1. The Meeting

Another clammy night, another dark and dusty room. After a week of looking for an assistant in places never touched by prosperity, Zilvayne’s irritation set her teeth on edge. The pink-eyed drow woman had little patience for others and for their slights, and even less taste for the usual Menzoberranzan cruelty, which was abundant in establishments like orphanages.

She had already caused a little uprising in one of them. But if one instance of chaos could be attributed to following her whim, having a trail of burning orphanages would cause suspicion. Still, watching little drow boys shrink under the heavy gaze of the establishment’s owner had her gritting her teeth. She wasn’t sure why she tried to find an assistant there; none seemed capable of being useful.

But this time her search wasn’t in vain.

“This one,” Zilvayne nodded towards one of the children, a sullen dark-skinned boy. He had been glaring at her from the corner ever since she entered, and each time she looked at him, his eyes seemed more and more familiar.

“We have many who are younger, easier to groom-”

She knocked her heel on the floor, interrupting. “Him.”

“Oh. Of course, madame,” the director bowed nervously. “Good choice, we’ve been teaching him a lot of what a servant should know. He’ll be a good assistant. I’ll prepare and send him over.”

“No. He’s better off without your preparation. I’ll take him with me.” She gestured towards the exit. “Come on.”

The boy silently looked between her and the proprietor.

“W-wait, what about payment?” the man stuttered, making his wispy white hair jump above his mostly naked purple skull. “I need the coin to feed the children, you see,” he leaned in emphatically, making Zilvayne recoil from his musty smell.

Zilvayne counted and threw several gold pieces to the floor in between children’s feet, much farther than where he was standing. As he scurried to pick them up, she gestured to the boy again, and he hesitantly joined her by the door. Without further ado, she walked out into the brisk night, counting on him to follow suit.

When the orphanage was far enough, Zilvayne finally broke the silence.

“What’s your name?”

Her words were tinged with steel, despite her trying to be a little warmer than usual.

“Rhyle.”

“Rhyl-e? A moon slave? Why?”

“To differ us from each other.”

“Noted.”

They walked briskly through deserted cobbled streets. Heavy fog pooled in the corners, dimming the violet luminescence of the mould, and rolled around their ankles as a cold, wet whip. There was only the measured clicking of Zilvayne’s heels, accompanied by the boy’s hurried feet slapping over the stone. Rhyle kept the pace and managed to avoid any obstacles, despite walking with his head skewed towards her.

“Are you going to kill me?” He finally asked after a long expectant pause.

“No.” She glanced at him openly – he immediately pretended not to stare. “Who told you that?”

“No one.”

“I’m not planning to kill you.”

She considered the matter dropped, but the boy squeaked again, “Don’t you need body parts?”

Zilvayne hummed. “And who told you that?”

“No one!”

“Do you think cuts of scrawny little boys would be useful for my work?”

“Um… I’m guessing no?”

“You guessed correctly.” She nodded to him with a slight smirk. “Now hush, we still have some way to go.”

The boy grew quiet, his face taking on a thoughtful expression. Her words seemed to calm him considerably, and Zilvayne made a mental note that the boy was naive despite years spent in the orphanage. Something must be done with it if she wanted her new assistant to last.

Her workshop was located off the city’s centre in slave quarters, hidden between old warehouses. It was a respite from her mother’s scheming and political ambition, somewhere she would never go. Not that it deterred any spies she sent, but that was to be expected.

Nobody followed them, so Zilvayne brought Rhyle straight to the workshop.

“Here we are,” she said with a small, abrupt flourish of her hand, indicating a modest-sized old warehouse with stained stained glass windows.

When they entered, the boy started coughing and brought his shirt to his nose to shield himself from vapours.

“Yes. Right. It is a little corrosive, isn’t it?” Zilvayne rummaged in one of the big crates near the entrance and handed him a respirator. “I always forget it’s not healthy.”

The boy put it on and scrambled to find her another one.

“Oh. You’re useful! Good. Thank you.” She hesitated, considering whether she should forgo the respirator as usual, but the boy was still watching her like a hawk. Hiding her face should make things a little less personal. “You probably won’t see any bodies today, but I need to mix some chemicals. You’ll be bringing me the materials I’ll ask for.”

He nodded.

“Try not to spill anything,” she was already putting on her apron and showing him to the alchemy room, “Some of it will eat through your flesh in moments. Some will leave no trace upon your dead body.”

The boy nodded again, looking around with eager curiosity. The alchemy room was where she mixed the orders for the family business – it wasn’t her favourite place in the workshop, but she did what she could to make it pleasant. The large room had a glass ceiling and shelves upon shelves of ingredients. In the centre, there were three big tables fitted with various equipment.

“Hey, boy. Rhyle!” She snapped her fingers to bring his attention back to her. “Can you read?”

“Yes!”

“Good.” She lifted a hefty book to the empty spot on the table, “There’s an index of everything I keep on the shelves. Get acquainted.”

Rhyle got comfortable with the task surprisingly quickly. Zilvayne only had to give him basic instructions before he got the hang of the index and started dancing from shelf to shelf.

In between her requests, he lingered close, watching without interrupting as she cut and mixed and bottled. At some point, Zilvayne started to explain what she was doing, encouraged by his rapt attention and slight nodding.

They worked for several hours, entirely absorbed by the rhythm. And just when Zilvayne had a feeling that she had forgotten something, Rhyle’s stomach loudly grumbled.

“Alright. That’s all for today.” She corked the bottle she held, “Let’s eat. Then I can show you something actually interesting.”

The boy beamed from behind his respirator.

She brought him to her kitchen in the back of the warehouse. The kitchen and her private rooms were sealed against the vapours – she was careless and apathetic, not suicidal – so they could get rid of the respirators and eat in peace.

It became apparent that her lonely accommodations would have to be updated; there was no way two people could comfortably use one rickety chair and a tiny table. She sat the boy on the chair and hovered, unsure of what to do next. Her usual routine included invigorating green mushroom tea before everything else, but she had no idea what to get a teenage boy.

She settled on bringing him some sausages and making the tea for herself, which she nursed quietly, sitting on an old sofa across from the table, as the boy devoured purple pieces of processed meat.

“Do you like your name?” She asked after several minutes of the boy’s vigorous chewing.

“I think it’s okay,” he mumbled in between bites. “Better than most.”

“Wouldn’t you want to drop the ‘slave’ part from it? Be called ‘Rhylin’ or ‘Rhylal’.”

He paused and cocked his head, thinking. “I don’t know. Never really thought about it.”

Zilvayne hummed. Rhyle returned to his sausages, completely engrossed in the act of chewing. After he was done eating, he sat for a moment, rubbing his eyes. And then abruptly fell asleep, overwhelmed with new information, a new home, and a warm meal.

“Looks like I will have to do without help,” Zilvayne sighed. She could’ve woken him up and made him continue working, like she was told to do with a servant. But Rhyle’s form curled up on the chair gave her a pause – she realised she didn’t want to disturb him. Plus, she was accustomed to working alone. What’s one more day?

She took him in her arms – the boy was frighteningly light and seemed fragile – and laid him down on the sofa. It was the place he’d probably have to sleep anyway.

Rhyle was too small and thin for a young teenager; he looked almost emaciated. But in his sleep, when fear and worry slipped from his face, the similarities between his face and her mother’s – thin lips, the slant of eyes, a single stubborn curl Zilvayne herself was lacking – were more apparent than before. She took a long moment staring, deep in thought, before covering the boy with a blanket and leaving for the morgue.

2. Bodies

Zilvayne loved working with corpses. To her, it felt strangely soothing.

Ever since she was a child, she wondered what made people tick. Some kind of soul, or essence, a source of wants, hopes, and fears. Mother, sisters. Why did people around her seem to lack something that came instinctively to her? Or was she lacking something?

The answer she found after learning all she could about anatomy and tissue preservation was: there was nothing. It was just what it was, dead tissue. There was magic to some of it, but nothing special.

As for the living, well, it was just living tissue. That, in time, became dead. For some sooner than for others. For some, maybe, too soon. Or not soon enough.

Everything a person could be was in everybody, and everyone was free to exercise their will as they saw fit. Nothing was guaranteed, and there was nothing to add or remove to change that. Nothing she could do. The realisation broke her at first, made her fearful, but many years passed since then, and now, as a young adult, she has learned to manage.

Her morgue was her domain of silence and curiosity. A body was waiting for her – a young human male, a slave to one of her sisters. Poisoned.

She gently closed his eyes and took a moment. He was far from his god, or goddess, or whatever power he might’ve served in life, so the gesture was mostly empty. But for Zilvayne, it was much more important that he, and she for that matter, were relatively safe from Lolth’s gaze. It wasn’t a coincidence that the noxious vapours permeating her lab were also good at deterring spiders.

In broad terms, she had two jobs: making alchemical concoctions for the family business and serving as an autopsist to whoever asked. She also managed and treated bodies and body parts for various interested parties, which allowed her to practice methods of dead animation. She couldn’t always know where the corpses came from, but she kept her eyes and ears open.

The great drow city Menzoberranzan didn’t really need autopsists to discover a cause of death – usually, somebody already knew how and why. This body was like that. A human, male, in her sister’s command: you needn’t guess how, and the why most likely didn’t mean much. But there was something else she needed from that body.

After the moment of silence passed, she nodded to herself and picked up a scalpel.

The next few months passed deep in work. After Rhyle learned his way around the laboratory, he helped her increase the output almost twofold. And he turned out to be a decent companion. Quick to react, eager to learn, helpful.

Together, they finally fulfilled all the orders Zilvayne had accumulated before surrendering to finding an assistant, and she could breathe easier.

Finally, there was time to show him the morgue.

“Welcome to the real laboratory!” She swung open the ornate door. “That’s where I’d rather spend my time.”

“It’s… Nice, mistress?”

He entered and looked around uncertainly.

“Liar.” She smirked into her respirator. “And once again, call me by name.”

She led him through the door and down several steps to stand in the middle of the circular room. It was colder than the rest of the warehouse, mostly due to preservative spells.

The room was functional: one half provided a wide surface for tools, while the other offered four tables to work on several bodies simultaneously. The wall on one side held special niches for corpses she’d need later; on the other, shelves and coffers for theoretical material, electric coils, brass platings, and other useful things. There was no seating, and the only decorative elements were the door and four carved wooden pillars that supported the reinforced wooden ceiling. Which was more than the other parts of her workshop had.

“Mistress… What exactly do you need with the bodies?”

“It’s Zilvayne,” she gently corrected. “I need some samples. You know how the body transforms the chemicals that happen to get inside?”

Rhyle shook his head, bewildered.

“Well, in many ways, a living body is a big factory. It takes something and remakes it into something else. For example,” she said, strolling to one of the bookshelves, “the food you eat transforms into a sort of energy that makes your body function. And some diseases or chemicals force the body to produce other chemicals to fight it.”

She took a small-ish book from the shelf and gave it to Rhyle. The cover said “Basic Anatomy and Body Functions”.

“This book is as boring as… well, many other books. But it’ll give you the basic understanding of how this all works.” She moved to the other side of the room, where the bodies waited for her under the sheets.

“So… You need these dead people to take something they produced?”

The respirator stifled her laughter.

“Precisely, my dear!” She stumbled over the endearment, but it was such a delight when he made the correct conclusions. “Do you think you can guess more?”

“I think I’ll need more information for that…” The boy joined her at the tables. “Who are they?”

“They’re my sister’s servants.”

“All of them?”

Zilvayne winced under the mask.

“She has a big turnover. As many of us do.”

“You don’t.”

“Yes, you’re still alive almost half a year later!”

She turned to him just fast enough to notice a shadow of suspicion passing over his face behind the respirator. Right. He himself is a servant. Even if he’s so much more, he was raised like one.

“It’s good, Rhyle, it’s good. You’re good.” She scrambled to allay his suspicions.

He schooled his face to show only polite interest under the respirator and nodded. The gesture was too familiar to Zilvayne. She swallowed an urge to explain herself.

“So, yes. A big turnover.” Her usual bitter jokes suddenly lost their lustre. “I need to know what they were poisoned with. And how their bodies reacted.”

“Hmm.”

“You look worried. Is there anything you want to ask?”

He hesitated for a bit. His gaze followed along the room walls, watched the still silhouettes under the sheets, and returned to her face. Zilvayne suddenly felt very tired.

“Don’t fret. Just speak your mind. You know I only use my words.”

“I just… Sorry, mistress.”

“Zilvayne.”

“I- What I meant to say, you do a lot for your family. The potions, the bodies…” he glanced at the tables again. “Extracting the… things that only bodies can produce.”

Her stomach sank into the deepest pit of the Underdark.

“Oh. Not like that, no.”

She reached for his hand, but noticed how tense he got and changed her mind. Instead, she slipped off her respirator.

Rhyle stood still with his gaze lowered to the ground and arms pinned stiffly to his sides with palms on display. A perfect display of submission, save the kneeling. It was almost imperceptible, but she knew his breathing was too rapid to be comfortable.

She willed her own heart to slow its rhythm.

“Alright. Look. Don’t take the worst conclusions as true, and give me a chance to explain.”

The teen looked sideways and nodded.

“They weren’t killed for whatever their bodies produced. They died because my sister is cruel and reactive.”

She started pacing back and forth, gesticulating wildly, trying to rein her thoughts in.

“I have,” she continued, “the opportunity to examine the bodies. She thinks she mocks me by sending them here, but in reality, it gives me a chance to discover if her evil can be… averted? Reverted…?”

She turned to stare at the opposite wall and finished with a resolute and tired “Something.”

There was a sound of unsure shuffling behind her.

“I’m sorry, mistress.”

“Stop calling me that!”

She stomped her heel on the stone floor in exasperation and, for the first time in her life, stormed out of her own laboratory.

3. Dancing on the Edge

The bar wasn’t empty, but the music hid the conversation well enough, and Zilvayne felt as relaxed as one could while conspiring against a Matriarch in Menzoberranzan.

“Thanks for the samples, Zil,” drawled the older drow who shared a table with her. “This is going to help a lot of people.”

“Shh! You know how our compatriots are about ‘helping’, Istin. I know you trust the owner of this bar, but you never know who’s listening.”

“I have never let you down, Zilvayne!”

“Yet.”

The conversation faded into silence. Istin, whose broad face was already showing signs of age, picked at the table with his nails, deep in thought. He was probably fighting himself over starting the conversation about trust again, Zilvayne guessed. Musicians changed; instead of a flute-and-harp duo, a string quartet went on the small stage.

Istin coughed and took another swig of ale as they started playing.

“Anyway,” he proclaimed pointedly, not looking at his companion, “this is all well and good, and we have most of what we need. But you should consider what can be achieved…”

“No, Istin. I’m not hijacking my sister’s lab. I’m not risking what I still have.”

Zilvayne was trying to enjoy herself and Istin’s company. It wasn’t easy with him trying to tangle her further in the affairs of the Sword Dancers, the so-called ‘good drow’, an organization trying to work against Menzoberranzan laws and goddess Lolth’s terror.

“Just hear me out,” he implored.

“I only agreed to share some information, dear. I brought you samples against my better judgment. Don’t make me regret it by asking to put my neck on the chopping block.”

“But don’t you understand? We work for the good of all our people!”

Zilvayne rolled her eyes. Her friend brought it up every time they met, and every time she turned him down. Her position was precarious even without close associations with the underground resistance.

“Zip it. Let’s have some fun instead,” she begged. “Tell me, what have you been up to these past six months?”

“You know what I’ve been up to.”

“Surely, not only work?” She smirked. “Any new gossip?”

Now Istin rolled his eyes, but sat back, relaxing.

“Well, mostly work. On both sides of my loyalty.” He hesitated. “I saw your mother last week, by the way.”

“What?! Why?” Zilvayne’s playful mood instantly evaporated.

The man laughed.

“She bought a puff piece from our paper. Which you really don’t want to read. But you should know that it seems like she’s making a move soon.”

“Damn her.”

“Yeah. Think about the bigger picture, dear friend. We can’t dance around it forever.” He stood up. “I’ll go. I still need to get your samples topside. See you in a couple of months, Zilvayne.” The older man bowed coquettishly and left through the back door.

Zilvayne downed her tea in one gulp, paid for their drinks, and left through the front.

After the languid, warm atmosphere of the bar, the cold air only added to her anger. Damn those dancing fools, thought Zilvayne, stomping back through the harbour quarter. They managed to escape Lolth’s influence, and now they think they know better. For the whole species!

Even Istin, who knew the drow society better than most, was losing his grasp on reality. One wrong move, one wrong word, and it’s over. He’ll lose his head. She kicked a pebble down the street a little too hard. Black underground waters welcomed it under the waves.

She stood for a bit, watching the rings on the water smooth out until there was no sign of the disturbance. She felt bitter worry. Istin was her friend, the only one who stayed. He wasn’t her responsibility, but if that stupid old man got caught, she’d lose him. And even if his fall didn’t take her down as well, she did not want to have to afford it.

When she got home, it was almost morning. She mostly kept night hours; that way, it was easier to avoid other people.

The boy met her at the door.

“Hey, Zilvayne!”

They never talked about that fight in the morgue. But in time, their relationship grew warmer. He finally learned to call her by name instead of the tired ‘mistress’, and even asked to see the morgue again after some time. Now, a year later, he didn’t stutter when pronouncing her name, and his cheeks finally filled out. His infrequent smile, too, became more emotional – less mechanical and almost happy.

Zilvayne herself smiled at the eager expression on the teen’s face.

“Hey, Rhyle. How was your night off?”

“Ehh, nothing interesting. I spent some time in the quarter, but I mostly just read books from your library. Anyway, look!”

He thrust an ornate card into her hand. Zilvayne’s smile curdled like spider milk. Stiff grey paper, black ink, and inside – she popped it open for a second – a single black petal to leave a hint of a flower scent. It could’ve been only one person. Malae.

“Didn’t I ask you not to touch anything weird?”

“Is it weird?.. I thought it was just an invitation.”

“Nothing is ‘just’ about my family.”

Zilvayne smelled the card: paper, rose, and a hint of hand cream. No trace of familiar poisons, but then again, Malae was always working on making new ones, less obvious, untraceable. She gestured for Rhyle to show her his hands, tongue, and eyes. He understood immediately, already familiar with her enough to know what she meant. He was clean. Nothing stood out: no spotting, no blood, no changes in colour. She hummed.

“Is everything alright, Zilvayne?”

“It depends. It’s unlikely she’d poison a letter, but just so you know, if anything else comes here – mail, parcels, animals, people – do not touch anything I didn’t warn you about. When did you find it?”

“I don’t know.” He thought for a bit while she waited. “I think around 10 pm. So-”

“Seven hours ago. Yes, if anything were there, you’d already be showing signs.”

She went to the kitchenette to make them both a cup of mushroom tea.

“Signs of what?”

She finished preparing the tea before answering. “Tremors, foaming at the mouth, blindness, death.”

“Oh.” The boy kept his face as she taught him, but grew slightly pale. “Got it. No touching.”

“Mhm. Thank you. Anyway, this one seems safe.” she hurried to change the subject and waved for the boy to sit. “Let’s see what my sister wrote.”

She sat beside him behind the new kitchen table and opened the card.

“Let’s add it to your practice. Read.”

“It says it’s an invitation,” read Rhyle hesitantly, “for today’s evening?”

“A family gathering,” she continued after him. “Damn it.”

She flicked the petal off the rest of the text.

“It says, ‘cor-di-al-ly asking you to bring your new subject’,” the boy read, slightly stuttering on an unfamiliar word, “A subject?”

“She means you.”

“Am I invited?!”

“No.” Zilvayne reread the text and flung the paper into the bin. “It means they know I have you, that’s all.”

The boy peered into her stony face and stuttered, “Is it bad?”

“Very.” She mechanically patted him on the head. “But it was unavoidable. We just need to keep you safe, that’s all.”

This didn’t reassure him, she saw. Good. He was learning.

“Wait. Is that your er- sister… with the servants? Who is she?”

A bootlicker, a viper, a petty wretch, a triumphant hater and Mother’s right hand… Zilvayne’s teeth made a grinding sound, and she paused.

Instead, she said, “An alchemess with a real talent for poison-brewing. She creates new poisons and loves to test them on the unsuspecting.”

There was a reason why it was so easy to get samples for Istin’s Sword Dancers group.

“What about the poisons you make?”

“I never liked alchemy that much. I lack, as our mother said, the malice I can bottle. I only make simple poisons for the family business.”

“And antidotes?”

She turned to him sharply, surprised. The boy fidgeted uncomfortably, but held her gaze.

“I mean, I think they’re antidotes. I read about valerian root in one of the books today…”

“Hush, child. Smart head is good, but there’s danger in it, too.” She pushed his cup towards him and took her own in hand. “Don’t be sad, Rhyle. You’re correct. But it would serve you well to be more discreet.”

“Got it.”

He was learning quickly. She’d have to tell him everything soon; it’d be for his benefit. And she found herself wanting to. The boy earned some trust.

But it’d have to wait. She needed to be ready for the meeting.

4. Sisters Gathered

She meditated, trying to compose herself and centre her thoughts.

The family rarely gathered together. Correspondence was usually enough to coordinate their work. Years would pass until they’d see each other, which was perfectly fine for Zilvayne. This time, the meeting was called by Malae, which was unusual. This and her comment about a new ‘subject’ kept Zilvayne on her toes. How much did she know? Would she deem that information important enough for blackmail? Or just find it funny to hurt him?

The meditation didn’t help much.

Her workshop was far from her family home in the Old Quarter, the district of the smaller noble houses and notable drow families. It took her a couple of hours to reach it.

The Myghym family mansion was located off the central avenue, to its matriarch’s loud discontent. Zilvayne always thought that if she could, her mother would’ve had it razed and rebuilt right in the middle of the plateau reserved for the most noble houses. Maybe that was her actual goal with all the power hoarding.

When Zilvayne was younger, she always felt uncertain and small when faced with the foreboding dark building. But now she knew that the actual house had nothing to do with what was going on inside. So she gritted her teeth and knocked on the door, bracing herself. Irritation was better than trepidation when facing her family.

Strangely, when the door swung open, she was met by Malae herself. The younger drow, dressed in red silk and chiffon, was tipsy, her dark sunken cheeks aglow with a purple flush. And when the latter wasn’t too surprising, her answering the door herself was.

“Oh, isn’t that our little eccentric! Welcome, sister,” she crooned and swayed a little.

Zilvayne stiffened, but her sister did not, thankfully, go for a hug. The younger drow moved aside with a mocking bow, inviting her in.

“I see you’ve already started,” Zilvayne remarked, leaving her coat on the stand by the door. “What exactly? I thought it was a family meeting.”

“I’m celebrating! Do you know what? Do you want to know?”

“I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

“Oh, I will, sister!” Malae ushered her down the corridor.

They walked through darkened corridors in silence. Zilvayne could see no one besides them.

“Where is everyone?”

“If you’re worried about safety, there are plenty of guards outside. Mother dissolved the House staff. Again. Tomorrow we’ll get a new one, but we’re alone for this evening.”

Getting rid of the entire staff was in character, but Mother never left her currently favoured daughter unattended.

“Is Mother coming?”

“No.” That explained Malae’s more relaxed-than-usual demeanour. “Our esteemed matriarch had other plans.”

Zilvayne could’ve thought Malae was being facetious if she didn’t know better.

“Does she know you called us without her or her servants here?”

“She trusts me implicitly! What are you getting at?”

Mother? Trust? She could almost laugh.

“Nothing, I’m just worried for our esteemed matriarch’s health.”

Malae glanced at her reproachfully, but didn’t say anything before opening another door.

Zilvayne knew the room Malae brought her to. It had a giant panoramic window overlooking the garden and harbour a little way away. Velvet chairs and a sofa stood opposite it, and there was a small stove in the middle to warm the room on colder nights. Smokeless coals gleamed lightly, and in that glow, long shadows danced across the bleak wallpaper.

Their older sisters were already here: tacit Ilphue sat on the sofa, nursing her drink, while Vicintra and T’risstirr were locked in some heated debate that died out as soon as Malae and Zilvayne entered.

She felt underdressed compared to Malae, but others wore their usual as well: Ilphue was in her crisp white blouse and skin-tight skirt, Vicintra chose one of her darker suits that made her look strict and unbending, and T’risstirr came in a simple light armour. She did clean it, though.

“Good evening, sisters,” Zilvayne said curtly.

“Zilvayne.” Vicintra nodded and took a chair. It was impossible to discern her actual emotions; her face seemed immobile, like one of the stone gargoyles.

Ilphue saluted her with her glass, and T’risstirr just nodded, slightly scoffing.

She and the sisters couldn’t be more different from one another. The oldest one, Vicintra, managed the family business: deliveries, orders, operations. She knew everything except for the details she didn’t need. T’risstirr, the second oldest one, was Mother’s left hand – the most dangerous physically, a good thief, a little artless, but fiercely loyal. Ilphue was a little older than Zilvayne and managed finance. She rarely talked, but at a guess, she knew much more than she let on. Zilvayne was, well, a pariah of this little group, and Malae was still basking in the fading spotlight of her mother’s attention.

Zilvayne quickly crossed the room to sit in the farthest armchair.

“Why have you called us, Malae?” Vicintra asked, exercising her favourite calm and unnervingly patronising tone.

“I have news. I-”

“Is mother alright?” T’risstirr interjected.

“Yes, she’s fine. She just decided not to join us today,” Malae answered in an irritated tone and stamped her heel on the ground. “She said she’ll gather us once again when she has new orders.”

“Pah!”

“Anyway, if you’re finished?” Malae pointedly said to T’risstirr, who sneered but stayed silent. “I have some news, sisters!”

“We gathered that, do go on,” mildly commented Vicintra.

“I finally got it, dear sisters!” She made an excited gesture. “I made our species’ and our Spider Queen’s dreams come true. I figured out how to cleanse the surface of pests!”

“Didn’t know she was so invested in rodents,” grumbled Ilphue under her breath. Zilvayne nodded without looking at her, knowing only she could hear the comment.

“This time it’ll work. One hundred per cent,” Malae continued, producing a vial with violet liquid inside and holding it up so that it gleamed in the stove’s light. “Look. This is a game-changer. For the glory of Lolth, our mother, and me.”

Everyone tensed. In the sudden silence, Malae’s bubbly laughter broke through. Looking at their reaction, she tossed the vial up into the air. It made several rotations before she caught it again, her long, well-tended nails clinking over the glass.

“Should you be waltzing around with a deadly weapon?” T’risstirr pointed out, taking a step forward.

“Ah, dear T’risstirr, have no fear. It’s absolutely harmless to our kind.” Malae giggled, delighted by their reaction.

Zilvayne just had to confirm. “So it’s some poison that affects only every other race except drow? And what about distribution?”

“Oh, my dear Zilvayne, do I have news for you.” The youngest sister picked up a glass of wine from the tray in the corner and downed it in one go. Zilvayne fought the urge not to roll her eyes. “Since mother kicked you out for incompetence and put me in charge of the alchemy division, we made a lot,” she gestured with the vial for emphasis, “a lot of progress. Distribution, effects, species-specific reactions, even virulence.”

Zilvayne hummed, undisturbed by the mockery. “Show me the data, and I might believe you.”

The younger sister answered with a smile: “No.”

Malae flopped on the empty chair that stood against the window. Her body, framed in an orange glow from the stove, was sticking out like a sore thumb over the darkening view beyond the glass.

“So, dearest sisters!” The young drow pointedly looked over everyone except for Zilvayne. After a small theatrical pause, she continued, “Let’s drink to a new era in our history, to the Spider Queen, and to my genius!”

The reaction was not immediate – the three sisters looked at each other, as if waiting for the other to be the first. Ilphue shrugged and saluted Malae with her glass; the older sisters followed.

Zilvayne didn’t. She wasn’t given a glass, which probably was for the best.

“What exactly is this new era about?” She couldn’t help but ask.

The alchemess spread her arms in an encompassing gesture. “Prosperity. Glory. Our race will leave the Underdark and populate the surface. When the others die due to my invention, we’ll be free.”

Zilvayne watched Malae’s face, searching for any signs of their mother’s madness. There was a manic gleam in her eyes, but nothing as devouring.

“The old dream…” Vicintra started wistfully.

“Yes, the old dream!” Malae interrupted, “That I will turn into reality. For all of us!”

Vicintra nodded in approval. T’risstirr saluted. Ilphue hummed and hid her face in her glass.

Zilvayne took a moment to think. Even if Malae was serious about this, she might still be wrong. In her eagerness to impress Mother, she always missed something trivial. She always bounced back after a failure, angrier than before, which Mother loved, but it was bound to backfire someday.

She caught Malae at the table, pouring herself another drink.

“Can you at least tell me how long it’s going to take?”

“What’s the rush? I thought you liked the others. Isn’t that the real reason our mother sent you away?” She was slurring her words a little, but the urge to wound was still there. “I wouldn’t be surprised if your assistant happens to be a non-drow…”

“Don’t act as if it wasn’t you who told her,” Zilvayne burst out. She reined back her expression as Malae’s face broke into a grin. The sister didn’t make another comment, only waved her away.

Zilvayne stormed back to her chair, painfully embarrassed. Ilphue and Vicintra were quietly talking about something, but stopped when she came near and turned their attention to her.

“Malae said you have a new assistant. Are you fucking them?” Vicintra asked without preamble.

Zilvayne managed to lock her sneer behind a polite smile.

“No.”

“No, I don’t have a new assistant, or no, I’m not fucking them?”

“No!”

“And here I thought you finally had something going on.”

Zilvayne sneered, aware of how her fists clenched in rage. Vicintra shrugged and evidently lost interest. She left to join T’risstirr at the window. After a moment, they continued their earlier bickering as if they hadn’t stopped. Zilvayne sat with Ilphue in silence.

They watched Malae down another glass of wine, then stumble on the spot and reach for the bottle again. Finally, Zilvayne sighed and asked, “was I as bad as her?”

“Similar,” Ilphue hummed. “But you never actually believed, did you? She’s taking it harder. And drinks harder still.”

“I guess so.”

“I wonder what mother will do to her for this stunt.”

“You mean for inviting us to the empty house?”

“Yes.” Ilphue turned to face her. She was the only one with eyes not of the shade of pink, but translucent grey, almost white. “And inviting you to something other than a business meeting.”

That explained the rarity of family dinners. Despite her alienation, Zilvayne still felt hurt by the discovery.

“But I am glad to see you here, sister.”

It was impossible to know if Ilphue actually meant it.

“I’m glad to see you, too,” Zilvayne lied anyway.

5. Witness

Aside from rare glances from T’risstirr, no one paid her much attention, and so she could think in peace. She was tired; even without Mother, the tendrils of her controlling presence kept each sister on a leash. And Zilvayne’s was always too tight.

Thankfully, her sisters didn’t seem to know anything about Rhyle. Malae treated what she knew as gossip, nothing more. They also didn’t want to kill her for disloyalty. Yet.

With all the conspiracies, she walked on the razor’s edge: failing the Sword Dancers on one side, and being found out by her family on the other. The thinnest hint of a middle road only suggested that she could both keep her head and prevent surface-wide genocide.

Of course, she could always play dumb, fall back into plausible deniability for both sides, and hope for Malae’s toxin to fail. If she could just forget what she discovered, keep her head down, smile at her sisters’ witticisms, and return to the workshop as if nothing happened…

Instead, she carefully observed the room. Malae was getting skilfully drunk, T’risstirr wasn’t too far behind, and Vicintra was talking at Ilphue about house upkeep. It didn’t take long for Malae to start talking some grandiose nonsense, and Zilvayne, when she was sure everyone was distracted, made for the exit.

The door closed stiffly, muting her sisters’ voices. Now that she was alone, familiar corridors felt bigger; taller and stretched into enormity, almost like when she was small. Carved stone pillars shot upwards and got lost in darkness together with the ceiling, which was, if she remembered correctly, a grey slate decorated with depictions of vines and berries. Her ears hummed with silence. First of all, she could try to find Malae’s notes – something to discover more about that toxin of hers. That meant either her bedroom or her study.

She walked a too-familiar path. Rough stone walls and mosaic-tiled floors gave way to dark wooden panelling and hardwood, covered with a thick blue carpet that hid the sound of her steps. She knew that if she took her shoes off, it would feel coarse, like the hide of deep rothe that it was made of.

There was a grand lobby in front of the building to welcome and intimidate guests, and a much smaller entrance was located at the rear of the mansion, where horrors of a more domestic kind were hidden. The corridor led to the secluded staircase. Zilvayne walked to the baluster and looked beyond the wooden railing: the stairs led down three levels. One level lower, there was a heavy door outside and pathways leading to the front part of the house. Lower still – the bedrooms, in the Matriarch’s reach.

A memory of watching the stairs from the same spot and muffled, broken cries of a baby intruded on her thoughts, but she suppressed them. There was no time for reminiscing.

She descended to the floor with private rooms. This one had walls and carpets the colour of burgundy. Carvings on the wooden panels depicted a web with tiny spiders: Mother liked to keep little reminders of her obsession close. Zilvayne’s old bedroom, the one Malae tried to bully her out of when she was still living in the mansion, was just around the corner; if she knew her sister, she’d still be using it.

The door was unlocked. At first glance, the room looked abandoned, but the bed was made, the table had traces of – Zilvayne touched the residue – talcum powder and crumbs, and the windowsill held a bottle of wine, placed there to keep it chill. If she actually used this bedroom, Malae got rid of every thing Zilvayne had collected to make the space feel more liveable, but never got around to filling it with her own.

Zilvayne went around the room, looking at every piece of paper and hastily written note, but discovered nothing new. She even checked the false panel on the wall, but the hiding place appeared dusty and unused for years. She took note of every detail that might prove useful, took a swig of wine from the sill (it was sweet), and sat on the bed. Her sister’s personal room was downright depressing. It might have been just a smokescreen for Mother, but even if it was…

There was a hurrying, sharp fall of metal heels from outside. In a span of a single breath, Zilvayne found herself under the bed, as her brain tried to remember how to breathe. The sound of those heels was akin to a bell tolling, informing everyone of a disaster.

Click-click. Be aware. Click-click. Mother arrived.

Zilvayne found herself in the company of several things: a small army of dusty bottles, some lost clothes and a small, unassuming box. She pocketed it.

Click-click. Mother went by the room’s door without stopping and further to the left, deeper into the building. A sudden, mad thought came into her mind. Zilvayne crawled out from under the bed and came up to the door, listening. Where was she going? With any luck, to an alchemy division, or to her office, or, as she liked to call it, her ‘war room’.

She knew how Mother would react to being followed: last time she defied her, she was lucky to be sent away instead of being made into spider food. But Zilvayne felt courage she shouldn’t have had, and the scorn of her progenitor seemed less relevant than finding out more about her plan.

When it seemed that Mother was far enough away, she shucked off her boots and quietly slinked out of the room. She didn’t dare cast anything to conceal her presence – a flare of magic would be noticeable to drow of her mother’s power – and just quietly followed the sharp clicking of heels.

Matriarch Micara Myghym moved through her domain forcefully. She was still wearing her cape, which billowed behind her like leather wings, and made her look three times her size.

Zilvayne followed her mother into another hall that led, she knew, to the Matriarch’s private rooms. But instead of following it to her chambers, Micara kicked one of the statues in the corner. A section of a nearby wall slowly moved aside, opening an entrance to a winding stair down. She went inside and started her descent. Emboldened and high on adrenaline, Zilvayne slipped through the door as it was about to close. Stone steps were shockingly cold under her feet as she descended deeper underground.

The stairway ended in a narrow passage. Small red crystals subtly shone without lighting up the thick darkness.

The passage led into a room carved in stone. There were several ornate pillars, two benches and an innumerable number of spiders and screaming faces carved into the walls. In reddish gloom, Zilvayne could see her mother in front of an altar on the other side of the room. Micara stood there, swaying in barely contained rage, hands balled into fists.

Suddenly, she screamed and, with a litany of unintelligible curses, in one big, sweeping motion, threw everything off the stone slab in front of her. Then she sobbed and slipped down to her knees.

It wasn’t just an altar – behind her kneeling mother, Zilvayne could see that the whole back part of the chamber was held in an embrace by a giant spider. No carver could shave the stone to this level of detail, not by magic or tool. It emerged from the wall, with its petrified legs held high. Its abdomen was curled forward as if in attack, but only to carry a slab of stone that was used as an altar.

“I spin my web of chaos, Dark Mother, I spin it in your name,” she heard her Mother speak, “I willingly give my soul and body to you, so why do you ignore me?”

Her voice had drifted lower, almost imperceptible, as her rage turned inwards – she gripped her shoulders with her long-nailed fingers, tearing through her black lace and flesh alike. Zilvayne froze in horror – she never saw her mother so vulnerable. It only made her seem more dangerous.

“After all these centuries, am I not enough? Is it Malae? Ilphue?..” From her space at the entrance, Zilvayne could see Micara clasp her hands in front of her tightly. Her tone suddenly descended into quiet reverence, “I’m sorry, my Queen. I shouldn’t judge your decisions… Are you testing me?”

Micara’s back was taut with tension. Zilvayne felt a brush of tiny legs – a spider crawled along the vein on the back of her hand. She shuddered. Mother was forgotten for a moment, her threats and pleas a background noise.

The spider moved its chelicerae left and right, then it sank into the flesh of Zilvayne’s finger. Zilvayne jerked, but didn’t dare shake it off or make a sound. The spider moved its head, tearing into her fingers, biting down again and again. Blood dripped.

It seemed an eternity had passed, with Zilvayne’s finger and brain in silent screaming. The pain burned away all thoughts; only she and the spider remained. Eternity passed, but then, evidently satisfied, it took out its jowls from the wound and turned its tiny head to her. The stare of many eyes drove Zilvayne, still voiceless, to bring it closer to the wall, where it jumped off.

Micara kept grovelling in front of the altar. She begged, as always, for Lolth to see her, take her, make her her chosen. But the goddess never answered her. And if Lolth were to choose one of Micara’s daughters instead of her…

Zilvayne watched her mangled fingers ooze and wrapped them up in her handkerchief, then sharply turned back towards the stairs. Her vision swam, and she just had to get as far away from Micara as she could. She only prayed that her laboured breathing couldn’t be heard behind her Mother’s rambling.

6. Respite

Zilvayne came to on a familiar sofa. Her head hurt. She couldn’t remember how she got home.

Her mouth tasted familiar – bittersweet and rich. A tonic or a rejuvenating potion of some kind. Something soothing and healing.

“Rhyle?” she called.

The boy came into her vision from the other side of the room.

“Zilvayne?”

“What happened?”

“I-I don’t know! You came home last morning, all beaten up. I found you lying on the floor and then you slept through the day and night, and-”

“You’re a good boy, Rhyle. Too good.”

If he were to strike her while she was down, she’d only have congratulated him.

“Th-thank you? How are you feeling?”

“Like shit.”

“Do you want some food? Drink?”

She sat up slowly. Her head rang with tension. Her memories were… unclear.

“Make me some mushroom tea, please.”

While Rhyle fussed around the kitchen, she tried to remember. A sticky feeling of dread swam into focus, but she shut it down. The card. Malae. Mother. Lolth.

“Damn it.”

Zilvayne looked over herself, checked each fold of her clothes, trying to find a sign of any eight-legged stowaways. The bandaged fingers of her right hand throbbed, reminding her of the attack. She found nothing, except for… She produced a small dusty box from one of her pockets. No spiders were present. But the private rooms will have to be purged just in case.

The box was wooden and ornate, with tiny depictions of vipers and lilies. A lock suggested that there was something valuable or dangerous inside. Or both.

She tried to stand up but discovered that she was barefoot. Her feet were very tightly bandaged.

“Did I— Where are my shoes?”

“They were on your belt, strangely. I can bring them if you like?”

She nodded, deep in thought. Memories of her way back home didn’t come readily – she remembered leaving her mother’s sanctuary, wandering the halls, falling, running over stone and rubble. But she could only remember glimpses of it, images she could not join together. The longer she thought about it, the more the dread bled through her mental barrier.

She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to sweep the feeling under her mental rug when Rhyle brought her tea and sandwiches, giving her respite. She found that she was ravenously hungry and decided to postpone other concerns in favour of food.

Locks shouldn’t be so damn hard to open!

Zilvayne let out a growl of frustration. She was perched on a stool in the alchemy room, trying to open the lock using her instruments. It’s been three hours. The workshop was still filled with the most corrosive substance she could find that wouldn’t damage her lab, so she had to spend this time in a respirator. On Rhyle’s insistence.

But the lock did not give. Either she lacked understanding of how it worked, or her tools didn’t fit, or this lock was more complex than it seemed. The boy didn’t have much luck either.

“Alright. Damn it. We’re going to see someone.”

She chucked the respirator to the floor and rubbed her eyes. Rhyle, who was going over the inventory on the other side of the room, went to pick it up and turned to her.

“Wait, Zilvayne, what about the potions? We’re falling behind the schedule, I think.”

“Oh, they can wait.”

“But…”

“Come on, stupid poisons or solving a mystery? The box might contain something crucial for making an antidote.”

The boy slowly looked over the room and focused on a pile of orders she was using as a prop for the lock-picking.

“If you say so.”

“I am saying so.” She was already moving towards the entrance. “And you’re coming with me!”

“Really?” Rhyle caught up with her when she was putting on her coat.

“Yes. I want you to meet someone.”

They arrived at the bar unannounced. It was still early, and the little scene was empty. The owner, a thin drow with an inscrutable face, gave her a side glance and nodded – they’ll let Istin know that she arrived.

Zilvayne took the boy to the usual table in the corner. Rhyle sat with a ramrod straight back and looked around nervously, clearly unsettled.

“Rhyle,” Zilvayne said and covered his fidgeting hand with hers, “there’s no need to worry. At least not while you’re with me.”

“I’m not worrying! It’s just I’ve never been to places like these.”

“It’s a bar. People come here to drink, to listen to music, to talk.” She leaned over a bit and added in a lower voice, “this one is special, though.”

“Because of the– thing you asked me not to talk about?”

She nodded.

“Do you trust them?”

“Let’s just say, they need me alive and happy far more than angry or dead.” She gestured to the barman. “Don’t trust anyone, Rhyle. Keep your head on your shoulders and always know where you stand with people.”

The boy nodded thoughtfully.

“And what do you think is in the box? Something to help them?”

“It might be. I really don’t know, it could be anything.” Zilvayne squeezed the box through her hip pocket. “But I have a feeling we shouldn’t put it off. A hunch, as some say.”

They had to wait for about an hour. During this time, musicians arrived, carrying their instruments. It was lyres that day.

“Hello-hello,” a familiar voice boomed above their table when the first melodic notes cut through the air.

Istin sat on the third chair with a grunt. His usual mischievous smile was replaced by a mask of detached politeness. He frowned at Zilvayne and turned to Rhyle.

“Nice to meet you, young man! You two were lucky I was still in the neighbourhood.”

“Hello!” Rhyle awkwardly nodded.

“Rhyle, this is Istin. A pen-pusher, a gossiper, a bit of a bastard, but an overall charming guy. Not to mention his involvement with everything.”

Istin looked between Zilvayne and the boy with a silent question in his eyes.

“Rhyle is my assistant,” she said, and took a sip of her tea.

“Assistant, eh?”

“You know I wouldn’t bring here anyone I can’t trust.”

“Yet!” He chortled. “Although I don’t remember you bringing anyone here before. Let alone a child. That’s peculiar.”

“I told him about the group, and I thought I’d introduce him to my contact.”

“Surely I’m more than a mere contact!” Istin laughed.

“I also have a favour to ask.”

“Oh?”

“Here.” She produced the wooden box and put it on the table in front of Istin. “Ask your guys to take a look at it. I couldn’t get it open.”

“What is it?”

“I’m almost certain that inside is something extremely dangerous.”

“Hmm.” Istin turned it left and right with his thick fingers. The box looked minuscule in comparison. “Knowing your family, it can be anything. Well, no traps I can see. Give me a moment.”

With a flourish, he took a pin from somewhere behind his ear and applied it to different parts of the box.

Rhyle and Zilvayne shared a glance. “What are you doing?” she asked.

“Patience, my dear,” the older man replied.

He then took another pin and stuck it in the lock. With the first one, he found a concealed button under the scales of one of the snake carvings. With a click, the lid of the box opened a notch.

“Voilà!” He beamed. “You wouldn’t guess how valuable this skill is in both of my professions.”

He slowly opened the box in front of their astonished faces. Inside, there was a small glass vial filled with dark smoke.

“Huh.” Zilvayne snatched the vial from the box and shook it. The smoke curled and dissipated, leaving a tiny shard on the bottom. The shard looked like an unevenly chipped piece of dark glass or obsidian. Shadows danced behind its surface.

“Do you know what this is?” asked Istin, watching her movements. Rhyle craned his neck, trying to see closer.

“I have no idea.” She watched the fog slowly swirl up from the shard again, obscuring it from view, then shook it again. “This is interesting. Okay. We should go.”

“Wait, wait, wait.” The older man waved his hands in irritation. “Don’t you want to tell me where you got it?”

“Eh. Not really.”

Istin slapped the table angrily, bringing Zilvayne’s attention back to him.

“No, Zilvayne. You can’t call me up for every little inconvenience! Tell me.”

Zilvayne slowly returned to her seat. The usually laid-back journalist rarely raised his voice.

“Alright.” She pursed her lips. “I got overexcited. Thank you for opening it.”

Istin gestured for her to continue. She sighed and glanced at Rhyle – the boy was sitting at attention.

“I found it at the Mansion. I have reasons to believe it might be connected to Mother’s plan.”

“The Mansion? Why were you even there?”

“You don’t–“

“There was an invitation,” suddenly interjected Rhyle. “Mi- Zilvayne said that it was unusual, and Malae never invited her herself. Do you think she’s in danger?”

Zilvayne looked around, checking if anybody paid them any attention. The patrons were few, and most just watched the musicians play.

“Now, Rhyle.” Istin’s voice rumbled low, but gentle, as she searched the room for any stray glance. “We try not to use names here.”

“Oh. S-sorry.”

“You can never know who’s listening,” mumbled Zilvayne, still looking around.

“Zilvayne, relax. My guys are always watching.” Istin turned back to Rhyle. “She is. But don’t worry, I’m helping her as much as I can, and she knows what she’s doing. Well, usually.”

Rhyle nodded. “Sorry, Zilvayne. I-”

“Oh, shut it, I know, you are just worried.” She grimaced, turning back and downing the remainder of her tea.

Istin looked between them again and smiled.

“He’s a good boy, Zilvayne. Let him worry.”

“Yeah-yeah. Too good.” She patted Rhyle on the head. “Just don’t do anything stupid like following me, you hear me?”

“Okay.”

Istin let out a laugh. “Yeah, kid, come here instead. We’ll help you.”

“This is not a bad idea, actually,” Zilvayne said thoughtfully. “If something happens to me, come here.”

Rhyle nodded.

7. A Visit

There was no news from her family for several months. Zilvayne kept the shard in her alchemy lab, in a contraption made of several thick-glass bulbs connected by tunnels with many partitions. After arranging it, she eagerly began testing it.

But her efforts quickly hit a wall. It didn’t react to any simple substance; it didn’t react to being frozen and only motion and heat made it cease the production of vapour. There was a small reaction to simple fungus, but the deadline for the orders loomed close, so instead of exposing it to different types of mushrooms, she spent her days cutting, mixing, and yearning for more testing.

There were many other options and reagents to try, but most of them required resources she didn’t have. For example–

“Zilvayne?” Rhyle’s voice tore her from her reverie.

“Hm?”

“Your sleeve’s burning.”

She sprang to her feet and quickly patted the smouldering fabric to smother the flame. Again, she zoned out too close to the burner. Rhyle snickered.

“How did you manage not to burn the lab without a second pair of eyes?”

“Who said I didn’t?”

“I knew it!”

Zilvayne smiled and turned back to her work. The thick orange substance in a beaker bubbled timidly, but hadn’t yet turned pale yellow.

She sighed.

“I hate making the same thing over and over again,” she complained. “And I’d take a pause, but we need money to test that damn thing!”

She gestured toward the contraption hidden under a thick veil – she was testing whether the lack of light would change anything.

“Can’t you just– magic something?”

“I’m not that good with magic. Besides, alchemy is a picky mistress, and magically created items tend to be at least a little unstable. This thing might blow up any minute for all I know. I don’t want to push it–”

“The mucus!”

Zilvayne turned back to the burner and, with a grunt, snatched the beaker off the flame and onto a special mat. The substance yellowed and was quickly solidifying; she was just in time before it’d become unusable. She winced, shaking her singed hands.

“Zilvayne,” the boy whined, “the mitts are right there! Should I bring the medical kit?”

“What? No, it’s nothing.” The burn stung, but she could see that the skin was undamaged. “I’ve had worse.”

“I know.” He came up and looked over her shoulder. She instinctively hid her fingers in her sleeves to conceal her recent cuts and burns. “Please, use clamps or mitts next time. Or, you know, just turn off the burner.”

“Alright-alright.” She patted him on the head.

There was a distant sound of the front door opening. Uneasy silence fell over them. Then, the front door closed with a bang. They both jumped up and turned towards the door.

The sound of metal heels disturbed the quiet. Click-click.

Zilvayne slowly pushed Rhyle out of the way and stood upright, bracing herself for the visitor.

Click-click.

The door swung open. Matriarch Micara Myghym entered, clad in a thick black cloak. She was shorter than Zilvayne even on heels, but it didn’t make her presence less terrifying.

Micara took off her hood and Zilvayne saw her face. It was the same as she remembered: gaunt and hard, with deep-set dark pink eyes and perpetual tension in her features. She didn’t just sneer; her expression always conveyed aggression on the brink of boiling over – when she was unhappy, she showed teeth in both the figurative and literal sense.

Mother scowled and moved her hand – a bout of fresh air sprang from her fingertips and filled the lab.

“Tsk. What is that stench? Zilvayne, explain yourself. These fumes are enough to kill a spider.”

That’s the point, thought Zilvayne. She made her body relax a fraction so as not to appear too tense and straightened her back a little more.

“Good evening, Mother. Didn’t know you were planning to come.” She took off her respirator and bowed slightly in greeting.

“I’m glad you didn’t lose your civility in this sty. Who’s that?” Micara pointed towards Rhyle, whose face was still hidden. Zilvayne thanked the gods for the respirator.

“My servant, Mother. He helps me prepare the potions for the glory of our family.”

“Pfft, a ‘he’. Stop staring at me, ‘he’, and walk. I need to talk to my daughter. Privately.”

Zilvayne looked behind her – with slow and deliberate movements, Rhyle bowed deeply, then went around the room turning off their devices. Then he left and closed the door behind him, and Micara turned back to Zilvayne.

“At least you had the decency to find a drow. Even if male. Are you learning to appreciate my teaching?”

“Of course, Mother,” she said through her teeth.

Micara nodded. “I have news of utmost importance. That’s why I came here myself. If I find that brat listening in, you’re going to have to find a new servant.”

“Do not worry, Mother, he’s mute,” Zilvayne said a little louder than necessary.

Micara took a moment to look around the laboratory.

“What a horrible place I exiled you to,” she said with theatrical regret. “You should burn it down.”

While saying this, Micara slowly pushed a still-warm burner on one of the tables, hot embers spilling out and onto an open book. She turned and went on to another table as Zilvayne scrambled, as quietly as she could, to clean it up. The embers burned her fingers.

The Matriarch stopped in front of the veiled bulk of the contraption with a shard, eyeing it with interest. In panic, Zilvayne swept the embers away in the nearby sink and coughed, hoping to turn her mother’s attention back to her.

“I’m sorry, Mother, but I seem to lack some crucial information. What do you need of me?”

“You are to come back home.” Micara’s tone was less than gentle. “Malae got… overambitious. I’m afraid I need another pair of eyes, dear daughter.”

Dear daughter.

“But Mother…”

“It wasn’t a request.” Micara turned to Zilvayne and stared at her with wide, mad eyes. Deep-seated pain rose up from drowning depths of memory.

“Understood. There’s one thing, I-” She forced her scattered thoughts to obey. “I long to join the fold again, but I don’t think I suffered enough without your blessings. You deemed my crime severe enough to send me away and I intend to finish my struggles before I can join you again. I should stay here. Until I prove my worth that is.”

Micara’s lips slowly stretched in a hint of a smile.

“Your fervour is admirable. Though I remember you telling me something completely different before I had to punish you.”

“I had time to think, Mother. The crime of disrespecting you runs deep, and I don’t want to sully your trust with my sin.” She bowed again to hide her grimace.

“Hmm. I’m glad we’re on the same page, then.” Micara nodded, thoughtfully. “Maybe in a hundred years you’ll win the place among us again.”

“Of course, Mother. You judge wisely.”

“But you can’t stay here. I need help with Malae, and I won’t let you go back and forth between this place and our house.”

Zilvayne cursed her Mother for a hundredth time. She did not plan on leaving her workshop anytime soon, but it looked like she’d have to arrange things differently. Ignoring Micara’s order will have a cost.

“As you wish, my Lady. I’m overjoyed that I can help you again.”

Zilvayne bowed, knowing that her mother’s lips stretched a little wider after hearing the title.

“I said what I came here to say, Zilvayne.”

“Let me walk you out, dear Mother.”

Zilvayne walked Micara to the front door, where Rhyle stood at attention. His face was bare, his respirator clutched in his hand.

Mother recognized him as soon as she saw him, Zilvayne realized with a surge of dread. Together like this, their physical similarities were obvious. Mother could’ve stared in a mirror just as well.

Zilvayne braced herself for a fight she’d certainly lose. However, there was no rage in her mother’s features, no hatred that usually accompanied any mention of her male children, but a pause. Micara peered into his face with a mix of fascination and disgust. He didn’t look up, choosing to stare meekly at the ground.

Zilvayne bit her lip and kept her mouth shut.

“Tomorrow, dear daughter.” There was a hint of amusement in her voice as she sharply turned towards the exit. Zilvayne grew cold all over. “Don’t forget. I know much about you and your toys.”

She left. Zilvayne locked the doors behind her and gestured to Rhyle to go upstairs. They didn’t say anything to each other.

After she pumped the gas into ventilation again in case Mother brought anything else with her, she went up to the kitchen. Rhyle sat staring at the wall.

“Why did you have to take off the respirator?”

“I- didn’t think. I’m sorry, Mistress.”

“Stop with this ‘mistress’!” she exploded. “If I wanted a slave, I would’ve made it, I have enough body parts. I want you, your company. And for that, I need you to have a head on your shoulders. I-”

His eyes suddenly grew big and wet. A tear ran down his cheek. With Mother’s face still fresh in her mind, the sight sent her reeling and she hissed, “s-stop with this nonsense, you snivelling fool. Drow never–”

The boy quickly wiped away his tears with his sleeve and lowered his gaze to the ground.

Zilvayne was on the verge of collapse. Her body refused to cooperate. She almost punched herself as her lips locked in sorrow. No power of self-possession and poise honed by a hundred years of practice could help her lift the corners of her mouth even an inch. She sobbed, bit her tongue and sneered.

Rhyle stared at her in horror as she struggled to will her face into submission. Her features trembled uncontrollably. She slipped to the floor and curled into a ball, unable to break the horrible tension that shackled her muscles and mind.

Through her muddled senses she knew Rhyle approached her carefully then, and called her name. You’re scaring him, she thought. The loathed, scalding hot and embarrassing tears came, finally, as a hand was timidly placed upon her back.

8. Coming Back

They spent that night close, holding onto each other. Rhyle’s trust felt like an anchor, and for a while, his embrace was the only thing that helped Zilvayne stay present, without sliding back into panic.

He was afraid, she knew. But she couldn’t stop herself from relaying to him some of her worries in a quiet, broken voice – Mother had plans for her before she was born; she was supposed to be an alchemess; many things were taken from her as punishment: toys, pets, people.

She caught herself almost telling him of brothers: tiny swaddled babies, taken away in the night, as if Mother never brought them to this earth. She didn’t want to link him to her, even in his mind.

In turn, he told her of his training. The gruelling lessons of obedience and servitude. They found too many similarities, trading bits and pieces of their upbringing, and when she sighed, he found her hand in the darkness and squeezed of his own volition.

They lay in silence then, floating in and out of consciousness, deep in their own thoughts.

Tomorrow came. Their time was running out.

“Do you remember how to get to the bar?” she croaked when it was clear that there wasn’t much time left before she had to go.

“I d-do. The one with Istin, right?”

“The very one. I don’t think it’s safe to stay here.”

“But–“

“This place will burn sooner or later. I’m sure of it.”

He fell silent.

She sent him away soon after. He took some books to continue his studies and clothes she bought him, but nothing much else. It was all too soon. She wished for more time to prepare Rhyle better instead of dumping him on Istin. The boy’s nature didn’t make it easy for him to learn to protect himself. She loved him for it too, but young kind boys’ survival rate in Menzoberranzan was close to zero.

She packed the most valuable ingredients into her bag and placed the vial with the black shard in her pocket. After sending away what bodies she had in her morgue, she left the building. She contemplated setting it on fire herself, so as not to give her mother that satisfaction, but her sentimentality prevented her from doing that.

The locks were locked, the traps were set, and after the last glance at the odd little warehouse hidden in a nondescript corner between two bigger buildings, she left.

The Myghym Mansion greeted her with its usual foreboding presence. The big brass knocker rang with inevitability. This time the door was opened by a sombre drow woman.

Zilvayne nodded coldly, knowing full well that there could be no trust between her and servants of this house. The woman bowed deeply, and without a word took her to see Mother.

The Matriarch was perched behind her grand desk atop a slightly elevated platform. Despite the lit fireplace that bathed Mother in warm light, the room was cold, the underground air currents going freely in and out of the open window.

“My daughter. Welcome back,” her mother said in a deceptively gentle tone.

Zilvayne bowed in greeting as the door behind her softly clicked shut.

In one of the simple chairs in front of the platform, sat Malae. She was dressed in plain white clothes with a timid, youthful air so unlike her usual floridness, she seemed smaller and looked her age.

Zilvayne came up to the chair on the other side and nodded to her in greeting, but her sister only looked away.

“We’re finally here together. Working, as one, working as a family,” Mother started when Zilvayne finally sat down. She braced herself for a long-winded monologue about pride and duty to one’s house.

“Zilvayne,” Micara said suddenly, “how do you find your home after all these years?”

She scrambled for words. “Resplendent, dear mother. As it always was.”

“I ordered to prepare your old room for you. It’s suitably close to the laboratories, and it wasn’t used for anything important while you were away.”

Zilvayne knew Malae was gritting her teeth without even looking over.

“Thank you, mother.” She was expected to say something. The pause stretched as Mother glared at her. “I’m sure whatever it was used for was er- useless.” She finished lamely. It satisfied Mother nevertheless.

In House Myghym you were expected to act with disdain toward even an ephemeral threat.

“Alright. Let’s conclude and finish our meeting. Zilvayne will take on all of our current operations. Except…” she made a theatrical pause, “my special division.”

Malae gasped and Zilvayne dared a glance at her.

“Th-thank you, Mother,” the younger sister cried out. Her face was raw with suppressed tears. “I was afraid- I- I won’t fail you, I promise, I’ll bring your vision to reality!”

Micara scoffed. Malae turned inwards again, silently staring at her bare feet. Zilvayne gritted her teeth and kept her gaze trained on Mother.

“And as Malae learns humility, I want you, Zilvayne, to up the production. We got a very big order from the surface,” she said with a predatory smile, “let them pay for their demise.”

“Their demise, Mother?” Zilvayne risked a question.

“Tsk.” Micara paused, looking Zilvayne up and down. “Have you forgotten the task our mother Lolth blessed us with?”

“Of course not, Mother. But the task is forever, have there been any new developments?”

“Yes, my daughter. There were.”

“What are they?”

“Not for the ears of the disloyal!” growled Malae without lifting her head.

“Silence!” Mother said in an icy tone. Malae started to apologise, but caught herself and quieted. “Malae is forbidden to talk, but she is right. If you really want to return to the fold – serve. Do what is asked of you.”

Micara stood up and went around the table.

“I deem this meeting finished. Malae, escort Zilvayne to your old post and show her what has changed. Within reason. Welcome back home, Zilvayne. I’m sure you’ll do great.”

Malae led Zilvayne through corridors. She quickly collected herself when they exited Mother’s office, straightened her back, brought back her scowl, but kept her silence for some time, until they reached the burgundy corridor.

The meeting with Mother went better than Zilvayne expected. There was less jumping through hoops than usual. It made her uneasy – why would Mother forgo her rituals? What bothered her?

“You got lucky,” muttered Malae and quickened her steps.

Zilvayne said nothing.

“You just got lucky,” repeated Malae angrily and glanced back with venom, “If I didn’t slip–”

“Slip? What did you do exactly?”

“None of your business. And if she caught you back at the party, you wouldn’t even be here.”

“Would you be here in that case?”

Malae fell silent.

They reached the lab’s corridor. Zilvayne remembered this place far too vividly. It even smelled the same – that lifeless, stale cleanliness, typical for any place of dull, unloved work.

“Smells like home,” she could not resist commenting.

“What do you know about home?” Malae exploded suddenly. “How many nights and days and weeks have you spent inside these walls? How many humiliations did you have to endure?!”

“Too many.” Zilvayne cut her off and glared at her sister in warning.

Malae fumed silently for a bit, but without another word led Zilvayne inside the first lab. There, a young drow was tinkering with an autoclave. When they entered, she bowed nervously and turned back to her work.

“We had some changes in recent years,” continued Malae in a tired voice. “You will have three assistants, all chosen by Mother, and not for their ability, unfortunately. Hey, this is your new boss, tell her what you are doing.”

“M- yes, ma-am. I t-tend to tools and machines, keep an eye on them. Th-that’s all. D-depends on the t-task.”

“Shut it,” Malae said and the girl did. “The other two are out for supplies. You’ll see those snakes eventually. Let me show you other rooms.”

Zilvayne followed her sister through the rooms dedicated to different parts of the alchemy process, but tuned out her explanations. She felt sick. There might’ve been some changes, but she felt like she had never left these grey walls adorned with just too many spider depictions.

“…and I’ll be in our special division.” Malae finally finished her tour and waited for Zilvayne in the corridor, with her arms folded. “Doing the most important work. Did you understand everything?”

“Hm? Ah, yes. Of course. This will do.”

Malae scanned her with naked loathing.

“You will be out in no time.”

Zilvayne internally agreed, but outwardly had to say something else.

“Our Mother should’ve taken your tongue together with your dignity.”

With a hiss, Malae turned on her heels and walked away, as Zilvayne fought back the dark and nasty feeling of remorse.

9. Mundane

The lab was new and twice the size of the previous one. It had newer tools and more space. The mansion, her room and everything else were old and too well-known.

Zilvayne found herself staying in the lab for far longer than was necessary. Nausea and boredom were somehow preferable to dread and bitter memories.

The assistants, whose names she quickly forgot, had their own political intrigue and tried to suck up to either Zilvayne or Micara. Needless to say, it didn’t help the quality and speed of their work. But even then, they didn’t really need her except for some oversight. In reality, her main job was spying on her sisters, as Mother told her in oblique terms the next day she arrived. Zilvayne was sure that it was the main reason Mother brought her back. But she couldn’t see a way out, so she obeyed and tried to mingle with her sisters.

Vicintra was polite enough outside of cutting or inappropriate remarks; T’risstirr stubbornly ignored her; Ilphue was suspiciously hospitable in her listless, silent way, to the point of anticipating her visits. She didn’t see Malae much after the first evening, and when she did, the disgraced alchemess hurried to leave her presence. And she was much more careful with closing important doors behind her than their mother was.

Zilvayne loathed the role thrust upon her, but the worst thing was family dinners. Micara insisted on eating together as a family, where she was free to goad and gloat. They sat behind a long, splendid table covered with black cloth thickly embroidered with golden thread.

Mother sat at the top of the table and watched each daughter, prodding and testing. To the left of her sat Vicintra and T’risstirr, to the right, Ilphue and Malae. Zilvayne sat opposite, at the end of the table, a place which previously was given to anyone who was at fault at a time. Now, it was just her place.

Zilvayne didn’t dare venture outside for months, until the first time Mother left the mansion. And even then, she only went so far as the gardens behind the building, wary of potential scrutiny.

She circled the garden, noticing steps and suspicious silhouettes all around her; every dry shrub, big mushroom or tasteful crag seemed to breathe and watch her. Zilvayne walked the twisting paths cautiously, trying to discern which shadow was actually a person, and trying to remember ways to escape surveillance in such close quarters.

She was so absorbed in her own observations that she missed a spindly root sticking from the rocky soil and tripped. The air swept around her, and the ground rushed to meet her face, but she was suddenly caught by her belt and yanked inside a cluster of bushes. Zilvayne quickly regained her footing. The whole ordeal was silent except for the rustling of leaves. She looked around.

There was a small space inside the bushes, protected from all sides by thick walls of leaves and branches. Ilphue stood by, listening intently. There was a patter of quiet, hurried steps running over the place where Zilvayne just stood.

When it passed, Ilphue turned to Zilvayne, as still as a statue, and whispered an incantation. Her almost colourless eyes shone in magic’s light.

‘Can you hear me, sister?’ she asked without moving her lips. ‘Try thinking something.’

‘A sow saw a saw and swore to sow…’

‘Enough. Good.’ Ilphue nodded.

‘I thought we used another bush. Back when we were young, I mean.’

‘The other bush was burned down by Mother when she discovered it.’

‘Why did you decide to show me this one?’

‘Everyone needs a little respite from constant surveillance.’ She tilted her head to the side, as if trying to inspect Zilvayne closer, ‘and I wanted to talk face to face.’

‘Alright.’ Zilvayne frowned and stared at her sister’s inscrutable face in turn. ‘Did you want me for something?’

‘Not really.’ She hummed almost inaudibly. ‘But it’s been a while. And you look absolutely wretched after being cooped up inside.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Don’t mention it.’

There was an awkward pause.

‘I’m afraid you will have to go out soon,’ transmitted Ilphue. ‘Mother put the servants on high alert about your whereabouts.’

‘She’s watching you closely, too.’

‘This I know,’ Ilphue’s lips stretched in a slightly wicked manner. ‘As I said earlier, I’m glad you’re here. This family needs a little shake-up.’

‘You are surprisingly talkative today. Why is that?’

She shrugged and tilted her head to the side, listening.

‘It’s clear. Go,’ she said and shoved Zilvayne out.

When she was already outside of the bush and brushing off her clothes, Ilphue sent her another message:

‘I’m accompanying Mother tomorrow, together with T’risstirr. Take this as an opportunity to wind down.’

And with a quiet fizzle, the telepathic connection cut off.

Zilvayne straightened and strolled further down the park as if nothing had happened. She heard commotion on the right, and soon T’risstirr stepped out of the shadows.

“Sister,” she muttered, almost towering over her.

“Sister?”

“I was told you disappeared.”

“Am I so important that you were told to watch my every step?”

She allowed herself a hint of a sardonic smile. T’risstirr sneered.

“Don’t flatter yourself. After your treachery, it is my duty to watch you.”

“Really? Is there no chance I changed?”

“Changed? No. And don’t think you can grovel your way with me.”

“Easy, dear sister. I’m not planning to abscond. Again.”

“That might be even worse.” T’risstirr turned around sharply. “Watch yourself. I stand in protection of this House and its future.”

“Of House Myghym or just Mother?”

“Mother is the House Myghym!”

“House Myghym stood for long before Mother proclaimed herself better than the old ways.”

“And through her will it will become so much more! Who are you to question her?”

Also a part of the House, thought Zilvayne, but decided to keep it to herself. Zealots were never good conversationalists.

“I don’t. She’ll lead the way, and we will be there for that, sister,” she finished with a sigh.

“Will we? All I see in you is pride and arrogance.”

Zilvayne said nothing and fell behind her sister’s step. The garden, still filled with whispers and soundless footfalls, lost its uneasy effect on her. It was, once again, very tedious and meant nothing.

Mother’s suspicion, T’risstirr’s cold shoulder, Ilphue’s sudden show of good will, Malae’s loathing, Vicintra’s indolence – she saw it all and longed for the life she made herself.

Maybe taking advantage of Ilphue’s invitation was a good idea.

The air smelled sweeter outside of the mansion’s walls. Even the docking area, with its stench of thousands of deliveries, dirt and rotting squid, felt fresh and almost pleasant.

It took her some time, but Zilvayne managed to get rid of a tail. Ilphue didn’t lie; there really were fewer servants in the house that day, and with T’risstirr’s absence, it made her escape easy.

She didn’t go to the bar. Even if Ilphue didn’t have something up her sleeve, she didn’t want to bring any more attention to the Dancers. Instead, she went to her workshop.

After several months of neglect, it looked downright destitute. But the lock opened easily, with a dull click, and the hinges were oiled, and the door swung open silently. The traps were defused, and the floor, which she expected to find smothered under grime, was cleaned. Soft, velvety darkness inside seemed suddenly alive with worry. Who knew who could’ve decided to stay here in her absence? There was only one possibility she might’ve welcomed.

Rhyle sat behind their kitchen table on one of the chairs, completely absorbed in a book. He didn’t even react to her sigh of relief.

She sat beside him, startling the boy. But he smiled when he saw her.

“Hi, Zilvayne, dear,” he said in a familiar, lazy tone.

She lifted her eyebrows in surprise. Rhyle immediately became flustered and slouched.

“Er- I-I mean–”

She laughed loudly and fondly slapped him on the back. “Did Istin rub off on you so quickly?”

Rhyle joined in the laughter. “Well, he is very emphatic.”

“Can’t blame you, the old devil is one charming bastard.”

She hugged him awkwardly.

“How are you, Zilvayne?”

“Let me make us some tea.” She hurried to change the subject, and the boy didn’t push.

They sat in quiet for a bit. Hot tea and candied mushrooms – it felt like old times for a minute.

She looked him over with a discerning eye. The boy was calmer, more self-assured and picked up many of Istin’s habits along the way. Even through his words about the Dancers, the old man’s fondness for the boy was evident.

Hours flew by them, and when she noticed the time, her first reaction was to spring to her feet. She was late, and if she didn’t want to bring any attention to herself, she had to leave immediately.

“Zilvayne?”

“I have to get back, Rhyle. It was nice to see you.”

His face pinched in worry. She patted him on the cheek and tried to smile. “Don’t concern yourself with me, dear. Just be safe.”

She made a swift exit, leaving him sitting behind the table. Evening streets passed her by, tumultuous before the night hour. She was hurrying back to her childhood home, afraid that Mother might take offence at her leaving.

And as she walked the streets, dodging passersby and wagons, a heavy worry settled in her throat. She couldn’t shake the feeling that this conversation with Rhyle had been their last.

10. Spat

Mother sent for her soon after her return, in the middle of the night.

When Zilvayne entered her office, the older woman was sitting behind her table alone and greeted her with a smile.

“How are you, my little spider?”

She was in high spirits. Her face shone with hopefulness, and wrinkles around her eyes radiated amicability almost. Zilvayne kept her face neutral, unsure how to react to Mother’s friendliness. Finally, she bowed and took the indicated chair, choosing the air of polite professionalism.

“The production plan is successful; we upped the volume according to my predictions. The workers need oversight, but they make do.”

“Yes-yes, good.” Mother waved dismissively. “Don’t spare the whip, and I have no doubt our business will thrive. But I called you here for another matter, daughter.”

Zilvayne sighed.

“As far as I can say, there’s no conspiracy against you, Mother. Your daughters are loyal.”

Micara snorted in amusement and leaned back in her chair. “Loyal? Don’t embarrass yourself by trying to make conclusions, just tell me what you found out.”

Zilvayne swallowed another exasperated sigh. “Alright. Who do you want to know about first?”

“Stupidity attracts stupidity,” she slowly enunciated and shook her head. “Let’s start with Vicintra. She’s the oldest one, and her ambitions surely run high.”

“She’s always buried in papers or busy commanding servants. She spends her days in her circular cabinet in the west turret of the house, as you know. There’s only one entrance. I went to her with a request from the lab a couple of times. She doesn’t even need to leave to check the archives; it’s all there.”

That’s also where she takes her suitors, thought Zilvayne, but she long ago decided not to tell Mother. All the men were checked, and with their position, had little interest in causing trouble.

“What is she working on?” urged Micara, visibly growing impatient.

“The supply lines mostly. Ingoing and outgoing, she’s joking that we’ve become a separate state with the volume of export and import.”

“Pfft. What else? Have you checked everything?”

“Er- Everything?”

“Yes! Yes! The archive! Why did I bring you here?!”

The whole archive?!

“No, Mother.” She schooled her expression into a polite contrition. “I did not check the whole archive going years and years into the past.”

“Tsk. Useless.” Mother’s playful mood has started to sour. “I told you to check everything. She does nothing without a plan! No matter. Continue. What about T’risstirr?”

“I think you know about her better than I do. She answers directly to you without fail.”

“Well, she’s not here now! What’s she doing?”

“I- I can’t see through walls, Mother.” Zilvayne felt dread pulling on her lungs as Micara slowly stood, staring at her with round eyes. She scrambled to say something. “T’risstirr always speaks with reverence about you, Mother.”

“Likely story.”

“She threatened to throw me out several times.”

“A-ha! So she feels insecure with you here? Is she afraid of you?”

“No. And she seems pretty genuine about it.”

“Likely story,” Micara repeated and started to pace back and forth behind the table. “Alright, what about Ilphue? And Malae?”

“Malae spends all her time in her ‘special lab’ you prohibited me from talking about.”

The pacing intensified.

“Ilphue is absorbed in her numbers,” mumbled Zilvayne. “I followed her about, but she only goes out to walk the gardens. She-” Zilvayne thought about telling Mother about the hollow bush. “Drinks a lot of mushroom tea?”

“I didn’t think such an easy task would be so difficult for you, dear daughter,” hissed Mother. “Is something else bothering you?”

“What?..”

“Do you have any other concerns besides this House?”

“No, Mother, no.” She knew her mother was expecting begging, but her whole body became rigid with dread, and knees became impossible to bend. “My main concern is our House and your will.”

She was expecting to be struck, but Mother was motionless.

“I see.” Her tone was icy cold. “It looks like I was right. I need to bereave you of distractions.”

She took a long pause, watching Zilvayne’s face closely.

“Do you know,” she continued, “if your old workshop is still standing?”

“I- Do not know, Mother. I haven’t left the mansion as you asked of me.”

Micara hummed and smiled without an ounce of warmth.

“I know you’re lying, dear daughter. And I know, I know there is a plan to overthrow me. Search for more. Search better. I already defanged you; you just didn’t realise it yet.” Micara turned away and strode to the window from which the wall of the High Houses plateau was seen. “Speaking of, you can leave the house today. No one will follow you this time.”

The sudden permission twisted the atmosphere further, and Zilvayne had to fight her shivering.

“M-mother?”

“You will see that you have no life outside of these walls,” Micara finished with a sort of broken melancholy in her voice. “No hope and no strength to go against me. Whatever your plan was, it is nought.”

She said nothing more.

Zilvayne left her mother’s office shaken. Her mother’s venomous tone stirred many memories – of an obedient youth and her striving to fit; of her breakdown over brothers; of the cold, determined eyes of the matriarch. She didn’t know what exactly the threat meant. But she needed to go.

Time was precious. She needed to see Istin, check on the workshop, and find Rhyle.

She left the mansion without anyone noticing. Nobody followed her, as Mother promised, and no one paid her attention on deserted streets as she walked, propelled by dark thoughts and dreary premonitions.

The bar was surprisingly packed, and all tables were occupied. Zilvayne nodded to the owner and prepared to wait in a corner when they gestured for her to follow them. They led her down and up through a web of labyrinthine corridors until they reached a meeting room.

The room bustled with motion: people coming and going, carrying weapons and boxes, some locked in a heated debate. And everything seemed to converge on Istin. When she entered, the commotion ceased, and all attention turned to her.

“Zilvayne!” Istin cried out when he noticed her standing in the doorway. The older man left the table under the disgruntled murmur of his companions. She couldn’t help noticing his sudden limp. “We need to speak. Let me accompany you.”

He took her outside the room and brought her to a small, but tastefully furnished bedroom. All the while, he was holding her by the elbow, steering her forward. She felt herself a prisoner.

“Why are you here, Zilvayne?” He started as soon as the door shut behind them.

She paused. She never witnessed such careful tension in him; something must’ve happened.

“You look out of sorts,” noticed Istin and crowded her to a small table with two chairs. “Take a seat. Start from the beginning.”

“I- I- I-,” she heard herself say and paused, trying to collect her thoughts. “Is Rhyle alright?”

Istin sighed and hid his eyes. “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?!”

“He disappeared, earlier, in the evening. And then the attack- We didn’t know what to think.”

“You think he did something?”

“Well, your mother-”

“What? What did she do?”

Istin sighed and took the second chair. “I see you really are in the dark.”

“What did she do, Istin?”

“She came to the magazine office. Said something about repossessing and re-purposing. We scrambled to block the exits and destroy the evidence, but she just torched the building. Like she didn’t care for evidence, just wanted to watch us burn.” He rubbed his face with his hands. “My friends don’t trust you. They liked Rhyle fine, but after today-”

“You have known me for years, Istin.”

“And you returned to your mother as soon as she called.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“Didn’t you?”

“Pah!” Enraged by his tired tone and the lack of support, she pushed the table to the ground. They both watched it bounce a little off the carpet and sway until it rested with its feet up. “Is anyone looking for Rhyle?”

“We don’t have resources to spare. We’re still trying to understand just how much damage-”

“Damn your office! Damn your wretched magazine. Rhyle is gone!”

“That’s exactly why I took you here.” Istin picked the table up and placed it back. “I have no resources and frankly not much trust among my people myself. They saw Rhyle, they saw your mother. Only an idiot would not make a connection.”

Zilvayne grit her teeth.

“But!” Istin continued, “I know him, and I know you. And the only one who knows him better than I is you. Please, find him.”

“Will they let me leave?” She glanced in the direction of the door.

“No. I’ll lead you through the back. Let’s hurry.”

In ten minutes, she stood outside, in a different neighbourhood. Dancers’ tunnels seemed to go underneath the whole slave district, and Istin managed to lead her to the exit closest to her workshop.

She spared a thought toward Istin – his limp and breathing got worse when he took her through the tunnels, and she hoped he managed to make his way back.

But she needed to find Rhyle. She took a shortcut and hurried toward her workshop.

11 – Frugality

She found him quickly.

His body lay prostrate, in a heap of rubbish just around a corner of their workshop. Like a broken doll, limbs sprawled at weird angles, his face was turned towards the ceiling of the Menzoberranzan. She looked up to see what he might see if he were alive – the dark expanse was dotted with brilliant spots of glowing mould.

Zilvayne read somewhere that at night, the aboveground people could see right into the cosmos. She imagined it looking just like this, a velvet dark punctuated with tiny violet sparks of light. Stars. Planets. Constellations.

She found herself standing closer to the body than before. She could see his face more clearly now, a dull, empty face of a boy, a child, a dark, cracked porcelain of a face, with two great holes in its centre – empty sockets where once his lively pink eyes were.

Were eyes a gateway to one’s soul? She read that somewhere, too.

She came closer. Her hand reached out and brushed some errant hair from his dry, cold face. There came a sudden deluge of spiders, spilling over his face, fleeing his empty sockets, disturbed by her presence.

Zilvayne shuddered in disgust and gathered his small body in her arms, shooing off spiders and other scavengers.

…

She stared into the rugged void of his skull.

…

She carried him in her arms through the silent streets.

…

The door closed behind her, and she finally made an intake of breath. The sound felt deafening in the empty workshop. The smell of flesh was overwhelming.

She didn’t remember bringing him to the morgue. But she remembered cradling him close, unwilling to put him down on the table. She almost called for him when she finally laid his body down, but remembered that he was in front of her, unable to answer her call. And there he lay, in silence and cold, as she stared dumbly.

Part of her mind was still reeling, in panic, threatening to shut down completely; the other looked the body over with a learned gaze – she recognised that it was too late for her to try and resurrect him. Several hours passed, and the damage from tiny teeth and chelicerae was too extensive. He needed new fingers, new eyes, many, many stitches and… his soul surely departed to the greener pastures by now. While she was at home, dancing after Mother’s melody instead of protecting him.

Ravaged, empty orbits stared at her. Zilvayne put her face in her hands. She couldn’t trace all the thoughts in her head; then, a new one came and eclipsed everything else. She couldn’t bring him back.

Her long fingers scrambled and dug, looking for purchase. She heard herself whimper and chose to ignore it. The left eye gave first, so she focused her attention on it. When she managed to thrust her fingernails deep into the ocular socket, under the eye, the soft globe popped right out. Her vision swam and divvied, and she had to close her right eye to calm the dizziness.

Her left eye hung millimetres above her dead friend, and she felt an urge to kiss his brow and check if the flow of blood was truly absent. She knew it was. She caught the eye first. The worst was yet to come.

Her infrequent sobs spilt into a wail. Severing the optical nerve almost caused her to faint, and in a blind pain-induced panic, she rushed to set to work. She found her needle and thread placed neatly on a ledge by the table, probably by Rhyle. He wasn’t here, but he was still helping.

She always worked diligently, but now even she could feel the manic edge in her movements. Her mangled right eye had trouble seeing, and most of her work she did almost by touch. Cutting, mixing, sewing, healing together lifeless flesh.

When she finally finished, her legs gave out, and her mind fell into darkness, closing her hurting eyes in relief.

She awoke suddenly, as if surfacing from quiet cold death. The familiar room swam into bleary focus. Her face was clammy and swollen. She managed to get up on her feet and tottered away from the barren, dead body after covering it with a plain white sheet.

Madness was clawing in deep, dark corners of her mind, weakened for only a moment. She went upstairs. She washed her face, healed and dressed the ragged mess of her left eye, changed her clothes, and went to the kitchen. There, she threw his chair down the stairs and sat for a while on the only one left, blindly staring at the wall.

She tried to formulate a plan. Any kind of plan. But her thoughts kept returning to the disfigured body of her closest friend lying in the morgue. Mutilated by his killers, spiders and by her. Tears stung.

Mother’s words were now clear as day – by killing him, and no one but her could give the order, she thought she’d make Zilvayne obey.

She laughed. Tears stung.

She couldn’t get back to Istin so soon. No, no, no, no. He’ll need to know, but later, later.

Mother had to come first. That’s what she wanted, right? Undivided attention, damn her ego, her soul, and her life.

She caught herself sobbing. Her thoughts scattered again over the darkening expanses of her mind. She didn’t know and couldn’t think. In the absence of lucidity, she acted.

12 – Homebound

Zilvayne still desperately tried to come up with a plan as her body single-mindedly strode through the waking streets. Her damaged face drew stares, but no one dared ask while she drew closer to Myghym Mansion.

She found Malae in her new room. Caught by the throat, the younger sister could only hiss in displeasure.

“I will pick apart your meagre possessions, your stash and your weak body if needs be, but I will find a way inside your ‘special lab’, dear sister,” muttered Zilvayne. Her voice was rough in her ears, alien. “Or you can show it to me on your own volition.”

Malae huffed indignantly, but stayed rigid, staring at her sister’s bandaged eye.

“Should I take your speech? Should I take your movement? You can leave them at the altar of our Mother’s ego, but you must know she will never appreciate your sacrifice,” growled Zilvayne.

The younger drow’s eyes swept around the tiny, barren room in panic. Zilvayne waited. In a couple of moments, Malae weakly nodded and was released.

“You’re here to take everything that’s left, aren’t you?” She asked hoarsely, hatred burning in her eyes.

“I don’t need anything of yours, but I will take what’s mine. My blade might be small,” she said, brandishing her scalpel, “but it’s precise. And I know where and how to cut.”

The ‘special lab’ was a small room secreted behind one of the statues of their ancestors, and a long winding corridor that led to a completely different part of the house. It was packed with various equipment, bulbs, retorts, and ingredients. It clearly was made for only one person, and not for comfort.

In the corner, a sealed glass bowl stood, filled with bright violet vapour.

“What’s this?” Zilvayne nudged Malae toward the bowl.

“My creation.”

“Explain.”

Malae went towards the bowl under Zilvayne’s scrutiny. She watched the vapour swirl under the glass, and caressed it, shaking fingers beating a staccato against the surface. Only then did she start talking.

“Our sailors found something in the depths. A hard, shiny material. Stones that lie dormant underwater, but start producing gas when exposed to air. Deadly.” Her voice was tinged with melancholy. “But only as gas. You can pop one in your beverage and drink without worry. But when it surfaces…” She laughed bitterly and placed a kiss upon the bowl.

Zilvayne patted her hip pocket discreetly to check if the black vial was still there.

“Interesting. Are there many?” Zilvayne carefully watched her sister’s hands.

“No. The sailors only found a couple of stones. But even a small amount of it, a shard, can produce so much deadly gas, it’ll be enough. Especially in a concentrated liquid form.”

“Enough for what?”

“Not for the whole surface, no. But we can start small.”

“I remember you boasting about the effect depending on the species. Is it innately harmless to drow?”

“Ha. No, of course not.” Malae turned back to Zilvayne and smiled sweetly. “There’s another effect the stone has. But I won’t tell you that. If you want to take the whole practice, you will have to take it with me. Only I have that information.”

Zilvayne looked around carefully, trying to keep Malae in her line of sight. She hummed.

“Why do you have so much of simple street mould?”

Malae jerked and sneered.

“Is this why the vapour is violet?”

“How,” the alchemess said through her teeth, “did you know?”

“Your face says it all,” Zilvayne answered and lifted her scalpel in warning. “Explain.”

“Absorbed material becomes the antidote. Ammonithe salt helps absorption.”

“That’s peculiar.”

“You’re telling me.”

“So it’s not really species-specific, is it? It’s anyone-who-happened-to-be-in-Menzoberranzan-and-breathe-in-the-spores specific, right?”

“Tsk. Same thing.”

“I see.” Zilvayne hummed. “And how does it burn?”

The fire billowed out of the small room, sending them further down the corridor with its crushing heat. Malae howled as if in pain and tried to resist weakly, as Zilvayne dragged her away from the sound of popping glass and whispering inferno. Her bandage slipped, and she made it out almost blind and choking on black smoke.

Zilvayne left her sister outside by the statue, huddled in abject agony.

“Mother.”

Zilvayne entered Micara’s office with no hesitation and went straight for the table. T’risstirr tried to intercept her, but Mother waved her away.

The room was unusually stuffy; the grand window was closed, and warmth from the great fireplace swelled; Mother’s black lance – something rarely seen in the last couple of centuries – stood by the table with deceptive nonchalance.

When she reached the raised platform, Zilvayne knelt and bowed deeply, almost touching the floor. The intrusion into her mind was almost palpable – she had to bite her tongue not to fight back.

Mother smiled. “Finally. You’re here to ask for forgiveness, I presume?”

“Yes, Mother. And,” Zilvayne straightened and looked her Mother in the face. “I have something better than just my will to follow you.” Her gaze pointedly travelled to T’risstirr and the office guards.

“You come bearing gifts?” Mother inclined her head and drawled, “We’ll see.”

“I still think you should be careful, Mother,” interjected the older sister, hand on the hilt of her sword.

“Tsk.” Micara’s eyes stared back at Zilvayne’s face. “T’risstirr here thinks I need coddling. Tell me true, Zilvayne – do you want to fight me?”

“No, Mother.”

“I sense no lie.” Micara turned to her older daughter and spread her arms. She paid no mind.

“Do you want to kill Mother? Do you have a plan?” T’risstirr demanded.

“Yes. I do have a plan,” Zilvayne said calmly. “As I’ve already told you.”

“Enough!” Micara bristled. “T’risstirr, if you can’t keep your mouth shut, as you’re supposed to – leave. I can take care of myself, as you very well know. And take your flunkies with you.”

The older sister set her teeth, but bowed.

“Alright, Mother. But I’ll be outside, so call if you need anything.”

As her sister went by, Zilvayne dropped, “ah, yes, dear sister. Can you bring me a hot mug of mushroom tea? Extra strong. It’s been a long night.”

T’risstirr growled, but Micara’s laugh cut off whatever she was preparing to say.

“Yes, dear daughter. Bring her the mushroom tea, and something stronger for me,” she commanded. And added to Zilvayne, knowingly, “it really was a long night.”

Zilvayne only smiled, showing her teeth.

When the door closed behind irritated T’risstirr, Micara sat back and allowed Zilvayne to take one of the guest chairs.

“I know you took the body to the morgue. Why?”

“His body might still serve me as my experiment. And I’m disinclined to give away what’s mine, even to the priestesses,” she answered without missing a bit.

“I see,” Micara smirked flatly. “Surprising attachment. So you decided not to forsake your dreadful workshop?”

“I have a plan, Mother, but, of course, I will wait for your word first. I can always bring my morgue here, I just figured you would not care for the smell…”

“It’s a pity you can’t be a normal alchemess.”

“Maybe not normal is just what you need.”

“I’m not convinced.”

“I took Malae’s secret.”

There was a pause. Micara blinked in surprise.

“Really? Even I couldn’t get it out of her.”

“And I know her delivery plan is not worth its salt. Using bodies might be more prudent.”

“Huh. Alright, tell me more.”

T’risstirr came, accompanied by a servant with a tray, who put a steaming cup of tea by Zilvayne’s table, and brought a high goblet of wine to Micara. Both waited for them to leave before returning to their conversation.

“I don’t know how you drink this stuff,” Micara gestured to the tea in Zilvayne’s hand. “It’s herby, bitter, and you almost can’t feel the mushrooms. Wait,” she noticed what her daughter was doing despite her attempt to conceal it, and exclaimed, “what did you just put in it?”

Her daughter smiled politely and lifted an empty vial.

“This? Nothing special. Just an additive to make it even more potent, help the chemical reactions, so to speak. I want my head to be clear for our conversation.”

Micara narrowed her eyes. “You know I can read your mind, dear daughter.”

“And what does it tell you?” Zilvayne asked innocently. “Really, dear Mother, I can give you a sip of it, if you want.”

“Drink it yourself first.”

Zilvayne swallowed a mouthful of dreadfully salty tea and couldn’t hide her grimace.

Micara inclined her head in confusion.

“I told you it’s just an additive,” Zilvayne explained in between bouts of coughing.

“Watch your decorum,” hissed Micara. “You’re making a fool of yourself.”

“Good thing we’re alone here.” She took another sip. “Augh. Just imagine what Vicintra would’ve said. I’m sorry, Mother, but if you want my plan to work, you want me as foolish as I am.”

“Even a fool can have her uses,” Micara scoffed with disgust and swallowed her wine. “Drink your horrible tea. And tell me your plan.”

Zilvayne spent a couple of hours describing the plan at length, leading Mother in circles around its execution, careful about voicing her intentions. Everything was truthful. Just a little obscured. Micara listened with a tense expression, no doubt trying to catch her in a lie.

“So… Using slaves to transport the poison to the surface.”

“Dead slaves, so they don’t expire before reaching the destination.”

“And we can’t just raise the dead, because…”

“Because they reek of necromancy magic. Even I can recognise the undead raised by a spell a mile away.”

“I can see the logic of your idea. But I don’t see any use.” Mother asked, and Zilvayne felt that creeping feeling of fingers carding through her brain again. It was a little different this time. In a blink, she threw off the incantation.

“Mother,” she sighed, “just as you are, I can’t be charmed.”

“I remember your words vividly. What made you change your childish mind on the topic of slaves? And after that boy-”

“I just think it’s a very workable idea. Very efficient for the type of poison we have,” amicably said Zilvayne, clutching the cold mug in her fingers.

“But are you willing to bring it to, ahem, life?” Micara peered into her face.

“Yes.”

“Lies!”

In less than a second, she had her lance at the ready.

“I wanted you for your uselessness, to find who took my place at my Queen’s feet, not your plans of questionable sanity. My dear daughter, you have just moments before I run you through. Why are you here, really?”

A few moments were just what Zilvayne needed. She hurled the mug in her mother’s face and threw herself to the ground.

There was a dull thud. Micara appeared from behind her grand table with a lance at the ready, with a storm of rage in her pink eyes. Such familiar eyes. Zilvayne couldn’t stifle the roar of laughter that hurt her throat and made Mother hesitate.

“What did you think would happen? That your throw would kill me? You’re dumber than a mere fool, you-”

Greenish fumes streamed from behind the table. Micara faltered and turned, staring at it incredulously. Then suddenly stumbled, lance falling to the ground.

“Wh-what?..” she tottered and grabbed the edge of the table. Her breathing became shallow and whistling.

“That’s… your… medicine…” Zilvayne hissed, feeling her own throat closing up.

The cloud of gas reached her. For two hours she talked about nothing… But two hours wasn’t enough for the shard to absorb the tea completely and help her survive. Zilvayne laughed again, weakly, and coughed. Well, she tried.

“Damn you,” breathed out Micara. Blood bubbled from between her lips. With the last remaining strength, she made a sweeping gesture with her fingers. A bluish spark appeared and elongated, creating a small spectral dagger. It hovered for a moment by the old drow, as she started slipping to the floor, then streaked through the space between them, burying itself in Zilvayne’s chest.

Her last vestiges of laughter gurgled out, almost happily, as searing pain cut into her. Micara was lying on the floor, as Zilvayne still lived and breathed, albeit barely.

The greenish smoke churned up around her, closing her in a darkening cocoon of vapours. She was suddenly very happy to be alive. On the doorstep of death, even mouthfuls of acrid air seemed so much sweeter.

She heard a distant bang. A gasp. And suddenly, the thick shroud flared, burning all around her. She was encircled by flame, unable to breathe.

13 – Nilroos

She must’ve lost consciousness for a moment.

Her throat still hurt, and the skin of her face and hands felt singed, but she was alive. A warm, familiar taste of healing potion still lingered in her mouth, indicating someone’s care. She remembered Rhyle for a painful moment, but discarded the thought as impossible. Unless…

She dared to open her eyes. She was still lying on the floor in Mother’s office. The vapour was gone; burned away or siphoned through the now open window.

There was a figure in white sitting by Micara’s body. Zilvayne looked closer, but didn’t recognise this person at first. Because she had never seen the woman with her back turned.

Ilphue finished rummaging through her mother’s pockets and stood up. When she glanced back, her face was unusually lively, and her pale eyes almost glowed with contentment.

“Oh! You’re alive.” She sounded sincerely surprised.

Zilvayne tried to speak, but her throat was too damaged to emit anything more than a choking gasp.

“Sh-h. Don’t try to talk. You will heal, just give it time.”

Will I have time? Zilvayne squinted at her sister.

Ilphue nodded.

“Hmm. You’re concerned about your future, am I right? Give me a moment; we’ll talk when I’m finished.”

She turned back to Micara’s body.

Zilvayne tried to move. It was hard and painful, but not impossible. She sat up and leaned on one of the chairs. Another hour and she might be able to stand.

Ilphue grabbed a hold of the corpse and dragged it behind the table, towards the far end of the office. After a time, she heaved it somewhere with a grunt. Zilvayne heard the crackle of fire and remembered the great fireplace in the back.

“Now, that’s done,” Ilphue said, returning to Zilvayne’s vision and proceeding to come closer. “Let’s return to you.”

She sat on the floor by her sister and reached out her hand. Zilvayne jerked back, but she was too weak to stop Ilphue’s cold fingers from touching her forehead.

Ilphue whispered something, and a dark spark jumped from her fingers, landing on Zilvayne’s face. She suddenly felt better, but was filled with terrible disgust. The magic felt hateful.

“The Dark Mother does not like traitors, but I’m sure she’ll be fine with me using Her powers to heal my sister. Especially after your help.”

“L-l-lo-,” tried Zilvayne.

“Of course. I wouldn’t call old Micara a Dark Mother, don’t you think?” Ilphue patted Zilvayne on the shoulder. “As I told you, I’m glad to see you.”

“The f-f-family sh-shake up?” managed Zilvayne.

“Yes. Here, let me help you,” Ilphue deemed her fine enough and, with a surprising ease, lifted her to sit in the chair. Then took the one beside it. “You have very little time to get well and get as far away as you can from this place.”

Zilvayne lifted her brows in question.

“T’risstirr won’t be happy with you лilling Micara and burning her body to prevent resurrection. And I might like you, Zilvayne, and I do, but she will be much more useful if she thinks she knows who to blame.”

Ilphue stood and carefully straightened her clothes. She turned to leave, but first added, “by the way, don’t forget your journalist man, whatever his name is. A part of his life has already perished in flames, and if he stays, he will witness the rest go the same way.”

“W-wait!” Zilvayne managed. The pale-eyed woman turned back to her and inclined her head in question. “Ilphue… What about… the toxin?”

“The killing gas? I’m not sure there’s anything is left after your arson.”

“M-mother…”

“Did you ever think of the consequences if Micara’s plan came to fruition? I serve the Spider Queen’s interests. And you helped me a great deal, thank you.”

Zilvayne was silent.

“Well. Remember – you have an hour to get out of the house. And maybe two to get out of Menzoberranzan. I wish you luck, sister.”

And with a nod, Ilphue left, closing the door tightly behind her.

Istin was waiting for her at the workshop. He was smoking a long pipe, nervously fidgeting, and sighed with relief when he spotted her. The pipe disappeared as soon as she came closer. Zilvayne was never more glad to see him.

“You look atrocious,” he said instead of greeting.

“Thank you, dear.”

They both hobbled inside, burdened by their respective injuries.

“What happened to your eye?”

“You’ll see.”

She took him to the morgue, where, under a thin white sheet, a body waited for her to come home.

“In your note, you said you found Rhyle…” The older man swallowed thickly. “Is that him?”

“Yes and no.” She moved to uncover the body, but paused. “You will not like it, Istin, brace yourself.”

“I’ll try.” He hesitated for a long moment, then slowly breathed out. “Alright. I’ll take it as you go, Zil. I trust you.”

In one swift motion, she removed the cover.

The body was blotchy and sewn, sewn, sewn all over. Some parts were mismatched and taken from other bodies, while some were substituted with brass. She did what she could to hide the signs of death, but looking at it again, she saw many mistakes. She vowed to correct them.

Istin gagged. But sadness in Zilvayne’s face gave him a pause.

“Oh, gods. Is it Rhyle?”

The body stirred and opened its eyes. The dead boy’s drawn face seemed livelier with one dull pink eye in the left socket, but only just. The right orbit was still a mess of ragged tissue and thread. Istin looked at her in shock.

“The eye? You gave him your eye?”

“Rhyle is gone. I found him outside, around the corner, and I just… I couldn’t bear leaving his body. Like it was,” her voice lowered to a whisper. “Forlorn. Feasted on. Cold.”

Istin put his hand on her shoulder, and she realised she’s been trembling. She lifted her hand to his shoulder in turn. He was warm. Her feet stood firmly on the ground. There was a smell of formaldehyde in the air.

“So…” Istin said, trying not to look at the body, “What is it? Is it alive?”

“He’s basically a living flesh automaton. Almost no magic involved. Metal, electricity. If I managed this in any other circumstances, I might’ve patted myself on the back.”

“It’s… horrible.”

“It’s horrible,” she agreed.

The body dumbly looked from Zilvayne to Istin.

“Did you name it?”

She paused. It would be proper to name the creature, to further distinguish it from Rhyle.

“…Nilroos.”

“Borne of tears? Seems appropriate.” Istin glanced at how she was grasping the body’s hand.

“Nothing else would fit better.”