They moved like skittish rabbits scenting a winter-starved wolf, all agitation and trembling limbs. Their pale skin, upon which webs of white scars were spun, was covered by dark, shiny robes, and each step they took betrayed the fear coiled in their shadow breaths.

  Morgana had swathed them in silk in an attempt to cloak their misery in softness. Yet the fabric seemed to prickle their flesh, as if they were draped in nettles rather than finery. Still, their slender fingers worked deftly as they helped her undress.

  “Thank you, Maya. Fay.” She smiled reassuringly and murmured the names she’d bestowed—a brittle gift for girls whose pasts had been erased, histories now written only in the flinch of shoulders and ducking of the head.

  Men. The thought slithered through her, her jaw tightening as she was reminded of a plight from long ago. A sunlit childhood twisted into an eternal dusk, a beloved father’s lap to a torturer’s stool, and once kind, guiding hands turned cruel.

  The chamber’s air crackled suddenly, red petals blooming in air as her radiance leaked forth. The girls froze. Again, as if before a wolf.

  They expect violence. And why wouldn’t they?

  Morgana wrestled the storm inside, exhaling slowly until the petals dissolved, and turned to the water. Crimson-tipped toes broke the surface, followed by the pale arc of thighs and the sinuous dip of a waist. Steam curled around her like phantom hands, heavy with the scent of lilies. A moan escaped her—low, visceral.

  “Join me.”

  Maya and Fay shed their silks with furtive glances upon the request, and slowly slipped into the water. Morgana watched them, thoughts drifting to the invaders’ hidden base discovered last week—so deep in immortal lands, yet undetected. Complacency. Blindness. Her nails bit crescents into her palms, but no blood came.

  She submerged fully, welcoming the heat. When she’d found the girls chained in that stinking place, she’d seen her own reflection—not in flesh, but in the shattered glass of their eyes.

  Later, candle flames bowing low, she emerged. Water cascaded down her body as she paused before the mirror. There it hung, the illusion: hips that could sway men, lips that could tempt edictorians, skin unblemished by centuries. A masterpiece sculpted by the Vakkarim who laughed as he gifted her the ultimate weapon.

  Her fist struck the glass. A weapon can cut your opponent, but also yourself. Yes, especially yourself. Fractures spiderwebbed and the reflection warped. When the tremors began, she didn’t fight them—she collapsed instead onto marble, raven hair veiling her face as silent sobs racked her body. Cut it off. All of it.

  She forced stillness, took a deep breath and rose, water gleaming like tears on steel-forged skin. “Come.” she said, and the girls followed, wide-eyed and silent, to the sanctuary of her chambers—where silken shadows swallowed unasked questions and the night stretched endless in a place of non-disturbance.

  "Help me."

  The girls obeyed again, their movements liquid with conditioned fear. A ruby necklace soon sat upon the midnight silk caressing Morgana’s soft body, a blood moon upon its dark tapestry, and she felt whole again. Protected.

  Under her guidance, the girls perched on the bed's edge like sparrows on a precipice. Morgana retrieved the bronze brush from its lacquered box, its greenish surface aged over many decades. Maya’s oak-brown hair cascaded over bony shoulders as Morgana began working through the knots, each tug drawing a whimper.

  Her mother’s hands had been gentler – a woman’s smooth fingers braiding lilacs into a child’s hair – but Morgana was no gentle woman. And neither were she weak.

  "Pain is the toll," She told the girls, brushstrokes merciless, "paid by those who survive."

  Fay’s fiery tresses came next, strands clinging to the brush like burning regrets.

  "Your captors rot unburied," she continued. "No rites. No remembrance. Only carrion crows sing their elegies."

  Maya turned. "Will it get easier?"

  Morgana’s reflection in the dressing mirror flickered—a split-second glimpse of large hands upon her, a gaze full of greed and hunger taking her in.

  "Scars outlive wounds," she lied smoothly. "One day you’ll barely feel them."

  "I tried to escape once.” Fay said. “It didn’t work.”

  The girl’s scarred wrist twitched slightly, something that didn’t go unobserved by Morgana. Ah, that kind of escape.

  “You are free now.”

  Another lie.

  “Free?” Fay turned. “Such a thing exists?”

  “No” Morgana admitted. “Freedom is an illusion created by those in power.”

  “So escape is impossible?

  Morgana put down the brush and stared hard at the Fay. “You want to escape? Is that what you want?”

  No answer came.

  Morgana snorted derisively. “You escape by living, not dying, living– and not taking your own life. Wear the chains like armour. Use them. Harness them”

  “Is that what you do?” Maya asked.

  “It is better than the alternative.”

  Morgana stood on top of one of her balconies. Below, moonlight pooled into the courtyard like spilled mercury. The balcony was shaped like a half moon, and chiselled into the stone across the elevated railing was the song of the seventh edict. She followed it with her gaze, eyes swimming through the flowing scripture. The children of the Wakkarim, the spawn of he who holds the platter…

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  She took a step out over the railing and fell. Roses caught her in a sweet embrace as she ordered radiance to her will.

  The strongholds of twelve castles lay in a wide circle below as she rose higher and higher in the air. Nestled around them were the villages and interconnecting roads, farms and shacks, where the peasants and serf lived, bred and died.

  The damages of the last quake lay heavy over the settlements; houses collapsed, farmland overturned, graves built, and yet the castles stood firm, constructed of heavy blocks of stones from long ago, reinforced by a radiance master of a particular kind.

  Soon, everything was so small, the clouds mere vapour across her warm skin. She descended, and the world magnified, becoming larger and larger until everything was normal. She arrived at her destination and entered through a small window.

  Azure banners draped the walls of the vast hall like plucked pieces of the sky, antler-like chandeliers piercing the gloom like bright crowns. In the middle of the hall stood a round table of fine oak, around which twelve chairs were arranged. A woman sat in one of these, still as an idol carved out of the darkest, hardest obsidian, with folds of green silk drooping at the chair legs so only her ankles showed.

  A smile tore at the woman’s small mouth, brown eyes shining like suncaught chestnuts. “Old friend.”

  “Janice.”

  Morgana approached the woman and took the seat beside her. Strawberry-blonde hair framed her round, vibrant face, upon which there was not a single wrinkle.

  “This time of year again.”

  “Yes.”

  “Your children?”

  “They are alright… yours?”

  Janice smiled widely. “They do very well. In fact, not that I think about it, Greenleaf recently made a breakthrough and added another derivative aspect to her radiance. Such a handful.”

  “She certainly was a handful,” Morgana said. “I hope nothing goes wrong with her training. At such a young age, it’s important to be careful.”

  Janice batted her long eyelashes. “That sounds a lot like a threat, old friend.”

  “Threat?” Morgana laughed jovially. “Certainly not, simply the concern of someone once her master.”

  The other woman laughed too after a brief silence. “Of course.”

  “I mean,” Morgana added softly. “A threat would be to say I’d pull out her tongue and have her bones decorate my garden, wouldn’t you agree?”

  The other woman ceased laughing. The silence curdled. Somewhere, a caged nightingale’s song fractured against iron bars. A pet of Augustus, no doubt.

  “Right, old friend?”

  Janice offered a thin-lipped smile. “Right.”

  The sound of movement came from beyond the great marble doors at the end of the hall. Both women stepped apart, and as the heavy doors groaned open, ten figures entered, their figures cloaked in luxurious garments.

  At their head walked a man of impeccable poise, clad in robes of silver and white. His sandals of cedar tapped softly against the marble floor as he approached, his bearing as measured and deliberate as a lord entering his throne room.

  Augustus.

  Morgana’s gaze lingered. She noted the cut of his robes, the studied precision of his every step, and the faint but unmistakable air of condescension in his glance, and sneered.

  The master radiants took their places around the great stone table at the heart of the hall, their robes falling like shadows about them. Twelve they were, some of the most powerful radiants in the immortal lands, second only in status to the council and its members, the five great generals and the seven family heads of the capital.

  “Fellow radiants” began Augustus, leader of the twelve, his voice sonorous and measured. “It feels as though it was but yesterday we last gathered here in these halls. How swiftly the time flows.”

  Augustus’s sharp blue eyes travelled the circle, meeting each gaze in turn before continuing. He placed his hands upon the table, fingers splayed. “First order of business. The breeding halls – how is the produce?”

  Melkor, the fourth master, cleared his throat. “Well, yes, of course. Our disciples have been hard at work.” He laughed suddenly. “Oh yes, I’m looking at you, Fanri. That bull of yours has quite the talent… and apatite.”

  “Radiant Melkor.” Augustus called dryly. “Please.”

  The thinly built man rolled his eyes. “The yield is quite acceptable. Five babes with high resistance and output, seven with high resistance, medium output, four with double medium and seven with high output, low resistance.”

  The master radiants around the table nodded.

  “The five peak talents, and seven good talents, have been sent to immortal city for prospective buyers.” he continued. “The riff-raff have been sent to the nursery and will be transferred to the camps when of age.”

  “And?”

  Melkor’s gaunt, sharp face stretched into a grin. “Thee of the high output, low resistance babes were female, I sent these to the special nursery. The males were sedated and brought to the small cauldron as per protocol.”

  Four males, that means… Morgana felt her heart beating faster.

  Augustus nodded and thumped his fingers against the table. “Master Dorian?”

  “Ah, yes sir. Everything is well in the big cauldron.” The third master, Dorian, stood. He sat to Morgana’s left. “All farms are in good shape. The mushrooms are being dried and packaged as we speak. The new blend of Lumin, highly potent, has been tested to be very effective. It has few side effects, but the addictive nature is higher than standard. With proper dosage, I believe it will be very beneficial for our disciples. And, of course, be highly sought after in immortal city.”

  “I’m pleased to hear. Keep me informed.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So.” The leader of the twelve once again drummed his fingers on the table. “The previous grand competition was won by Master Daffodil. She will receive the butterfly pills from the small cauldron. Last year’s yield was two, if I’m correct?”

  “You are.” affirmed Melkor.

  “Very good. She will also get the first pick for the available slots within the respective armies for her fifth-year disciple, and five percent of the overall income from the farms. As usual.”

  Seeing no objections, the man continued. This season will be special, as I hinted at during the last quarterly meeting. The council has sent a gift for the winner of this season in return for a promise that his or her first-year disciple will be sent to the capital at season’s end. A spot is vacant in the Prismarae, you see, and they need a promising talent to fill it. It is their hope that this talent will be the best of the very best, so to speak. Only recently did I find what this kind of gift is.”

  “And?” asked Radiant Badran, ever the greedy.

  Augustus smiled widely. “A piece of the platter.”

  “You mean… a chip?” asked Podri, eyebrows raised.

  “Indeed.”

  The affirmation made Morgana lean forward in an instant, boredom forgotten. She looked around the table. Dorian stroked his pepper beard, as if deep in thought. Melkor laughed maniacally, eyes wide. Even Podri seemed moved, his placid expression now tense, which for the “unshaken” was quite the rare occurrence.

  “For such a prize,” Janice whispered softly in Morgana’s ear, her voice sultry, “I’d let you do anything you want with little Greenleaf. And me.”

  Ignoring the shameless radiant, Morgana sat forward. She couldn’t help but lick her lips. A chip… With that, she could probably join the council.

  “This season, if I recall correctly, it’s Morgana’s turn to proceed over the testing. Quite the stroke of luck. ” Augustus’s gaze turned to hers. “Hopefully your disciple will be… more loyal this time.”

  The hall fell into silence so profound that, had a sparrow alighted upon the stone table, its every movement would have echoed throughout the room.

  Morgana felt her teeth trying to crush each other but said nothing.

  “Perfect!” Augustus clapped his hands together and a tense moment and stood. “I will see you all tomorrow!”

  Morgana ignored everyone as she stood and walked away, summoning her carpet of roses and gliding out into the night. Dark thoughts, of pulling out Augustus weak, self-serving spine, of brutalising Janice with a clawed fist like the whore she was, of burning this depraved place to the ground, filled her mind as she journeyed back to her domain.

  Fine wine, she convinced herself, gets tastier the longer it ages.