Though the light of flames danced upon the wall and spread warmth throughout the chamber, Tifalla felt a chill ravage her spine. Her silent disbelief was vocalized by those around her. Various gasps and shrieks from the priestesses further lowered the councilman's gaze. There was an unspoken understanding of what this meant, yet, simultaneously, all remained lost in the dark.

  Every one hundred years, roughly so, is marked within calendars as an Aria. Each Aria is ruled by a different Lord and an accompanying Virtuosa; a priestess of only the highest regard.

  But, something troubled the priestesses of Cantabile deeply. One raised her hand, and shouted promptly, “The calendars still read A54-098!” she said.

  Fifty-four Arias have passed, and the exact year within said Aria was ninety-eight. The counter would reset after the year ninety-nine had passed and Virtuosa Felicity's role was complete upon reaching year zero of the fifty-fifth Aria.

  What changed? Was there not one more year remaining? The shock of the room did not stem from nowhere. This was soon, much too soon, more so than anyone could have anticipated.

  The councilman cleared his throat. “You are correct. Peculiar as it is, should the Virtuosa disappear, a new Aria must be ushered in post haste. We shall conduct 'The Fall' earlier than scheduled. My apologies for… potentially disrupting any plans you may have held.”

  Potentially disrupted? That didn't even begin to describe what this was to her. There were no warnings, no time to prepare in advance, and certainly no allotted time to leave beforehand.

  Tifalla was supposed to depart in just a few days. Her sentence was nearing its end. She played her part, did as she was told, and was meant to return home. And she wasn't alone. Rhea, Laetitia, countless others, they too were supposed to go home. Back to their families, back to their lives.

  Tifalla felt as if her head had been dunked beneath murky waters. Her lungs burned with how hard she heaved, and her skin felt sticky with blooming sweat. She couldn't shake the cold gnawing at her skin. When she looked to her left, a priestess weeped and when she looked to her right, Laetitia was barely holding back her fury. Many were. What began as murmurs and hushed whispers quickly became shouting. It was loud, painfully so, and Tifalla couldn't block any of it if she tried. Her thoughts were scrambled and chaotic. She couldn't think this way. How could anyone think this way? She was overwhelmed with her cold and uncaring reality.

  She was going to take part in this ritual.

  Tawhale took to the stage to begin debriefing on the first half of the ritual.

  “Had you read the Priestesses records, you would know what ‘The Fall’ entails. All of you sitting before us will first be branded on your backs with a Coda. We will douse the wound with moss oil, and you will be taken to your rooms for rest. Should this mark glow, you will ascend into the role of Virtuosa. A Lord has thus chosen you to represent them in the bid for power. If… no, when this occurs, you will be briefed further on your next steps.”

  He paced as he spoke, ending his debriefing by turning to face the crowd. His hands stretched out, as if accepting what was to come from his following words.

  “Of all who sit in this room, eight will never be seen again.”

  Tawhale's tone, matter of factly and tactless, did not ease the growing din of sobs and protests. Tifalla's own heart was far from settled. With heartbeats faster than a snake’s rattle, she felt tingling numbness all over. Her body strained just to keep itself upright, much less circulate blood to her limbs. She did not cry and she did not protest as she could not muster up either. She felt sick with her own acceptance.

  No, what she felt wasn't acceptance. At least, not from what she could tell of herself. She wanted none of this. But what could she do? Hope? Pray? That was the last thing she should do in such a situation. The strings of her nerves were crossed and tangled, disjointed thoughts mixing with her hesitation. Should she act? How so? When so? Try as she might to latch onto some sort of reassurance, all she could ask herself were questions pertaining to the worst case scenario.

  What if she didn't survive the branding?

  What if she was chosen? Who would stake claim to her?

  What if her friends were chosen?

  Nine would take part in the next step of “The Fall.” Just as Tawhale said, only one would survive it.

  The very first priestess was lifted by a guard and taken to the stage. She was a young woman near Tifalla's age with hair deeply distressed from her endless thrashing.

  She was forced down to her knees. When she resisted this affront, her head hit the floor when a wide palm splayed across her blonde locks. Her clothes were torn from her and the collar was yanked back far until the fabric could bear no more. The skin of her back sat exposed to the light and air in all of its unblemished pallor. The branding iron held to it by a guard was primed with red hot heat. It took only a single, unprompted thrust and her cries were loud enough to deafen the crowd.

  On that day, Tifalla witnessed her first branding. The sizzle of skin, the plumes of steam, and the screams… how they climbed higher and higher.

  Saddled with the ever encroaching horror of her fate, Tifalla felt her grip on reality slip away. When she looked around herself, everything seemed slower. Or, was she perhaps faster? When she looked at her hands, there was something strange about them. They weren't her own. Her breathing continued to pick up speed.

  Her hands were scarred, dark, and thin. These hands, hands that did not belong to her, were broad and covered in thin cracks. They layered over hers as if holding on.

  Tifalla began shaking. She didn't realize how much until Laetitia's face came into view.

  “Tifalla!”

  Had she been calling her? She didn't notice.

  Forced back into the present, Tifalla's hands returned to normal. She could feel parts of her body begin to warm. The frost was fading, but the horror did not. Screams continued to fill the room as more and more priestesses were pulled from their seats. When she looked around, the room was a mess. Priestesses had already begun fighting back. A small group had taken to attacking one lone guard with claws, teeth, and fists. It fared well for a time, but the group was swiftly separated and restrained to be put in line next. At the center of the room, bodies were being carried away. The women lie unconscious, sporting new burns etched into their skin.

  Tifalla looked back at Laetitia. Her expression was grim. It twitched and wavered. Her eyes looked away several times, uncertain of what to do or how to finish her sentence.

  Tifalla shook her head at it, stopping her. Trying was fruitless.

  She quietly threw herself into the other woman's arms. It was warm there. Safe. A constant amidst never-ending change. She could feel Laetitia tremble, but her arms embraced her all the same.

  Before Tifalla could shut her eyes and search for a dream, a glow suddenly enveloped the room in a calming blue. She and Laetitia separated. Together, they watched a priestess sit upright on her knees, her coda on full display for all to see. Its light swirled with cool tones and soft blues, before fading gradually with time. She neither screamed nor cried, for she appeared to be unconscious. She sat like a soul possessed. When the coda's glow finally disappeared, she flopped onto her side motionless.

  “Lord Ishamar has chosen her priestess! The tranquil waters greet you!”

  Everything in the room came to a grinding halt. The disbelief circulating through the room no longer held water. All saw with their own eyes a Lord choosing her patroness.

  The Virtuosa was carried away.

  And thus “The Fall” began in earnest.

  Women were dragged away in droves. Every branding felt worse than the last. The room soon reeked of burning skin and desperation. Tifalla's horror almost felt normal. As if she reached a peak and could go no higher. Was she losing it? Only Laetitia's hand could keep her grounded.

  But, she too was taken next right before Tifalla's eyes. Not from a guard, but by her own two feet. She let go. Rising up without her cane, Laetitia moved down the rows in slow hobbled steps.

  “Laeti?! Laeti, come back! Don't!” she cried.

  It was cold without her.

  Guards rushed her in anticipation of an attack, but she only ever scowled at them. Given no reason to attack, they were forced to keep their distance.

  “Shame on you. This much force for a woman of my constitution? Do you fear me? Do you fear this?” she asked, holding her arms out.

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  No response came. The guards were as silent as the watching councilman.

  “I certainly hope so,” she scoffed.

  Laetitia stepped closer and closer to the stage. Her every movement held more nobility than any priestess before her. Tifalla believed it held more than any after.

  When she finally reached the stage, she did not face the guards with her back to the priestesses. She stood in the opposite manner whilst she spoke aloud. Her voice came out loud and clear. It was a confession given to all who would listen, present or otherwise.

  “Ever since I have arrived at this prison, I have scorned the Lords,” she began. “Four years ago, I was wed to one in this very room.”

  She placed a hand to her chest. Her head was held high.

  “If I am to be chosen, to be taken once again in this very same room, then I swear to it: the Lords will rue this day.”

  She never once turned away. Even as she was rushed and knocked to her knees, Laetitia stared up with burning, persistent eyes. She was not looking at the crowd, Tifalla realized. She was looking at something else.

  “Every moment I have left will see to it that their demise is imminent.”

  She was calm. It was as if she knew something no one else did.

  When her head hit the ground, her words managed to maintain their strength.

  “Just watch me,” she warned.

  It wasn't until the heat of the iron grew close that Laetitia was forced to shut her eyes and fall silent. She gave no one any satisfaction of hearing her scream when she was branded.

  The ensuing light nearly blinded the room. The hall was not bathed in color, it was doused in an oppressive and aggressive glow that never seemed to fade. Tifalla shut her eyes, both in hopes that it would disappear, and to block her approaching tears. She didn't want it to be true. She prayed it wasn't true. If she opened her eyes, would it be?

  She was given no hope. Not even delusion could take root.

  “Lord Ophirius has chosen his priestess! The guiding lights greet you!”

  Laetitia was claimed.

  Tifalla could barely muffle her own screams with her hands.

  When the light finally dimmed, Laetitia's unconscious body was taken away. Tifalla wanted to give chase, but the weakness in her legs kept her rooted to the ground.

  The room's occupancy was still high. Those that remained had both good and poor chances. Seven spots remained, but the one spot taken was the Lord of Light himself.

  What followed was a slaughter.

  Most priestesses who were forced to the front were branded and carried away. A few took their marking with whatever dignity they could muster, but most were scared women fighting tooth and nail to not be mutilated.

  Then, there were the Virtuosas.

  “Lord Wyrmot has chosen his priestess! The reflective shadows greet you!”

  They gave the remaining priestesses twisted emotions. The more that were chosen and the more that were marked, meant lower chances of themselves being picked. Yet, with every Virtuosa came numerous priestesses already unchosen. The number fluctuated with every branding complete.

  “Lord Verbana has chosen her priestess! The steady grounds greet you!”

  No one could truly feel safe.

  “Please, please, please- make it stop!”

  Tifalla recognized that voice well.

  “Rhea?!” she called.

  She barely managed to catch her face before it was pushed into the ground. The sear of skin, the cries of anguish, and the ensuing silence as she passed out left Tifalla feeling dizzy. Her only relief lies in the fact that Rhea's coda did not glow. As tears brimmed at the edge of her eyes, nothing remained to keep them at bay.

  Another priestess went up. Another Virtuosa left.

  “Lord Cyphan has chosen their priestess! The flowing winds greet you!”

  “Lord Raunas has chosen his priestess! The rising flames greet you!”

  Three remained.

  After Laetitia, only one other priestess stood willingly. Stepping ahead of the guards preparing to drag another forward, she took the woman's place, temporarily sparing her. Her bronze mask gave nothing of her true expressions away and though silent in voice, its impact carried far.

  When she kneeled, she did so with grace and composure. She bowed with her hands forward and forehead to the ground. Upon being branded, a pale pink light shined.

  “Lord Yua has chosen her priestess! The ponds of ether greet you!”

  Tifalla's turn came too. It was only a matter of time.

  Dragged to her feet, the numb and tear stained Tifalla let the guards pull her to her fate. She could try and fight, but none have fared well thus far. All she was doing was prolonging the inevitable. She was dropped to her knees, and her head hit the ground with a thud. It momentarily made her head spin, but nothing compared to the searing pain in her back. The pain was instant and blinding. Her vision blurred. A scream was ripped from her throat when her mind finally caught up with what was happening to her body. It felt endless. She writhed in agony, barely held still by two men. It did not simply fade when the iron was pulled away. It did not fade when the weeping moss oil was slathered against her throbbing skin. Rather, the pain intensified.

  She managed to maintain consciousness through the branding. When a dim golden light rose from the wound, however, Tifalla could bear it no longer.

  The last thing she heard before blacking out was a greeting.

  “Lord Eiwar has chosen his priestess! The wings of time greet you!”

  Tifalla expected to fall just as she had in her dreams. But, with remarkable clarity, she realized she was left cradled by warmth. A solid foundation sat beneath her, allowing her to stand.

  Her back did not ache, but her fingers searched the expanse of her skin anyway. She could feel the healed scars of a newfound fixture beneath her fingertips. The skin felt numb to the touch, nerves fried beyond reasonable repair. When it yielded no further sensation, she left it alone and directed her focus to the space around her.

  Though the ground was as black as her surroundings, she could see quite well. She quickly attributed this to the glowing white flowers sitting in small, scattered clusters around her. They gave off a faint glow that provided a path forward through the void.

  What were once separated pockets dispersed around her steadily became large patches. Their frequency grew and led to a field of white just as big as the void itself. Tifalla tried, at first, to mind her steps, not wishing to crush the flowers beneath her. But oddly, the flora bounced back to their former splendor after her weight left. She was left in a shallow field of flowers just up to her ankles.

  Tifalla walked on. For a time, she saw nothing. She would assume things would stay this way. That is, until a flicker caught her eye, a sight she nearly missed. Her legs picked up, and she chased the small light floating through the air. Drawing closer revealed a small butterfly. Its wings, a dim yellow, closely blended in with the bright flowers. Tifalla made sure not to touch them. They were gentle creatures, she remembered.

  “Where am I, friend?” she whispered. “I think I've lost my way, you see.”

  She wasn't meant to be here, was she?

  Tifalla watched the critter flap away.

  With nowhere else to go, she followed after it.

  One became two. Two became four. Four became eight. The once solitary butterfly had seemingly multiplied into a whole colony that all headed to the same destination. Some popped out from beneath the flowers while others descended from the void above. All seemed to push Tifalla forward to a destination unknown; one she could see herself quickly approaching. The dream was shifting.

  The butterflies, upon reaching the zenith of this dream-like space, dispersed into the fields. Their task was complete. Tifalla thought to follow them, but when she caught a glimpse of what lay ahead, she was drawn away.

  There, settled at the boundary between the void and infinite universe, a lone figure floated above everything. It, he, sat surrounded by a large chitinous shell like a larva within its cocoon. His body was fragmented and distorted, only barely taking on a human shape.

  The upper body was… mostly human. He had ghostly porcelain skin and even paler white hair. It made his visage a haunting one. He looked beautiful to Tifalla, exceptionally so, but he was distinctly inhuman.

  He was thin and lean, but well concealed by a large veil with ends patterned like a butterfly. Even beneath its covering, however, she could see the cracks and holes in his body. They were not the holes of blood and flesh, but the holes one could only find in broken sculptures and dolls. Half of his face bore a massive, jagged cavity in which nothing but darkness existed within. The small cracks it created trailed across his cheeks and down his neck, leading to another gaping hole in his chest.

  His hands and feet were similarly shattered. All four limbs floated nearby their bases, and the tiny pieces to each remained suspended in the spaces between.

  His wispy hair, long as his own body, fell by the weight of gravity. Strands wrapped around his limbs, settled over his nose and swayed at the ends. He truly looked like a puppet held only by thin, invisible, strings.

  Tifalla, against her better judgement, stepped closer. She breached the cocoon's opening, overwhelmed with her own curiosity and awe.

  What did those hands feel like against hers? Why did they seem so familiar?

  The moment she entered his space, his lone eye opened.

  In an instant, Tifalla felt herself collapse to the ground. It was as if a massive weight had crashed down upon her and refused to let her stand. Try as she might to writhe and fight it, she found no hope. She was only pressed further into the ground. The pressure against her body came with strain to her organs. She struggled to breathe, see, or hear.

  Was this not a dream? Why was this pain so intense? She croaked, sputtering blood from her lips, overwhelmed with the intense weight of gravity against her.

  Before her vision completely blurred, she saw a look of… surprise? He said something or another, but she couldn't understand the words. She tried to speak in return, but her entire body had to fight just to focus on her breathing. Her energy was slipping from her grasp.

  Was this it? Was this what dying felt like? It was unbearable.

  Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

  Tifalla wheezed, throwing a hand out towards the figure in her final hope for reprieve. Her vision grew dark. Dark spots appeared over her blurry eyes. She couldn't see the figure's next movements in response to her struggle, but she could feel them.

  Her hand found his.

  Fingers, large, warm and stiff, laced with hers.

  Within an instant, Tifalla's lungs took in a full gulp of air. The dark spots in her vision cleared, and so too did the blurry haze. Though her body still felt weak, she was no longer bound to lying on the ground. She slowly sat upright. Her hand remained connected with his.

  It was so warm. It covered hers with ease.

  Tifalla soon realized that his hand had, at some point, “detached” from his body, leaving it in her possession. She looked between the limb and his face, trying to decipher what she could with her returning senses. She would never know the expression she was making at that moment.

  He stared at her from his floating position. A pale lavender eye followed her every breath and twitch. When she stood up on shaky legs to meet his gaze more closely, he neither flinched nor reacted. Much like a creature in the wild, he watched and observed. She did much the same. Though docile for now, a single look was enough to send her to the ground. She looked at her feet and found blood still trailing from her lips. Tifalla felt horrid; uneasy. She wished to back away, but with his hand in hers, she was troubled by the idea of taking it far away.

  This dream was terribly strange. It felt real; too real. The warmth against her skin and the tickles of flowers against her feet couldn't have been from imagination alone.

  But she was certain she passed out.

  When she looked up, she saw butterflies dancing around them. Some landed on her shoulders and face. They too felt real.

  Neither party spoke. They stood in anticipation for the other's next move. The air was tense and heavy, but strangely not unbearable. Tifalla found herself lost in his gaze.

  Her hand soon squeezed down onto his. It was a subconscious act done once she lost focus over her own actions. Nevertheless, it garnered a response.

  “This path is stable… I must… repair the next…”

  His voice was low and soft, but a strange echo followed every word. He sounded otherworldly. Every syllable radiated power. Tifalla just couldn't understand what he meant.

  “Who are–”

  Before she could speak any further, the “dream” was cut short.

  The sound of something shattering filled her ears.

  She awoke with a gasp.