The briefing room in Bastion — the gargantuan heart of Clan Valor's domain — reeked of the scent of stress and hot iron from their forges. Outside, the industrial sprawl of the coast thrummed, but inside, the silence was sharp enough to draw blood.
Morgan of Valor stood before the floor-to-ceiling glass, her silhouette framed by the orange glow of the foundries below. Her crimson eyes weren't watching the city — instead they were tracing outlines and ideas of what to do next after her cruel rejection.
'Asteria, the Queen of Nightmare. What a bloody hassle.'
Morgan's hand twitched, her leather glove creaking as she tightened her fist. "A second nightmare, conquered solo," she murmured, her voice a low rasp. "And then the girl has the gall to sprint across the Dream Realm just to play saviour to Changing Star. The last ember of the Immortal Flame... reduced to a supporting act. It's pathetic, really. A waste of talent."
Behind her, an elderly senior advisor cleared his throat. He was a man who had survived a hundred campaigns, but even he took a cautious step back from the Princess of War's radiating heat.
"Princess Morgan," he began, his voice dry. "His Majesty has been quite... vocal on this matter. Caster was our eyes in the dream realm. He was the blade meant to bleed out the remnants of that wretched clan before they could become a problem. Instead, he's been snuffed out by some no-name rat from the outskirts. It's a stain on our reputation."
Morgan turned, a sharp, white smile splitting her face. It wasn't a smile of joy. "Caster was a fool. If you're stupid enough to let a cockroach get the drop on you, you deserve to be stepped on." She sighed, leaning her head back and looking at the ceiling with a bored expression. "But he was our fool. He had one job: put Nephis in the ground before she causes problems later."
"Precisely, my lady," the advisor said, inclining his head.
"And now my father wants to recruit her?" Morgan's voice rose, sharp and mocking. "We don't need her. We need assets. She's playing neutral, sitting on an unknown citadel, and she hasn't breathed a word of its location. She isn't even a Saint! She can't even hold the door open for us. What on earth is Anvil thinking?"
"I couldn't say, my lady. We cannot fathom the mind of a Supreme."
"He never tells me anything anyway," Morgan snapped, her eyes flashing with a manic glint. "If she won't come to Valor willingly, the choice is simple. We either corner her until we are her only option, or..." She raised her hand, slowly closing it into a crushing grip. "We break her. If I can't have her on my vanguard, I'd rather see her as a footnote in a casualty report."
The advisor bowed low, his voice a mere whisper. "I wouldn't advise the latter, Princess. The King is... unusually captivated by this girl. Breaking his new toy might lead to a very long, very cold winter."
***
In Ravenheart, the seat and Great Citadel of Clan Song, the ivory quartz throne room was a place of chilling elegance and absolute, terrifying stillness.
Seishan stood at the centre of the hall, her red dress flowing around her like a pool of fresh blood on snow. Her exotic, striking features were a mask of cold, reserved perfection.
To her left and right, the three impaled figures sat in their horrific, eternal positions — reminders of the price of failure and the nature of her Mother's reach.
"You did well, Seishan," a voice drifted from the central throne. It didn't come from the lungs of the corpse seated there, but seemed to vibrate through the the room. "The girl did not refuse us. Not entirely. But an asset like that requires a delicate touch."
This was Ki Song, speaking through her puppets. Despite the gruesome display, there was an eerie sense of benevolence in the tone — the warmth of a spider welcoming a fly to the hearth.
"What more can we offer?" Seishan asked, her voice calm and melodic. Beneath her exquisite exterior lay an inexorable chill that made even the stone seem to shiver. "She is strong, Mother. Exceptionally so. We've heard the rumours: she holds a citadel in an unnamed section of the dream realm. It is a prize that Valor would burn the world to possess."
The puppet on the throne tilted its head, a hollow, rustling sound echoing through the hall — a laugh that carried the weight of profound, ancient loneliness. "A citadel is a heavy burden for a girl who stands alone. Valor will treat her as a tool. They will try to sheathe her in iron and point her at their enemies. They do not understand that a soul like hers doesn't want to be used... She doesn't have a home, after all."
The puppet leaned forward, the grey, dead eyes fixing on Seishan. "I find myself curious about her, Seishan. She is an enemy I could almost cherish. She has no one. No clan and no blood."
Seishan narrowed her eyes, sensing the shift in her Mother's intent. "You wish to provide that?"
"Indeed," the Supreme whispered through the dead lips. "How do you feel about having another sister, Shan? Clan Song is a family of daughters. Why offer her a contract of service when we can offer her a place at our table? If she is one of ours, her citadel is our fortress, and her loneliness is my responsibility. Bring her into the fold. She has the potential to become a Saint."
Seishan bowed, her movements a study in reserved, frightening grace. "An adoption into the Great Clan... Valor might expect this."
"Let them," the puppet replied, the voice fading into a lonely sigh. "Let the children of the Anvil forge their war. We shall grow our family."
***
The House of Night however... was in uproar.
The atmosphere within the House of Night's temporary enclave was a stark difference from the industrial heat of Valor or the chilling quartz silence of Song.
The representative who had approached Asteria in the hall — a man of high standing named Elios — now stood with his head bowed, his face pale as the seafoam they sailed on.
Across from him, seated in a high-backed chair carved from the blackened rib of a nightmare creatures, was a woman whose presence felt like the slow, irresistible pull of an undertow. Her eyes were like dark glass, reflecting nothing.
"Say it again," she commanded, her voice a low, rhythmic murmur that felt like a tide coming in. "I want to ensure I haven't misheard the depth of your incompetence."
Elios swallowed hard, his throat clicking. "I... I told her we cared for the truth. That we weren't interested in expansion like the others. I told her we might not be able to offer as much as the other Great Clans, but–"
"'Not a lot to offer?'"
The woman didn't raise her voice, but the temperature in the room seemed to plummet. Elios actually shivered.
"You stood before a girl who conquered a nightmare alone, a girl who walked into the dream realm straight after and made Changing Star her debtor, and you told her we have little to offer? Did you forget who we are, Elios? Or did the air of the waking world rot your brain?"
"Ishtar, I was trying to appeal to her sense of independence! I thought if we didn't seem greedy–"
"You didn't seem greedy," she cut him off, her dark eyes flashing with a cold, terrifying intellect. "You seemed weak. You treated her like a merchant, haggling over credits while Valor prepares a cage and Song prepares a silk noose. You gave her the impression that the House of Night is a collection of dusty scholars rather than the masters of the deep."
Ishtar stood up, her dark robes flowing like ink in water. She walked toward him, the sound of her footsteps muffled by the thick rugs.
"The Queen of Nightmare does not want a humble ship, Elios. She wants a reason to trust that we won't swallow her whole. And you told her we couldn't even offer her a stable footing."
She leaned in close, her voice a whisper that carried the weight of a thousand fathoms. "You haven't just fumbled an asset. You've insulted her. Go. Find a way to mend this before she decides our honesty is just another word for uselessness. If she signs a blood-pact with Song because you couldn't find your spine, I will personally ensure you experience the bottom of the storm sea — dead or alive."
Elios scrambled backwards, bowing frantically before fleeing the room. The woman watched him go, then sighed, her gaze drifting toward the window.
"A disgrace, truly." She mused, her eyes narrowing. "She's far too precious to let Valor break her."
***
Back in the suffocatingly small room, the air felt as though it had been sucked out by a vacuum.
Asteria stood by the door, her silhouette blocking the only exit. Her violet eyes were fixed on Sunless, unblinking and mercilessly sharp. She had cornered him — not with a blade, but with the terrifying, inescapable logic of his own Flaw. The room felt smaller, the shadows at the corners of the ceiling twisting in agony.
"You know what I'm asking, little shadow," she said, her voice dropping to a haunting whisper that seemed to vibrate against his very soul. "What is your True Name?"
Sunny's entire body was rigid, locked in a battle against his own biology. He looked less like a man and more like a statue of sand, ready to crumble under the slightest pressure. His hands were curled into such tight fists that blood began to bead where his nails bit into his palms, the red stark against his pale skin. A low, guttural sound escaped his throat — a choked mixture of a growl and a sob.
The physical toll of the compulsion was devastating. A searing, unnatural heat flushed his neck and face, and his eyes grew bloodshot as the demand clawed at his throat.
He hated her. In this moment, the hatred he felt for Asteria surpassed anything he had felt for the horrors of the Forgotten Shore. She was prying open the one thing he had left, reaching into his chest to grab his leash.
"Don't..." he choked out, his voice cracking with a raw desperation. "Asteria... for Spell's sake, don't do this."
"I haven't done anything to you," she said softly, though the curiosity in her gaze was a physical weight, cold and unrelenting. "I'm just asking a simple question. You're the most honest man in two worlds, aren't you? Let's see it."
Sunny's head snapped back, his jaw working frantically as if he were trying to swallow shards of glass. The silence in the room was inescapable, pulling the truth out of him, dragging it through a throat that wanted to scream itself raw. He looked at her with pure, unadulterated despair — the look of a man watching the axe begin its final descent to his neck.
He stepped forward, his face inches from hers, his breath coming in ragged, scorching hitches. He wanted to strike her, to vanish into the dark, to die — anything but the surrender of his autonomy.
Then, through gritted teeth, his voice trembling with a fury so cold it felt like ice, the truth tore its way out of him.
"Lost... from Light."
The words hung in the air, heavy, and absolute. Sunny's knees buckled, and he sagged against the wall for support, his breath coming in shallow, broken gasps. He looked utterly defeated, a creature stripped of its skin, exposed and shivering.
Asteria felt the weight of the name. It was beautiful, tragic, and terrifyingly apt. She watched the way he shivered, the way the shadows around his feet seemed to weep in sympathy with his shame.
She didn't speak the name back. She kept her lips sealed, refusing to utter the words that would finalize the link and make him her slave. She simply stood there, absorbing the gravity of what he had just surrendered to her.
Sunny didn't wait for a reaction nor a response. He pushed past her, his shoulder slamming into hers as he stumbled out of the room before vanishing into the shadows and appearing elsewhere.
'What a terrifying fate. A shadow without a master. It's poetic in a way. I wonder who will have his leash.'