and horned. It stared down from its perch with mysterious intent.

*******

When you die, your body returns to the earth but your soul transcends the heavens. On its journey it must pass through the holy fire of the Seraphim’s wings, your sin and shame burned away as you travel ever onward until you are purified, free to join the universe in eternity. 

Paz was ready for it as they fell. Sixteen years was hardly enough time on the globe, but as they dropped into dark oblivion, they made peace with what they had and looked forward to flying through the ether of space. 

Instead, they hit the water. 

It hurt, but not as much as it should have. Something strange had happened as they fell as if the speed of their descent had slowed. They floundered in black water, coughing and spluttering. They were not in total darkness as they bobbed in the waves. A soft glow from nowhere illuminated the surface of what seemed to be an ocean. 

But that was impossible? Waves? A clear current that was pushing them slowly toward some direction. This couldn’t possibly be a sea under the city. Perhaps a lake…

Up ahead, Paz saw something floating along the surface, it wriggled and seemed to sink. Panicking, Paz realized it was Catarina still in her bag. Without another thought Paz swam over to the bag, grabbing hold of it tightly as the current strengthened and they found themself tumbling in the waves, disoriented, desperately trying to keep their head above water. 

And then they washed up on land. A rocky pebbled beach, all grey stoned, and slimy with dark grass. Paz coughed and quickly undid the sack, hands shaky from exertion. Lady Catarina was soaked, and gasping for air as she dragged herself out of the sack. Paz could hardly think. All they could do was breathe and look out at the strange landscape they found themselves in. They were right, this wasn’t an ocean at all.

Stretched out ahead was a lake. An underground lake of choppy black water, a mysterious, unnatural current churning within. Overhead Paz couldn’t see a hint of a cave, and this clearly wasn’t the city sewage system either. It didn’t smell like sewage, this was true. It was a strange, old smell, watery and just a hint of a forest…but there were no trees in sight. The land they rested on was completely barren, just perfectly smooth pebbled rocks, giant, water-smoothed boulders, and a house. 

A house was not the right way to describe it, but it was the only way Paz could. Less house, and more tangled nest, a giant mass of branches with holes that could be windows and a smooth round rock at the bottom that could be seen as a kind of large door. It was as big as a house. Soft light glowed from inside. 

“You…” Lady Catarina gasped. “You were going to let me die.” 

“I, not exactly, let me explain I-“ 

Lady Catarina threw herself at Paz. She was weak and waterlogged, but her spirit was strong. She scratched and kicked at Paz, shouting deep from within her rabbit's form. 

“How could you do such a thing? You coward! You weakling!” 

“Please Lady! I apologize I just..” 

“And now look at us! Where are we??”  She jumped off of Paz, huffing and wheezing as she looked around, nose twitching furiously. “If we are dead and in Gusti’s haven I will have you know I do not want to spend my eternity of penitence trapped with a coward like you.”

“I’m sorry. As an observer, I’m not supposed to intervene. I’m supposed to write out your journey as it unfolds, not dictate its outcome.” 

“If you’re not allowed to intervene. Then pray tell, why did you save me just now? Why did you save me from the desert in the first place?” 

Paz hung their head. They didn’t know what to say. They knew whatever was said wouldn’t be good enough for her, and they didn’t blame her. It was all well and good to obey the practices taught at the Monastery, but it was proving to be difficult to adhere to them outside of those holy walls. 

The rucksack, which Paz had so carefully packed had washed up further along the beach. They ran to it, hoping against all odds that their extensive notes were preserved inside. The odds it seemed, continued to be against them. Even though the straps of the rucksack had done their job in preventing spillage, the simple leather sack was no match for water. Everything, from Paz’s notebooks to the precious encyclopedias of the Old Speech was soaked through. Pages of the old text melted off their bindings, and even the Sir Krono chapter books were destroyed. 

Paz’s heart sank. The encyclopedias, the only thing they had from their old home on the Peninsula…gone in an instant. Their notebooks meant to record the quest, were completely unusable. The only thing that seemed to survive the dip was the deck of playing cards, kept relatively dry in the tight little wooden box. Swallowing back tears, Paz tucked the cards in their pocket.

And then, Paz froze. Their mouth hung open, eyes blown wide in fear and terror. They wanted to scream, desperately, but no sound found its way to their throat.

A thing was suddenly towering behind Catarina. It wasn’t there, not all at once. A simple mist that slowly came into being, a great mass of a body with two glowing eyes, unblinking. Catarina didn’t seem to notice, puzzled at Paz’s complete terror. Only when Paz gestured over Catarina’s fuzzy shoulder did she turn, and then she too was frightened beyond words. 

There were many books at the Monastery on the subject of legendary creatures. Forgotten by civilization and time, whose only legacy was in art and architecture. The dragons decorate the walls of Kor Kura, the mysterious beasts of the sea. Only rumors and gossip maintained these beings still existed. 

Giants were one of them. And up until now, both Paz and Catarina had thought them long dead. 

“You’re not pigs?” The Giant spoke. Its voice, despite its stature, was soft, almost quiet. 

Paz and Catarina couldn’t speak, neither could they move. 

The Giant was fully formed by this point, the last of the mist settled. It was true to its name in height and width, though a great deal hairier than the old book illustrations depicted. As shaggy as a northern cow, with great, long quills that stuck straight out of its back, it more resembled a grassy hill with horns and eyes, rather than the big bumbling men in children’s books.

“Saxa. Hortus.” Gasped Catarina. She darted to the creature’s feet, ducking her head between her paws and groveling. 

“Please, please have mercy on us. We bear no ill-will…” 

Saxa Hortus cocked her hair head to the side, her eyes glowing from underneath the fountain of hair. 

“I am making soup.” She said.

“Please, please show us mercy, please-“ Catarina babbled. She squeaked when Saxa Hortus reached down and scooped her up easily. In an unusually graceful motion, she picked Paz up as well, still too shocked to even bother running away. She held the two aloft, starry eyes blinking inquisitively. 

“Let’s eat.” 

There wasn’t an argument from Paz and Catarina over that. Saxa Hortus stomped back to her nest with human and cursed rabbit in hand, ducking easily behind the round stone door. 

If the outside of the house was unusual, the inside was even more so. It was a cluster of twigs, cloth, and an untold manner of junk. Anything and everything Paz could imagine a large magpie would be interested in was collected here, shoved into the sides of the walls, the branches decorated with trinkets. In the middle of the room was a mass of old blankets, cloth, and even sails from ships, twisted and knotted together to form a surprisingly cozy-looking nest, which Paz and Catarina were dropped in. Human and rabbit were not the only occupants of this great nest of sails and blankets. Off to the side was an egg. Large as a sugar melon, with a light blue coloration, its surface a speckled brown. It couldn’t possibly be of bird origin, even an ostrich’s egg was dwarfed by it. There were no recordings of the birthing habits of Giants, at least none Paz had read- but it wasn’t without reason to guess that the nest they were in was as much for the egg as it was for the Giant herself. 

 Across, a large cauldron that bubbled and broiled over with broth. Saxa Hortus churned it with a hunk of driftwood, testing its flavor with a flat, cow's tongue.

“Why are you scared, little ones?”  Saxa asked, her glowing eyes flickering from Paz to Catarina. 

“Your reputation precedes you, ma’am. My father told me about you. I thought you were just a fairy story.”

“All the fairies are dead.” Saxa Hortus hummed in her throat. “Good riddance. They used to bite my ears.” 

“Are you..gonna eat us?” Paz asked, their voice as dry as the many bones littering the belly of the nest. 

“Maybe.” 

Saxa Hortus churned the stew thoughtfully, shaggy head 

“The little Blancas give me pigs blood. They are friends. But I prefer to change my skin into an eagle. I like to hunt for myself.” 

The old temptation of curiosity bit at Paz, as terrified as they were. Even without a notebook or paper, the impulse to journalize overcame everything else. Paz went through all the books they had ever read about the forgotten creatures in their head. About how they had a weakness to iron or their fondness for games of cards and chance. Were these facts all true? Or were they misremembered lies, changing from generation to generation? 

“You can turn into an eagle? Can you turn into other things too?” They asked. To their side, Catarina shot them a look of horrified disbelief and they thumped the ground in defiance. 

“I used to. But I forgot the words.” Hummed Saxa Hortus, her voice bordering on wistful. 

“The words..you mean the Old Speech? You can use the Old Speech?” They lit up despite their situation. 

“Paz! This is hardly the time to talk academics” Hissed Catarina. Paz paid her no mind, pressing on.

“Do you remember anything else? Please ma’am, I would love to record a phrase or two, if you happen to have some paper I’ll-“ 

Saxa Hortus suddenly threw the chunk of driftwood right over Paz’s head, just missing their Student’s cap by an inch. Paz ducked, shaking in terror as The Giant loomed over them. All softness is gone, her great jaws bared tusks on full territorial display. 

“You’re just like her, aren’t you? You’ve come here to steal my words!” Saxa Hortus plucked the petrified Paz out of the nest, shaking them. 

“Please no! I didn’t mean it like that, I’m just curious.” 

“That’s what she said. The veiled lady. All those years ago, she crawled in here, all kindness and honey. She copied my speech, and wrote it down! Used it against me!” 

Saxa Hortus cried out, a great mournful bellowing with all the melancholy of a whale song. She squeezed the air out of Paz who gasped and vainly tried to wriggle out of her claws. 

Catarina was horrified, helplessly watching from below. The veiled lady…there was no doubt in her mind who that could be. She remembered seeing Merouda with an old book, it never left her side. She had read from it the night she was turned into this useless form she found herself in now. 

“My words should never be written down! It is not for little ones.” Saxa Hortus turned away from Paz, glowering at Catarina. 

“I think I will eat the both of you after all.”

Chapter Four 

The figure in the rain was still there. Watching. 

 Karmen didn’t care for it. The thing with the green devil’s face wasn’t doing anything threatening. It simply leaned and stared into the butcher shop window. She wondered if anyone else in the street noticed the figure. True, the rain moved lingerers along and costume masks were already starting to pop up despite the Feast of Saint Gusti being many weeks away. It wouldn’t be unusual at this time of the month to start seeing many folks wearing their festival masks. 

But this one was different. It wasn’t glittery and fashionable like a festival mask- it was a monstrous face, more like the gargoyles decorating the many cathedrals of the city. The mask was a familiar one too, as Karmen kept seeing its likeness on unmarked posters plastered throughout the city. However, the thing in the mask was clearly just a person. Two arms, two legs, all dressed up theatrically, not unlike the phony forest devil Karmen saw in a play once. 

Whoever this person was, Karmen knew she had to take care of it. Years before, when the Blanca family had some semblance of financial stability, Milla had invested in a decent lookout crew. But those times were long gone, and now it was a job solely operating on a voluntary basis. It didn’t matter who you were, if you saw something suspicious lurking around headquarters, you had to see to it to scare whatever it was away. Still, it was a pain in the arse. 

The rain was warm, suffocating the air.  Keeping her hand on the hilt of her rapier, she walked into the street, avoiding potholes full of bubbling red water as she went. Few passersby were startled by the Blanca daughter and wisely hurried out of her way. 

“Hey! You there!” Karmen called out. “Butcher shop’s closed! If you want some giblets, come back tomorrow morning.”

The figure moved. With a sweep of its cape, the stranger crawled down the scaffolding and disappeared into a darkened alleyway.

She wasn’t stupid. Maybe Hugo or Dogsbody would have run after the stranger, but she knew a clear plea for attention when she saw one. Instead, she made it her chore for the evening to make sure all windows and doors of the shop were completely locked for the night. It wasn’t any business to know who the stranger was. It didn’t matter. Everyone from kings to common thieves was after the same thing. Money. The best way to keep everything and everyone from touching your money was preparation and a good relationship with the local locksmith.

The front windows rattled against their latches and the main door was properly bolted. For years Dogsbody had been habitually locked out, either on accident or on purpose, until finally, Milla had grown tired enough of constantly having to let him in that she made him a key of his own. He still lost it from time to time. 

The backdoor was properly secured, but Karmen made sure to jiggle the handle just to make sure. There was also the outhouse, and the tool shed, but unless this stranger was in a desperate need to use the restroom and steal a meat hook, Karmen didn’t feel the need to bother with either one. 

Suddenly, a hand on her shoulder. 

Karmen was tall, unusually so for a Blanca who were all quite famous for being short and broad of width. It wasn’t often she felt anyone touch her shoulder, let alone grip it in a threatening way. Instinctually she made to whip around, rapier in hand— but a telltale sharpness to the small of her back prevented her from moving at all. 

“Two hundred silver in the main desk. Gold bars under Milla’s bed.” Karmen said. “That’s all we have.” 

“Funny. I thought the Blanca’s would be faring better now that you’re under Madame Merouda’s boot.”

She knew her current predicament was dire, she knew a blade was pointed just at her back, but she couldn’t help but scoff. The masked stranger, for all his devil’s mask and gothic theatricality, couldn’t disguise an out-of-breath voice underneath. Had he run all the ‘round the shop to do this? By the way, he was gasping Karmen guessed running wasn’t something he often did. She could feel his hand on her shoulder tremble from exertion, and the knife in her back wasn’t even angled in a way that could do any real damage. All tension Karmen had waned. She was tired, and she wanted out of the rain. 

“I’m not doing this,” Karmen said.

“What-I was just..” 

“No, I’m sorry. I know you probably had a very nice plan to intimidate me and have a dramatic back-and-forth but I’m really not interested. It’s been a long day and I think you already know all you need to know about the Blancas.” 

“I-“ 

“So let’s all just save us both the trouble and get on with our evening, hm?” 

She turned around, quick enough to prevent the stranger from actually trying anything but slow enough to see that he couldn’t. It wasn’t in the way he looked, all devil’s horns and capes and gloves, it was in the way he stood. Knees locked, feet pointed inward. The knife he held was new and expensive-looking. Whoever this vigilante was, he had never killed a day in his life. She held her rapier easily, her posture trained. She dwarfed him by a head at least. 

“Go home.”

He didn’t argue. Still maintaining theatricality, he bowed, disappearing into the rainy night with a swoop of his cape.

********

“Please! Oh Gusti, Please don’t!” 

Lady Catarina never thought, in all her seventeen and a half years of life, she’d be boiled alive, and by a Giant no less. It was much too absurd, a comedic end to a silly children’s book. How would her burial even go? She had a space in the Orozco mausoleum already, but how would anyone even find her body? 

Not that anyone would look, she thought as she was lowered into the pot, the steam of the boiling broth already unbearable. Merouda would be pleased. 

Saxa Hortus had calmed but made good on her intentions to make both Catarina and Paz the final addition to her stew. Paz was still struggling in Saxa’s left hand, while she held Catarina in the right. 

Paz wasn’t a warrior, a knight, or even a barbarian warlord like their fictional hero Sir Krono. All they had was trivial knowledge of Giants, all of which was inaccurate at best. Desperately they thought of any weakness the fae had (or supposedly had.) Iron? There was none Paz could spy from their uncomfortable spot in Saxa’s hand. Some creatures were said to be weak to sunlight, but that too was unhelpful. A perchance for games? But how could Paz possibly play a game with—-

They remembered the deck of cards still in their pocket- the edges of the box digging painfully into their sides while they squirmed under the grasp of Saxa Hortus. Would it work? There was only one way to find out. 

“Wait!” Gasped Paz, just before Lady Catarina’s ears touched the boiling broth. 

Saxa Hortus turned her heavy head to Paz. 

“Do you like card games? Ever played Twelve Knights and Death?”

Saxa Hortus paused. 

“If not, I know Clubs and Queens too.” 

“I like Stump the Lump.” Said Saxa. 

“Wonderful! Say- how about we play a round before you eat us both?”

“I don’t play without stakes.”  Saxa Hortus cocked her head to the side, not unlike that of the many shaggy shepherding dogs back at the Monastery. If Paz wasn’t near inches away from death, they would have thought her cute. 

“Of course. No fun in that. How about.. if I win, you let us go. If you win-“ 

“I boil you both.” 

There was no way Paz could argue further, it was the best chance they had. They could hardly believe the ploy even worked. True, this act would rob them of proper martyrdom, but even guilt couldn’t combat relief as Catarina and Paz were lowered back to the nest, just alongside the giant speckled egg. Saxa Hortus settled into the nest as well, her great legs crossed and tail contentedly swaying back and forth. Though her face was mostly obscured by the mass of hair, she was obviously excited to start the game. Paz saw to it to make a note of this later, it was indeed true that Giants enjoyed playing games. 

Of course, of all the card games Paz knew, Stump the Lump was the one they knew the least. It was a very old game, its rules overly complicated and often contended by whoever played it. There was only one student in the Monastery who enjoyed the game and they were the ones most avoided. Poor student Ida. Paz would occasionally play Stump the Lump with him out of pity, enduring his lectures on the proper play technique. Their sessions were always cut short by Paz who would suddenly pretend they heard a Monk approaching, scrambling to hide the taboo cards before Student Ida could protest that he didn’t hear anyone.

With shaking hands Paz laid out the configuration of cards, as well as their memory could serve. They wondered if Saxa Hortus was as much a stickler for rules as Student Ida was. Both Paz and Catarina’s lives depended on it. 

The Lady Catarina sat next to Paz, her little rabbit’s heart thumping wildly. She had narrowly escaped certain death and was barely keeping up with the proceedings. 

“What are you doing?” She whispered. 

“I’m going to try and win,” Paz said.

“You better win. Or I’ll- my spirit will come back and torment your whole family for a year and a day.” 

Paz didn’t believe in ghosts, but Lady Catarina had been so firm in her threat, Paz was instantly convinced of their existence.

The cards laid out, Paz split the deck between them and Saxa Hortus, who eyed the cards eagerly. 

“Just to reaffirm the stakes. We win, we leave. You win we..you can boil us alive.” 

“And! If we win, you must help us.” Catarina suddenly interjected with a thump of her foot. Paz gave her a sharpish glance, stunned at the demand. 

“Help with what?” Saxa Hortus replied. 

“Help us kill that wretch who stole your words. Help us kill Merouda.” 

Paz stared at Catarina open-mouthed, then back at Saxa Hortus, expecting the creature to forgo the game altogether and smash them both for the insolence. Instead, the creature sighed, low and sad. 

“You think I haven’t tried? She has ways of keeping me out.” 

“Yes, but I’m Catarina D’Angelique Orozco. I have ways of getting what I want, and what my friends want. If we combine efforts, we will be victorious.” 

“If you can beat me at Stump the Lump.” Added Saxa. 

Lady Catarina nodded, her resolve as fiery as the boiling pot of stew gurgling just behind Saxa.

The Giant’s claws took up the little cards with surprising dexterity for their size. She gazed down at Paz and nodded. Confidentially she removed the first card and laid it on the table. 

The headless knight card, with his charging horse, reared up. An illustrated sun beamed from where his head should be. 

A good card to start with, Paz thought. A ridiculously good card. They struggled to find a card that would match it, having to settle on the golden apple card. Saxa Hortus shook her head, as she placed a golden apple of her own, instantly stacking the win to her side. Paz couldn’t remember if the Rat King card had any value, but they sat it down anyway. By Saxa Hotus’s gleeful reaction, the rat king did not. 

Catarina watched intently. Paz wasn’t sure if she knew the rules, or had even played Stump the Lump at all. It was an old peasant’s game, something a noblewoman would have no contact with. Paz cringed as the first round went to Saxa, the giant grinned toothily as she collected the cards she had earned. Paz knew enough that once their hand was empty, that would be it. They would lose. The tangled nest that was Saxa Hortus’s house felt more and more like a tomb, the light grew darker and Paz felt hot and sticky in their drenched traveler’s robes. 

Truly, Paz had never actually won a game of Stump the Lump. They could almost picture Student Ida’s grinning face in front of them as Saxa Hortus once again summoned a strong army from their hand, all the best cards in their slightly soggy glory. Five cards depicting dragons, bejeweled chalices, fair maidens carrying bows, and a single skeleton rising from a pond. 

“Why not use the silver swords?” Catarina suggested. 

“You know this game” Asked Paz, incredulously.

“A little. A palace guard used to play it.” 

Paz quickly looked up at Saxa, to see if there was any protest over Catarina’s assistance. She seemed perfectly placid and happy, her tail wagging. Paz supposed, since both of their lives were on the line it didn’t matter if the both of them played. So the silver sword was added, and in an instant, Saxa tilted her head to the side and hummed in her throat. 

“Well done.” 

Another card from Paz’s hand was added. The dove’s heart. 

Another. The Ouroboros. 

A final set is a range of mountains. 

Paz and Catarina waited on Saxa with bated breath as she slowly laid her own cards out. It was another ridiculously perfect hand. Beating each soldier Paz set out…

Except for the silver sword. It was a perfect choice, and even Saxa Hortus’s headless knight couldn’t match it. 

Saxa’s glowing eyes flickered underneath the fringe of grassy hair. She scratched her head, long droopy ears wobbled slightly. Paz and Catarina stared, neither one daring to blink. 

“Hhm. You won.” She said. “I won’t eat you.” 

Paz gasped and fell backward, near faint. Catarina leaped in the air, kicking and bounding sporadically. The menacing aura of the nest suddenly abated, even the soft lighting seemed to brighten just a little. 

“But I am not so sure about killing the veiled lady. She’s done something…it hurts to draw close.” 

Catarina turned to Paz, questioningly. The student was still recovering, stars still spinning in their eyes. The ways of the Old Speech were still very much a mystery, and if only Paz’s encyclopedias had survived the watery fall they could have turned to them. Stupidly they searched their adrenaline-rattled brain.

“It's possible she’s using some sort of ward. I heard the speech could be used for protection.” 

“That’s it! My own people’s words are being used to keep me away!” Saxa Hortus groaned and pulled worriedly at her ears.

“If that’s the case. We’ll need more than your strength and ancient knowledge to help. We’ll need an army.” Said Catarina. She gazed up at the twisted, branched ceiling, impossibly tall and intricately braided. Her mind worked double time, spurned on by the victory and another escape from death. In a single bound she jumped over the side of the nest and nudged at the smooth rock door of the nest. 

“Come along. I think I ought to have a proper meeting with this Blanca Family.”

*******

His voice trembled as Jiang’s strong, sinewy hands carefully undid the last button- exposing his heaving chest to the rays of the morning sun. He reached up to touch Jiang, he yearned for it, but Jiang pinned his wrists over his head and—

“Damn. Boys really gonna get it now” Milla chuckled, extinguishing her cigarette against a dirty, frog-shaped plate filled with ash. She was folded comfortably in bed, nursing a rapidly cooling cup of tea with a worn paperback propped up on her knee. The cover depicted a beautiful young man with wavy hair being held by another equally beautiful man, their lips nearly touching. Truthfully, the whole series had been a bore with both peasant and nobleman circling each other for at least the past five installments. But Milla was determined, not only to finish the series but to be the first to do so once she returned to the weekly book club. It was a perverse pleasure to know exactly how a story ended and hold it over everyone else’s heads. 

It was her morning habit to read. Before the day and its fuss. She let the caffeine of the tea shake her brain to further consciousness. The soft wriggling of her marmots in their cages filled the bedroom, as did the musty odor of their bedding. She’d have to clean the cage soon, another fuss of the day.

She turned the page. Maybe this time the two would finally kiss. 

She wouldn’t find out any time soon. There was a sudden, terrible crash out back, loud enough to hear over the rain and just enough to make the unflappable Milla jump. She sighed, putting the book aside, and hollered at the door. 

“Karmen!” 

No reply from Karmen. 

Milla grumbled, sliding off the bed and into a pair of slippers. She may have abandoned the book, but she would not abandon her tea. She sipped at it irritably as she stamped down the stairs, muttering about aching knees and aching back and aching head as she did so. 

“Karmen! You hear—“

Karmen was awake, having never left her post at the windowsill. She was shocked, something Karmen rarely felt. Fear instantly overtook Milla seeing her niece like this. Instinctually she felt for the dagger she kept in her pockets at all hours of the day. 

“Saxa Hortus is here.” Karmen said. 

“What? What are you on about?” 

“Saxa. Hortus.” 

Milla dropped her cup of tea. 

In a flash, she unlocked the back door, a robed arm held over her face to block out the rain. 

Standing there, dripping wet, all shaggy fur and horns and tail was the Giant. Their old family secret. Not their friend, not their companion, and certainly not their pet. Wrapped around her chest was a sling, a great speckled egg cradled protectively inside.

Clinging to the Giant’s back was a stranger, a youth with a warm complexion so often seen on the Peninsula, their traveler’s robes pulled protectively over their head. In Saxa Hortus’s great claws was a large black rabbit. The rabbit jumped from her hands and easily hopped to Milla’s slippered feet. It gazed up at her with purpose, water dripping from its black chin. 

“Hello. I am Lady Catarina D’Angelique Orozco. And I believe we have a lot to discuss.”

Chapter Five 

It stopped raining by noon. The sweltering heat of summer was suffocating in the tiny room of the Blanca butcher shop. Stuffed with boxes so long unopened that even Milla couldn’t remember what was inside. At the back of the room Hugo and Dogsbody snoozed the day away, blissfully unaware and unpleasantly hungover. Their undersized mattress was crushed behind an empty coffin once used for a long-forgotten scheme, now a convenient trunk for clothes. 

Dogsbody’s clammy face was buried in Hugo’s hair, his scrawny arms wrapped around the much larger man’s chest. Dogsbody was hardly a human being after the night’s revelry. He was now but a clingy, woozy spoon that mumbled unconscious nonsense into his beloved’s pierced ears and dodged the bits of sun peeking in through the window slat. 

And then, a splash of icy cold water broke the quiet peace of the storeroom. Hugo and Dogsbody coughed and groaned to life as another splash of water slapped both of them square in the face. 

Milla Blanca stood over them, a now empty bucket of water in her hands. 

“Ah c’mon. It’s our bloody day off..” Dogsbody spat, his head pounding like a blacksmith’s anvil.

“Get dressed. Meeting at the warehouse.” She emptied the last of the bucket over Hugo, who had yet to fully rouse. “And if either of you get sick in the carriage you’re walking the rest of the way.” 

The carriage was hardly anything more than a glorified cart with a hood. It was the last of a fleet of carriages the Blancas used to have before falling on hard times. Her brother was alive then, Karmen and Josephine were just barely toddlers. The Blanca Butcher Shop and Co. was almost legitimate, they were so close to being comfortable. And now…

“Hey! What’d I say? Over the side man!” Milla shouted over her shoulder. Dogsbody slung his head out of the carriage window, green with a hangover but holding on despite the bumps in the road and the uneasy sway of the carriage. Hugo was no better, his floppy hat blocking the painful rays of the sun. 

“Why are we gettin dragged to the warehouse on a beautiful summer’s afternoon?” Hugo asked. 

“Our luck has changed boys. Whether that be for better or worse I can’t tell, but at least it’s going somewhere.”

 The carriage rattled violently along the waterlogged path, stopping frequently for cross traffic and pedestrians. Milla smoked anxiously and fidgeted with the reins, her wisened eyes constantly darting back and forth, ever suspicious of being followed. 

It wouldn’t have been without reason. Milla Blanca was being followed.

The Feast of Saint Gusti was already being celebrated. The mask vendors had begun selling their seasonal wears, and so the streets of Kor Kura were filled with cartoonish faces of paper mache and fabric. Animals both mythic and mundane were represented in jewels and beads. Some masks were even woven in wicker and reeds, and those who couldn’t afford a mask wore face paint instead, the colors bleeding from sweat and rain. All smiles and frowns, suns and moons, and every star in between walked up and down the thoroughfare. Some were monstrous, some beautiful and all were completely fake. 

One followed Milla Blanca’s carriage. It kept far behind. A devilish face with repurposed deer horns. A theatrical cape trailed behind as it stalked. Unnoticed by the crowd of equally masked and theatrical civilians, the figure was joined by two others, both with their matching devilish masks. The three didn’t follow for long, as clusters of spectators formed around a traveling show, blocking the devils in their path. Milla Blanca had escaped without even knowing it. 

Blanca and Co. had only one warehouse and it was rarely used these days. A gusty building of sheet metal and wood, with a single fishing boat that has gone unused and unloved for years. There was a time when the warehouse served as a perfect cover for smuggling, but now it was used more as an unofficial meeting place for Milla Blanca when she was feeling particularly paranoid. 

It was also the perfect place to hide something unusual, such as Saxa Hortus. The giant was already under the guise of an eagle, but it was a strange disguise with brackish black feathers, bigger than any eagle native to the southern scrape. She was perched in the rafters of the warehouse, her egg still wrapped carefully over her chest. Below, Paz and Lady Catarina waited, accompanied by a handful of Blanca boys, all rough and tumble. Karmen leaned by the warehouse door, keeping an eye on the traffic outside.

Hugo and Dogsbody didn’t understand what exactly they were looking at, upon entering the warehouse. There were the rest of the boys, looking just as confused and hungover as they were. Then they saw Saxa Hortus staring down at them with her glowing eyes, all beaks and claws but still very recognizably Saxa. And then there was the rabbit. 

“Hello. I believe you two intended to kill me, yes?” The rabbit said, approaching them with an imperious tilt of her head. Milla Blanca removed her cap and nodded reverently. 

“I apologize for ‘em. These two aren’t sharp. I swear if they knew who you were,“ 

“Who?” Dogsbody asked 

“This rabbit you failed to off? She’s Papa Orozco’s kid.” 

Hugo, who had up until this point looked ready to fall asleep standing up suddenly jolted to life, his eyes widening under the brim of his hat. Looking like a man suddenly shot in the back, he stared at Lady Catarina, mouth agape. 

“Orozco..that Orozco?” He whispered. 

“Yes! Gods..let’s just get this meeting started.”  Milla took up a seat on an old coil of rope, near fused together from age and disuse. 

Catarina took her place in the center of the warehouse, her posture practiced and dignified despite her rabbit’s body. 

“I despise lengthy dissertations. You all know who I am, but only Milla Blanca understands why I am here. My intentions are simple. I wish to kill Merouda of the Second Sight.” 

A single cough was the only reply. It was indeterminate where it came from. Catarina pressed on.

*******

“She has been clawing at the throat of Kor Kura ever since she stepped foot into my family’s palace. Even as a child, I knew what she was, and what her intentions were. My mother was her first victim. And my father- that took her a little longer. It took a marriage and years of poisoning. Only when I finally caught that witch in the act myself did I know my suspicions were true.” 

She took a breath, ruby eyes closed. 

“I tried to stop her, and when I did she turned me into this. She used the Old Speech, compiled against the wishes of a certain giant- Miss Saxa Hortus?” 

“Ma’am. Actually.” Saxa Hortus corrected from above. 

“She wants Merouda dead too, as you all know. But she can’t even get past the gates of the glass palace, can you?” 

“No. It hurts, the Old Speech has been turned against me.” 

“And you all, the Blancas. Your family has fallen into an imbalanced alliance, is this correct Milla?” 

“Yeah we, uh, talked about that earlier.” Milla turned to Hugo and Dogsbody, catching them up. 

“She has someone hostage, someone important to you?” 

“My sister.” Said Karmen from the back of the warehouse. 

“Your Niece. A Blanca daughter. You too wish Merouda dead, correct?”

Lady Catarina stared into the very soul of each Blanca, their scarred, life-eaten faces hurt and broken. They all nodded. 

“I propose we use the final Feast of Saint Gusti as a cover. Your family is already being forced to cater food and entertainment, it would be the perfect opportunity to sneak in and carry out an assassination. And what makes this even more advantageous?” Catarina bounded next to Paz, who flinched under the attention of the group. “This young scholar knows the Old Speech! They’ll be able to help Saxa Hortus. We’ll be unstoppable with a giant on our side.” 

“I- I don’t really know-“ Paz warbled. Milla impatiently cut in, stamping a well-chewed cigarette into the earth. 

“We may have a giant. But look around you Miss Orozco. What’dya see? Six men, not including my Karmen and these two knuckle-heads?” She thumbed towards the blank-faced Hugo and Dogsbody. “The Glass palace has a whole private squad of soldiers, plus the standard guard, and if I’m not mistaken… Merouda still has the Camaradas themselves for protection.” 

Milla glanced at Hugo carefully. His face darkened in shame at the mention of the Caballeros, and he tucked his hat closer over his eyes. 

“We’re not enough. Maybe twenty years ago we were, hell maybe ten years ago. But now?” She shook her head. “We can’t afford to be charitable.” 

“You will if we succeed. Think of it as an investment. I will pay graciously, as well as fulfill any other requests. Transport papers? A new butcher shop? Anything you want I can easily grant it.” Catarina huffed. 

“What about now? You got enough money to hire an army?”

“Not, presently. But I have my name and a promise for reward. Surely that’ll get us far enough?” 

Milla’s hardened, creased mouth cracked into a bitter grin. She chuckled, then laughed, then wheezed into a guffaw that echoed off the rafters of the warehouse. The other Blancas didn’t know exactly what to do, so they weakly chuckled along. 

Catarina stood her ground, velveteen ears set flat back. Even as Milla Blanca laughed in her face, she held her imperial jaw tight. She had gotten this far, she wouldn’t be denied. 

And she wasn’t. 

Milla Blanca, despite her own good sense, despite everything, reached out her squat hand and took Catarina’s paw up in as hearty a shake as one could shake a rabbit’s paw. 

“Aah, Screw it. We have nothing else to lose. We Blancas have never been able to turn down a good backstabbing.” She winked, “And if we kill the witch and you don’t pay up, then I’ll personally twist your little rabbit's head off your body. Deal?” 

“Perfectly fair. Deal.” 

And that was that. A plan of assassination was proposed and accepted within an afternoon. There was the minutiae of the plot which Catarina had already gone over in her head which would be discussed later. The final eve of Saint Gusti was comfortably still far off in the distance, they’d have a whole summer to prepare. 

Of course, Catarina knew it would be difficult to find a proper mercenary assistance. She hadn’t a penny on her, and many of these sorts asked for at least half a pay upfront. To make things trickier, they’d have to be careful where they were hiring and who. Merouda wasn’t some noble out of many who no one would care about if they suddenly disappeared in a night. Merouda was more than that, she had become over the course of ten years a spiritual figurehead of the city as the mystical, all-powerful mistress of Papa Orozco. No noble had little idols carved in her likeness and set on display right alongside Saint Gusti’s own statues. For someone of that renown to be assassinated in an evening was surely going to turn some heads. 

They’d have to be careful when hiring. They’d need mercenaries who weren’t citizens of Kor Kura, who didn’t know who an Orozco even was. Which was difficult. Everyone knew who the Orozcos were.

It was Paz who proved to be the secret weapon Lady Catarina didn’t know she needed. Unassuming, nervous Paz. They were fluent in many languages, being a Monk of the Quill after all. A perfect interpreter for foreign mercenaries from the farthest reaches of the globe, hopefully far enough not to care about the powerful families of Kor Kura. As per Catarina’s first official instructions, Paz was to accompany Karmen Blanca to the docks the very next day to begin recruitment, with only a promise of a reward to negotiate with. 

Still, Lady Catarina felt confident.

********

Paz felt sick. Their stomach twisted and tortured them all night as they lay in the little sloping bed. This was definitely beyond observation. They were not only an accomplice to a murder, they were actively hiring murderers to murder. This wasn’t just a sin against the order and Seraphim themselves, this was a crime. They could be thrown into the famous Pit of Kor Kura itself for something like this. They flopped from one side to the other, trying to calm down. The ratty blanket provided by the inn had long been kicked off, a sad heap on the dirty floor. To think their family had seen such a prestigious future for them, only to open the paper one day and see their own Paz behind bars. 

Marisol’s Inn & Bath was a humble affair. The bath itself was a single room with a single tub, tinged permanently green. As for the inn, the rooms creaked and groaned with the weight of construction workers stamping back and forth on the roof, eternally fixing water damage in an endless cycle. But the inn was close to Blanca’s Butcher Shop, and would now become the home for Paz and Catarina for as long as was needed. Paz was used to small living, the room no bigger than their own back at the Monastery. But it was a different place, without the familiar comforts and quirks Paz had grown to love. What was worse, there were no books. Not even a shelf. They couldn’t even dig into the new Sir Kronos chapter book, as it had been lost to the strange waters of Saxa Hortus’s lair. 

What hurt most of all was the Encyclopedias. Their bit of home. Handed down from their grandmothers, the first person who really sparked their interest in the Old Speech, and who Paz had always wanted to please the most. 

“Are you crying?” 

They froze, looking for the voice. Paz had thought they were alone, but Paz hadn’t closed the window. It was Saxa Hortus, perched on the sill, her whole eagle form barely able to fit in the frame. Milky white eyes shone in the dark. 

“I- I guess I am ma’am. A little.” Paz wiped a hand over their face. 

Saxa Hortus jumped into the room, the floorboards cried out under the weight of the creature. The egg, still cradled carefully against Saxa’s eagle chest swung back and forth as she moved easily across the floorboards. In a single jump, the giant leaped onto the foot of Paz’s bed.