Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

On the eve of Harrowhark Nonagesimus's eighteenth birthday, absolutely nothing happened. Nothing was supposed to happen, of course. The Ninth House did not waste time or resources on frivolities. The years were simply a passage of time, a biometric mark of how long the body had circled Dominicus. The "years" didn't even line up with the actual rotation of the planet.

Harrowhark knew when it came, though, because she kept meticulous detail of everything. Every passing day, every change in her body, every new theorum mastered, every coming and going with the dying House. She knew quite well that, within her fortieth birthday or sometime thereafter, the Ninth House would simply die. She was the youngest, and no one stood after her.

Her parents reminded her often of her duty to the Locked Tomb. Her parents ensured she never forgot the gravity of their position, of what it meant to be Ninth, of how the entirety of the universe depended on their piety and dedication. The weight of an entire culture bore heavy on frail shoulders, especially in the emptiness of her cell.

No one would wish her a happy birthday. That was just the sort of rubbish found in fantasies and flowery tales from the Third. The next day would pass, just like all other days had.

Much to everyone's breathless surprise, though, Harrowhark's eighteenth birthday did involve a fateful occasion. It wasn't the kind anyone would have predicted, not by a long shot. But there, standing just before her parents, a sheaf of paper lay. Paper. Real fiber, lined with ink and printed in the fine script of someone well-studied.

"By the Divine order of the Kindly Prince, the Emperor Undying, the Cohort of the Nine Houses requests a new adept to fill our ranks for deployment abroad."

"We haven't sent a necromancer in over fifty years," Aiglamene stated, the fact quite obvious to everyone involved. "They know our numbers have dwindled. We have so little to give."

"Only one to give," Harrowhark spoke. Her voice rung against the walls of dead Drearburh, filled with a sense of purpose and resignation.

Everyone knew a request from the Cohort meant "ass on the shuttle a week ago." There would be no debate. There would be no second option. There would be no contingency plan. Sending the lone heir to the Ninth was akin to suicide, but one ordered by the Necrolord Prime himself. What choice did they have?

Harrowhark was powerless to protest. The House wept for days. She wept the day of her departure, watching the planet shrink away onboard the lonely shuttle. The transition out of low orbit left her shuddering and clutching at her seat. Thanergy spilled out beneath her, leaving her body helpless in the void of space.

The shuttle was empty outside of herself. They hadn't even deigned to provide her an escort, though that was perfectly fine for her. No one had to see the tears she dabbed away with her robes. No one had to witness the panic that filled her eyes when her bone jewelry no longer heeded her call. Logically, she knew the effect space had on necromancers. No amount of logic could prepare her for the potent drain of everything she'd built her life around. A small pile of dirt helped aid the transition, giving her the tiniest whisps of thanergy to cling to. The gesture felt more like pity and less like compassion. She purposely did not sit on the pile, like the necromancers in books tended to.

Her destination lay not far beyond. She'd join the Rigor, a massive interstellar battleship intent on traveling out of Dominicus. Once onboard, the ship would aim it's sights on Tau Ceti, resupply and transfer, then move off once more to the fringes of Imperial space. To anyone who wasn't Harrowhark, the missions might've sounded exhilarating; travel to the far reaches of space, establish new territory, bathe in the honor of the Emperor Undying. Any necromancer worth their salt would clamor for the chance at such a position.

Harrowhark felt like she'd been given a death sentence. The frontier would kill her, and with it, the entire Ninth.

Duty took precedence over fear, though. The journey might kill her, but at least she'd die in service of the Tomb, which was all any penitent of the Ninth could ever ask for.

The Rigor held a whole community of it's own. The massive belly of the ship managed to make itself feel less like a can floating in the death trap of space and more like a little oasis in the void. Granted, the noises and colors and smells were enough to make Harrow want to claw her skin off, but she couldn't deny that they did offer her accommodations. They allowed her to wear her paint without question. They let her wear a black half-robe over her uniform. They didn't even ban her from keeping her knucklebones on her wrist. The food was strange and overly flavorful, but after a few days, her body adapted to the changes.

Most of the changes, at least. The worst was the aptitude dyspraxia, a term she'd only heard of in books. Necromancers grew so dependent on a constant flow of thanergy that lacking it entirely left them dizzy and disoriented at times. The first night aboard the ship offered no rest for Harrow. The room spun around her as her fingers twitched and ached for thanergy. As long as she took her steps carefully, she could avoid the worst of it. She only stumbled once, thankfully in private.

A good three-quarters of the ship's inhabitants were front line; soldiers, engineers, infantry. The battle tactics were brutal, but efficient. With necromancers in much shorter supply, the front-liners would charge forward in a blaze of fury and spur the initial bloom of death. Only then could the adepts function at full capacity. Harrowhark had the luxury of standing behind the shining men and women of the Houses. The chances of her taking a blow were far lower; never zero, but not in the high fifties or more. Yet, despite the discrepancy between 'ranks', the others didn't begrudge her for her talents. Many of them did begrudge her for being Ninth, though. Stigma ran thick in the rumors and whispers. She wasn't just a necromancer. She was a shadow cultist, a strange penitent from the ass end of Dominicus. People kept their distance, but stared over their shoulder. It wasn't outright hostility, at least not yet. But they left her feeling like a spectacle.

She hated it.

"Excuse me!" a voice called out. After the forth day on board the Rigor, when her head stopped spinning and she accepted her complete lack of power, she dared to venture into the Commons. A whole hub of people gathered for food and camaraderie. The vast majority were far too busy to notice her, except for two well-dressed individuals. The boy, most likely a necromancer, given his build, caught up to Harrow just as she turned to the noise. A girl stood a step behind him, rapier at her hip, eyes alight with curiosity.

"You're the Reverend Daughter, aren't you?" the boy asked, barely able to constrain his gawking. "I heard we'd brought in a member of the Ninth!"

"Isaac, don't be nosy!" the girl said, keeping her voice low.

"Yeah, uh, sorry, I know it's a bit presumptuous of me, but the uh," he paused, gesturing to his own face in mimicry of the Ninth mask.

"Yes," Harrow stated plainly. "I'm well aware I don't exactly blend in with the crowd."

"What he means to say," said the girl, trying to retake the reigns of the conversation, "is that we're delighted to see a new face! Can we do anything to, uh, you know. Help you adjust?"

The girl looked a few years younger than Harrow, easily, but someone who had seen the majority of her life in a uniform. The offer left Harrow rattled, almost insulted. Someone her junior was essentially chiding her for being a Ninth nun hermit. The line between her brows creased in irritation, but she miraculously managed to keep her voice level.

"I don't see how anyone could help me better acclimate." She'd just started to turn when the girl cut in again.

"Don't shut yourself in your quarters all day! Come get something from the cafeteria with us, just once? If you hate it, we'll drop it."

Why were these children even interested in her? She'd yet to fully comprehend the differences in bars and insignias against the uniforms. Really, that should've been her first lesson, but the shock of space flight stole the majority of her focus. Still, a brief glance revealed that the teens had fewer bars than most, but more than herself. That was a dismal thought. Here she was, the heir to the Ninth House, starting at the very bottom of the barrel.

Enlistment came with benefits, she knew. Whatever service she performed for the Emperor Undying, the Cohort would award her House in return. Given that warm bodies were the priciest commodity for the Ninth, new souls and immigrants were worth every second she spent laboring under the confines of the Rigor. Even if she utterly loathed it.

In the depths of her thoughts, her stomach rudely protested her with a soft growl. It was so easy to ignore her body planetside. Here, she had to respond to every little ache and moan that wasn't drowned out by thanergy.

"I suppose a meal would be wise."

"See, I told you!" the girl whispered softly, though not soft enough. "I'm Lieutenant Jeannemary Chatur, and this here is-"

"Lieutenant Isaac Tettares!"

Both of them gave a formal bow, like they'd performed the gesture a hundred times before. Harrow simply clasped her hands before her, nodding once.

"Reverend Daughter Harrowhark Nonagesimus, though it seems you're already aware."

"I didn't know your name, actually," Isaac said. "Come on, before the place gets crowded!"

The cafeteria aboard the Rigor was quite crowded by then. Lines and lines of metal tables held the promising forces of the Cohort, all intermingled. Trying to tell apart who was a necromancer and who wasn't took a keen eye, and even that wasn't good enough half of the time. Her brief instruction from the first days informed her that, on the front lines, identifying your adept was akin to painting a giant bullseye on their head. What seemed like an insult was more of a survival tactic. Some individuals were easier to pick out, simply by their lanky builds and complete lack of muscle mass. Some people were surprising, though.

"It's not often we get recruits from multiple Houses," Jeannemary said as they approached the meal counter. "There's some special operation brewing. Nobody knows the details yet, but usually the ships are just a mix of Fourth and Second. Those over there are Fifth, I think. And over there, definitely Third."

Harrow glanced across the way and caught sight of the offenders. Two women marched into the dining hall, similar but not entirely identical. One's golden hair surrounded her regal form like a halo. The other one looked a touch sick. A young man stood half a step behind them, rapier at his hip, hair styled rather ridiculously.

"I wonder why there's two adepts," Isaac muttered. "The guy is clearly their cavalier, no question there."

"The Third is just like that."

Both of the teens looked at one another, then over to Harrow.

"You didn't have a cavalier with you?"

"No," Harrow said, her voice tinged with annoyance. "He didn't meet the qualification."

"That's alright. They have a whole unit of spares-"

"Don't call them that, Isaac!"

"Okay, okay, 'unallocated attachments' is the proper term. They're all trained in preparation for serving as a cavalier, but you know there's way more of them than necromancers."

"I'm aware," Harrow said, eyes narrowing. "I was told I'd be assigned once they assessed my abilities."

"Oh, great then! Hopefully you get someone good-"

"Isaac!" The girl smacked his shoulder as she hissed the name out. "If they're onboard this ship, they're good!"

The pair bickered for a moment longer as they moved up the queue toward the counter. Harrow had to make a few assumptions on what to do; pick up a tray, perhaps? Move across the lane and…find what looked appetizing? Which was just about none of it. She settled on some vaguely lumpy, starchy things—potatoes, maybe?—cooked, green leaves, and a pale flaky meat. Other Houses had the luxury of crops and animals, much more than the snow leeks of the Ninth. And snow leeks were not on the menu.

Thankfully, the teens found them a table far away from the commotion. Harrow picked at her food for most of the time, finding the leaves a touch spicy and the lumpy things a touch heavy. But, she did succeed in sating the hunger in her belly. Maybe she could make it through the rest of the day without the inconvenience of a meal.

Isaac and Jeannemary chattered on and on about the ship, about what docking at Tau Ceti would be like, what to expect on a first assignment and so on. Thankfully, they only probed Harrow for the occasional question. She was all too keen to get the hell out of there before Isaac stopped her.

"Have you had the ship's coffee before?"

"Coffee?" Harrow promptly pursed her lips, realizing the question made her seem like more of a recluse than she intended. The Ninth simply did not consider coffee worth the export fees.

"Oh, come on. You've gotta try it!" Jeannemary leapt up, gesturing for them to move to a stand at the far end of the cafeteria. "It's a mild stimulant, but they add special extracts to help your body better process nutrients in space. The Cohort wouldn't exist without a good cup of coffee."

Harrow was quite ready to lock herself in her quarters for the rest of the night. She couldn't, of course. She still had training classes to attend in the latter half of the day. Maybe a stimulant might actually be helpful, just to get through the boring voices of officers that enjoyed hearing themselves talk.

Isaac and Jeannemary were sidelined by another recruit, finally leaving Harrow alone. She'd try her drink, for curiosity's sake, and be on with her business for the day.

A single figure stood behind the counter, their back currently turned to Harrow. The line had dwindled down as lunch hour ended, which gave her a moment to read over the menu. How could there even be so many ways to drink one liquid?

"Let me guess," the figure said, turning to face Harrow. "You take it black?"

Harrow's gaze shot up, her tongue already primed to fire back a retort. She had to look up…and up, a good head taller than herself. The voice gave away that the person was a woman, young as well. She had the same crisp, white uniform as everyone else, but with an added apron over top. Her sleeves were rolled to the elbows, exposing tawny, lean arms. The further Harrow's gaze rose, the more she felt an odd sensation growing in her chest.

Being the only child on the Ninth had stunted her development, she knew. As much as the other residents like Aiglamene and Ortus had tried to assist her, she was still incredibly awkward in the presence of other people her age.

Especially women.

Jeannemary was easy. She was far too young to garner any interest. The prior officers were easy, as they were much older and showed a hint of disdain for Harrow's face paint.

This woman was—

"That's a bit presumptuous," Harrow said, unable to control the bite in her voice. Her dark, lightless eyes landed on the woman's golden gaze. She'd never seen eyes like that before, the kind that could snatch anyone's attention from a field away. Her mess of red hair was a bit ridiculous, but the lopsided smile and quirked brow gave her a dash of rakish charm.

Oh god, she was looking too closely.

"But am I wrong?" the woman asked, leaning one hip into the bar. Harrow was used to people backing down when she barked at them. This one rose to the challenge.

"I am afraid I don't know what 'taking it black' means. You'll have to speak plainly." She crossed her arms over her chest, trying to hold her composure under the woman's gaze.

"What, you've never had coffee before?"

"No."

"Lucky me, then! I get to be your first." The fiendish woman winked at Harrow as she took a menu and spun it around. That instantly had Harrow's blood boiling, rising up from her chest and into her cheeks with hot anger. Or…mostly anger.

"Are all Cohort recruits so wildly inappropriate?"

"Depends on who you talk to," the woman said. "Most people actually tip me for making them laugh."

Harrow bunched her fists against her side, barely able to resist the urge to stomp away. In fact, one foot started the motion, fully intent on carrying through. The sad reality, she knew, was that she had absolutely zero sway on board the Rigor. She might as well toss out the title of Reverend Daughter. No one cared. Her service depended on her ability to integrate, and her House dearly depended on her service.

"Could you," she started, keeping her voice measured and calm, "Please recommend a drink. I am unfamiliar with how you 'take' coffee."

"Aww, she can be nice! Alright, alright, jokes aside, let me whip up something for you. I'm gonna go out on a limb and say 'nothing too sweet, no milk, no cream.'"

"Preferably."

"Thought so! Just stay put, this won't take long."

The infuriating redhead turned back to her machinery and flipped a few switches. She sifted a brown powder into something vaguely spoon shaped, but bigger. Steam wafted into the air as a rich fluid pooled in a cup. A few syrupy-like liquids were pumped in, one labeled 'BARI', the other 'Vit D'. Then came a dash of some sort of powder on top. When the cup slid her way, light brown foam lay over the top of the liquid, sprinkled with something that smelled spiced. Was that cinnamon? She'd only tasted it a handful of times.

"Well?" the woman said, grinning that stupid crooked smile. "Give 'er a go! Tell me what you think! Oh, but don't chug it. It's hot."

Harrow did not seem the least bit convinced. She glared at the cup for half a second too long before finally taking it. The smell was actually rather nice, she had to admit. Had anyone else prepared it, she probably wouldn't have batted an eyelash. Something told her that giving this woman any sort of satisfaction would haunt her.

Still, she blew on the steamy foam for a second, then tried a small sip.

It did burn, slightly. Not enough to scald her tongue, but more than the tepid teas the Ninth prepared. The flavor, though… Her eyes widened in surprise, then gently rolled shut once more. Bitter and rich, hints of spices, something a touch medicinal, but she didn't actually mind that at all— all of it combined together in a delicate bouquet. Now she understood why the Cohort drooled over the stuff.

"Not bad," she muttered, quickly dabbing at a bit of foam on her upper lip. She made every effort not to catch the woman's eyes as she spoke.

"I get the impression that you just praised my ancestors with that one." That crooked smile only grew more uneven. "I'll take it as a win."

"Don't get ahead of yourself," Harrow said gruffly. "I said it's not bad."

"Well, if it's palatable, you're welcome to come stomach another taste any time." Their eyes met just in time for the redhead to give the most infuriating wink. Harrow nearly choked.

"Do people make a habit of this?"

"Oh, absolutely! Most of the commanding officers need at least a cup before they can piss."

"Eugh, are you always so crass?"

"It's the military, O Dark Priestess. Get used to it."

Harrow had reached her limit. No, she reached her limit a good thirty seconds prior. By that point, she was so far beyond her limit that she started to fantasize about tossing the coffee right back at the woman just to watch her whine. She resisted, by sheer force of will, but she wouldn't for long.

So she turned her back and stomped off, cup still in hand.

"That's a double shot," the woman called out. "So you know what to order next time!"

Harrow refused to look back as she stalked off to the corridors of the ship. If everyone behaved like that woman, she'd start wishing for the sweet release of death within the next week.

Chapter Text

Coffee, Harrow determined, was surprisingly good. The flavors were complex enough to keep her attention. The warmth felt comforting in the cold corridors of the Rigor. More importantly, the stimulant effect did wonderful things to her brain. She had to suffer through a series of lectures that afternoon, one after another about the various worlds they'd move to, how an adept integrated with their unit, how to use survival equipment and piss standing up (she hated that one). Despite the utter banality of the information, she stayed focused and attentive, marking a plethora of notes in her journal. As much as she loathed to admit it, caffeine did serve a purpose. No wonder the Cohort adored it.

The next morning, she found herself up at 0600 call, dressed, face painted, prepped for another day. They'd arrive at Tau Ceti within the next two hours and she'd finally, blessedly land planetside once more. Her body longed for the threads of thanergy coursing through her veins. She'd never been without it for so long.

Breakfast was, sadly, a necessity. Harrow knew that once she landed, she'd have a series of exams to complete. The Cohort needed to grade her talents and place her in the appropriate unit, which meant she needed as much energy and as much blood as possible. At least for breakfast, they served a bland porridge not unlike the kind she'd eat on the Ninth, the only difference being a smattering of bright berries paired beside it. She picked at the fruit, unsure if she enjoyed or detested the tartness. Mixed together, though? That wasn't terrible.

She'd gotten through most of breakfast without any interruption. Midway through, though, a pair of recruits sat across from her.

"An adept of the Ninth!" one said; a man, not much older than her, with glasses perched atop his nose. "Color me surprised. I'd thought your House gave up participation in saber-rattling."

"Bold of you to assume she had a choice, Warden." The other, a woman, flicked her sharp eyes over to her companion, then back to Harrow.

"Indeed. I did not have a choice," Harrow spoke.

"Solidarity, then! I'm Palamedes Sextus of the Sixth, and this is Camilla Hect." The man reached out a hand for a shake. Harrow stared at it for a moment too long, causing him to withdraw. "I know it's so hard to tell people apart in these crowds, but I can assure you that we're in the same predicament you are."

"And what predicament would that be?" Harrow couldn't keep the bite out of her voice.

"The Cohort's voracious appetite for necromancers, of course. Are you not part of the proj—"

"Warden," Camilla warned.

"Ah, right! I shouldn't have assumed, since you seem to have no cavalier. My apologies."

Unfortunately for Palamedes, the quick cover garnered more of Harrow's attention than anything else since she's been aboard the ship. She pushed her tray to the side and leaned in, dropping her voice to a whisper.

"What project?"

"Our lips are sealed by confidentiality contracts," Palamedes said, subtly pushing his glasses up his nose. "But. I can say that certain members of command are getting…restless."

"Restless for what?" Harrow had the briefest of understanding about the front lines. An insurgency force awaited them, people independent from the Houses without the talents of necromancy. But with such a disadvantage, surely they weren't a threat, right?

"Scientific advancement," Palamedes said, his cold gray eyes flickering with a spark of intrigue. "Keep your eyes forward. I get the impression you've scoped out most of the ship in just a few days. You leave no stone unturned."

"…You'd be correct," Harrow said, somewhat reluctantly.

"Good. Keep it up. You'll need it."

"Warden," Camilla said once more. "We need to get moving." They'd both barely touched their own breakfasts, but a sudden commotion across the cafeteria had the woman nervous and flighty.

"Right, of course. What's your name, by the way?" he asked. "I can see your nameplate just fine, but I'd rather hear it from you."

"Harrowhark Nonagesimus," she said plainly, her brows scrunched in a perpetual furrow.

"A pleasure to meet you, Reverend Daughter." As Palamedes stood, he offered a small bow. Then, without another word, he and Camilla were off, the gray capes over their uniforms gently ruffling in their wake. They disappeared in the opposite direction, away from the small crowd. Why they were in such a hurry, she hadn't the slightest clue. Still, her gaze fell on the commotion, patiently waiting to see what all the fuss was about.

People slowly parted, allowing two figures to pass through. Something felt entirely off about them, like a distinct lack of being right where their bodies were. Harrow was not a flesh magician. She detested the art. Feeling a pulse from a distance wasn't something she ever did, or really knew how to do, especially with no thanergy around. She could sense the spongy feel of live osseous matter, but couldn't do a damn thing with it. Too much thalergy, too little incentive to mess with a living person. Even if she wanted to get a feel for who these people were, a vast void lingered around them, like a power vacuum.

Where those lyctors? The idea felt entirely improbable. The Hands of the Emperor had far more important tasks in the galaxy than answering the Cohort's call. Yet, everyone seemed to give them a measure of deference, more than they even did for their officers. She'd never encountered a single entity rippling with such power—lack of power? Like walking entropy. Utterly unreal, yet tangibly present.

Factually, she knew that if they were lyctors, they were both ancient, possibly Pre-Ressurection. Details about the remaining lyctors were more legend than truth. And not a damn thing she'd ever learned prepared her for actually seeing them in person.

A man and a woman marched across the cafeteria, quietly talking among themselves. The woman held what looked like a clipboard, which she diligently marked on every few seconds. They paid so little attention to the soldiers around them, only avoiding any head on collisions because every other soul on board stepped clear out of their path. Nothing in Harrow's briefing had discussed the presence of the Emperor's Hands on board the ship. Rumors spread like wild fire, especially in such contained quarters, yet not a single person had mentioned it. The younger Fourth would've chomped at the bit to gossip about lyctors on board their own ship.

That opened up the possibility that they'd just arrived. With the Rigor's proximity to its destination, it made far more sense that their transport simply docked aboard right before arrival. She wouldn't have time for further questions, not right then. A little over an hour hung between the end of breakfast and finally getting her feet back on solid ground.

The work ahead of her required energy. As much as she loathed the thought of socializing, the taste of yesterday's coffee still lingered on her tongue. Logically, a bit of stimulant would do her well, especially with the exam looming ahead. Begrudgingly, she disposed of her meal and turned toward the stand at the end of the cafeteria. All she needed to do was place her order and walk away. If that aggravating woman dared to start small talk, she could simply ignore her. Yes, easy enough!

As she reached the front of the line, her cool gaze fell upon…a man, who seemed entirely nonplussed about her pursed lips and crossed arms.

"Order?" he said, giving her maybe a second or so to speak before moving on to the next in line.

Huh. That was…unexpected. For the briefest moment, the word 'disappointing' flickered in her mind. She very quickly stomped that out and burned the remainder of the idea to a crisp. In what universe was that god-awful woman worthy of a 'disappointing?'

"A 'double shot,'" she announced. Then, more curtly. "Please."

"Got it," the man said, all too bored. Within thirty seconds flat, he plopped a cup onto the counter. Unlike before, the rich fluid looked…somewhat diluted. Only a hint of foam floated on the surface, and certainly none of the spices.

"Is this mine?" Harrow said, quirking a brow. "It looks different."

"Don't complain, shadow cultist," the man barked. "I don't make fancy shit like Nav does."

"Nav?" She didn't even balk at the derogatory jab. She should have, just to watch the man cower, but he had offered her a scrap of intel.

"Red hair, cocky smile—" That sounded right. "Enough charisma to make the bloody Emperor blush?"

"Ugh, absolutely not." Harrow curled her lip in disgust.

"Oh yeah," the man laughed. "Definitely Nav. She works second shift. Normally, you'd catch her after lunch, but she's gettin' shipped out once we dock."

"She's infantry then?" Why was Harrow even the slightest bit curious? She could've kicked herself for daring to continue the conversation. Though, now she was definitely curious. "I thought she just made drinks."

"Nah, she just does it part-time. Ask her yourself if you're curious." The man gave a swift nod, then promptly proceeded to ignore any further conversation. There were others in line, after all.

She wouldn't get a chance to ask, it seemed. More likely than not, they'd get sent into opposite ends of the galaxy, or beyond. Not that it mattered, of course. Enlistment in the Cohort felt more like conscription, especially with the benefits that awaited her House after her service. She certainly wasn't there to make friends. So she took her piss-poor coffee and skulked off back to her quarters to gather her few belongings.

She barely drank half of it, finding the brew too bitter. Which, for her, meant it was burnt to all hell and entirely unpalatable. What a waste of resources.

Thankfully, she didn't need the caffeine boost. Once she boarded onto the smaller shuttle, duffel bag slung over her slight frame, prayer beads gently clacking against her fingers, she found exhilaration organically. The descent onto base left her a little disoriented, but the displeasure rapidly faded the moment thanergy spilled back into her veins. She breathed a deep sigh of relief as she reached into one pocket. Just for comfort's sake, she manipulated a small bone chip into a handful of metatarsals. Child's play, of course, but just knowing she could do it took away the knot that had been buried in her belly for days.

A cloistered life hidden away in Drearburh did little to prepare Harrow for the sights of a true, blue Cohort installation. Clean metallic walls lead down narrow, symmetrical corridors, each hallway clearly labeled. Inlaid bone rested sporadically in the walls, but there was not a drop of inspiration behind its placement. The ambiance was terrible, she thought. Even she knew, deep in the hidden nooks of the Ninth, that the Cohort was not known for its style.

"With me, Nonagesimus," a woman called out, pulling Harrow from the long line of marching recruits. "This way."

A handful of men and women stood beyond, each with varying levels of black bars against their uniforms. The group moved down a corridor to what looked like a training room; one large, empty chamber, lined on two walls with plexiform windows and accompanying observation rooms. The woman lead Harrow into the large chamber, then produced a fistful of bones.

Silly for her to assume Harrow wasn't well prepared already. Still, she took the offered chips, slowly sliding them against her gloved hand.

"You'll have ten minutes," the woman started. "Our duelists are well-trained in finding weaknesses in bone constructs. Quality over quantity, strength over anatomical accuracy. I know you Ninth are one for dramatics. Remember, you're not making art. You're making weapons."

Harrow couldn't stop herself from glaring. Thankfully, the white paint against her forehead managed to hide the worst of her furrowed brows. Still, she balked at the level of assumption and, frankly, prejudice. For a military that hadn't seen a Ninth nun in years, they certainly had a wealth of opinions about her.

"I won't disappoint," she said, straining to keep the venom off her tongue.

"You best not. This test determines your next few years, recruit." The woman offered a salute, then stepped out toward the observation rooms. In her place, two men stepped in, armed with rapiers, one with a dagger, the other with a chain. Cavaliers. Unlike Ortus and Aiglamene back home, these two were young and fit, shining examples of House strength. They'd probably been bred like dogs, long lines of pedigrees proving their worth.

She barely resisted rolling her eyes.

"On my count," a voice boomed over the intercom. "Begin!"

With a flick of her wrist, Harrow channeled a deluge of thanergy into bone, springing forth four massive constructs. They stood nearly eight feet tall, each bone robust and reinforced, spikes lining down humerus and ulna, vertebrae and tibia. They clutched a thick length of femur in each hand, with reinforcement of clavicle and ribs along the grip.

"I said weapons, you fool!" the intercom boomed.

The cavaliers advanced, licking out thin swords like they expected the bone to crumble to powder simply from their presence. Blood trickled down Harrow's nose as the constructs lashed out.

It happened so fast. Femur slammed into metal, filling the room with a dull thwunk and a series of grunts. One cav swung high, leaving his midsection vulnerable for a heavy foot to smash into flesh. He faltered, only for a second, quickly correcting his stance. The other maneuvered around two constructs, more like a dancer pirouetting between bones. The movements were aggravating, but not impossible. Harrow shifted her arms, ordering the constructs to obstruct the cav's path. Another heavy clunk of metal against bone rendered one construct useless, it's bludgeon knocked out of its grasp.

She didn't relent, though. A well-timed swing caught the first cav's knee, knocking him flat onto his ass. A heavy calcaneus pressed into his chest, keeping him down. The second cav took a blunt hit to the shoulder, skidding him into the far wall. With a wet grunt, he fell forward, clutching at his arm.

"Match!" The voice boomed overhead, causing both cavaliers to curse under their breath. The constructs crumbled to the ground as Harrow wiped blood sweat from her brow. Even her ears were dripping red from the force.

"Holy shit."

The observers stood in shock, silence lingering in a thick cloud over them. After a moment, the first woman emerged, her eyes wide.

"Well color me fucking surprised," she muttered. "Under a minute flat. Fuck! It seems I underestimated you."

"It seems you did," Harrow said, using her black cape to mop up her nose. Best not to dirty her uniform just yet.

"Alright. Well." The woman straightened her coat and canted her head to the side. "Someone get the lyctor."

"Commander—"

"Don't make me repeat myself."

Everyone erupted in a flurry of activity. A handful of people rushed out to help up the bruised cavaliers. The Commander, whatever her name was, quickly gripped Harrow by the shoulder and escorted her roughly through the door.

"What's happening?" Harrow asked, instinctively rubbing her fingers over her knucklebones tucked in her pocket.

"No questions yet."

"I think I have the right to know where you're—"

"That's an order, adept."

Harrow bit against her cheek, swallowing down whatever retort she held at the ready. She'd spent her entire life barking orders and having the majority of them answered with haste. She knew everything that happened on the Ninth, every mundane detail and intricate ceremony. The only thing that ever eluded her was the Tomb, for obvious reasons. Even then, she figuratively bashed her head into the stone for years. But the Cohort gave her nothing. Less than nothing! It left her itchy with annoyance and quietly plotting the mysterious death of every superior officer.

Whoever thought she could survive in the military was clearly a fucking idiot.

Eventually, when she proved she wouldn't run in the opposite direction, the Commander pried her hand off Harrow's shoulder. They slipped down another, narrower corridor until they reached a nondescript door. The metal slid open, revealing a simple table and two chairs. One was currently occupied.

"You called me away for a child?"

The person in question was the woman from earlier, the lyctor. Pale, apricot-colored hair sat in a tight bun against her head, paired with pursed lips and eyes that threatened to burn right through Harrow. She crossed one leg over the other and brusquely gestured for Harrow to sit.

"Trust me," the Commander said. "I think she'd fit."

"She's got no cav."

"And you've got spares."

"Fine," the lyctor spat. "Let's entertain the thought."

Harrow sat, as ordered, her shoulders tense and her hands clasped against her knees. The lyctor reached forward and pressed a single finger to her forehead. In the span of one breath, she felt her entire body probed, from tip to toe. An unseen force passed like silk over top of her nerves, across the lobes of her brain, over capillaries and glands and lymph nodes, exposing every inch of her biology to a complete stranger. The sensation ranked as one of the worst things she'd ever experienced. Worse that her body starting puberty. Worse than the time she'd nearly broken a leg. Worse than the thanergy void of space.

She wanted to puke.

But in the next breath, the sensation slipped away, like it had never existed.

"She needs work," the lyctor spoke. "Not the worst I've ever seen. You won't know until you integrate her with a cav."

"It's worth the investment—"

"Yes, yes, she's worth testing. If she can't integrate, send her to Antioch."

The lyctor gave a flippant wave of her hand, like the entire minute-long exchange had exhausted her. Before Harrow even had time to register what direction was up or down, she was yanked along once more.

"Is anyone going to explain—"

"Once you get to Rigel," the Commander said curtly.

"You're seriously sending me across—"

"Ninth," the woman growled. "Your enlistment contract allows us to send you wherever the Cohort sees fit, based on your abilities. And your abilities are, admittedly, quite impressive." It almost seemed like it pained the woman to admit that. "I am recommending you for a tactical project, one I suspect you'll succeed at. This requires your cooperation for one, but also your explicit silence."

Harrow paused in her tracks, staring intently up at the woman. Her mouth tried to move once, then twice, before finally forcing words out.

"Is this official?"

The Commander huffed a humorless laugh.

"You're clever," she muttered, dropping her voice low. "The Houses hear little of the front lines, and even less in the Ninth, I suspect. Our success relies on our talent, our potential. We'd never win a single battle if we didn't push the boundaries, so to speak. So, to answer your question, no."

Harrow's eyes widened.

"Not publicly. If you can't keep your mouth shut, I'll have you shipped off to Antioch without another word. Do you understand , Reverend Daughter?"

Harrow had only a moment to think through a month's worth of considerations. The implications were staggering. If she refused, she'd get shunted off to the one place people shuddered about in conversation. She'd seen the forlorn looks on faces when a fresh recruit mentioned their assignment. The details were less than sparse, with only a faint rumor of death lingering in the same breath that muttered 'Antioch.'

If she agreed…that was equally terrifying. Her chest briefly swelled with pride knowing that her talent alone got her recruited for a hidden operation. But her involvement could potentially wipe her name right off the records. She'd disappear, for all intents and purposes. Drearburh would hear nothing of her status, not until she died. Even then, an obituary wasn't even guaranteed. That is, if her assumptions were correct.

"Will my House still benefit?" She couldn't stop herself. Everything she'd done after stepping foot on the initial shuttle was all in service of the Ninth. She couldn't fail.

"Immensely," the Commander said. "But you won't be there to see it. Once you agree to this, you belong to the Emperor Undying himself."

Fuck!

Harrow involuntarily bit at her lip, taking an odd sort of comfort in the taste of iron in her mouth. Terror steadily gripped at her chest as realization sunk in. This was it. This single decision determined life or death, with most fingers pointing squarely at death. One was guaranteed. One was unknown. She needed time! She needed contemplation! How could anyone be expected to make a horrendously life-altering decision in the span of a heartbeat or two? How was any of this fair?

The next pulse hammered in her ear like a death knell. The color drained from her face as her mouth grew dry.

"…I agree," she said, staring straight past the woman, a hundred meters away or more. The weight of the entire universe crashed in on her head. She took one steadying breath, knowing she'd draw her last sometime soon.

"Excellent," the Commander said, eyes gleaming with sadistic delight. "You have thirty minutes to get your bony ass on that ship."

Chapter Text

The brief gift of thanergy slipped through Harrow's fingers as her transport shuttle darted over the horizon and into the blackness of low orbit once more. Only a handful of bodies stood onboard the cramped cabin, intent on jumping from planetside to the Rigor, then to the next ship. Once transferred, she'd meet the rest of Rigel's ground team. The base lingered on a thanergetic planet, terraformed some thousand years ago for habitation. While it held no active war zones, rumors drifted on the wind about a Blood of Eden influence.

She knew so little about Blood of Eden. Recruits didn't have the necessary security clearance, outside of knowing they were a terrorist organization. Perhaps, with her new assignment, she might learn more. Truthfully, it was so far down her priority list that she didn't care. A group completely lacking in necromancy was more or less a joke. She had much bigger problems on her hands.

The first of which was getting herself onto another transport shuttle. The Rigel team had to shift to the Emperor's Dominion, then pass through a series of steles until they arrived at their destination. The journey would take less than a week, but that meant yet more time she'd be left utterly powerless. She couldn't even protest, unless she wanted to risk sounding like a child. Thousands of necromancers had survived just fine without a bit of thanergy for a few days. At this point, saying a word about it was akin to pouting.

And Harrowhark did not pout.

The next shuttle held a good thirty or more bodies, all crammed together in a single cargo hull. Seats lined the walls, but most were forced to grab hold of canvas straps hanging from the ceiling. She managed to find a seat, but only because the seat was currently occupied by Camilla the Sixth.

"I told you we'd see you again!" Palamedes pat the spot beside him as Camilla politely stood. Truthfully, Harrow was a number of centimeters too short to actually grab the straps. She gave Camilla a silent, grateful nod, then buckled herself in.

"Who let the damn bone witch on board?"

Harrow snapped to the sound of a voice to her right. Barely a meter away stood the two sisters of the Third, the ones she'd seen before, their cavalier standing just behind them. The pallid twin had her sharp, lavender eyes directly on Harrow, though she looked far more bored than intrigued.

"Oh, Ianthe!" the other sister said, patting first's on the arm. "We should feel honored to have the only member of the Ninth among us! Who else can say they fought beside a bone witch!"

"Corona, look at her! She doesn't even know what setting powder is!"

Harrow did not, indeed, know what 'setting powder' was. Though, from the trickle of sweat dripping down her temple, she got the impression it had something to do with her face paint. A splatter of grayish sweat fell to the arm of her white uniform. She'd never been around so many writhing bodies in such a tight space before. The temperature shot up higher than anything the Ninth ever knew, even with the heaters blasting. If they lingered too long, the sensations would quickly bloom into a migraine. She could practically smell everyone around her, which left her brain in sensory hell.

"Is the Third always so confrontational," Palamedes spoke, staring over the rims of his glasses.

"We keep very close eyes on the competition." The sickly twin, Ianthe apparently, seemed almost dismayed to admit Harrow was 'competition.' Though, she was wise for the observation. Harrow took mental note.

"She doesn't even have a cav!" the brighter twin said.

"Oh, you know they have plenty of spares."

"Rude," said their cavalier just behind them. "We aren't cannon fodder."

"Shut it, Babs."

Harrow was all too keenly aware of her lack of cavalier. She'd been aware from the very first moment she'd stepped off of Drearburh. Granted, she held no excitement for dragging Ortus along with her. By some stroke of luck, his age invalidated his fitness. Compared to the rest of the Ninth, he was a spring chicken. Not to the Cohort, who regularly recruited teenagers, apparently.

She had been promised a cavalier, though. If her impression was correct, one had already been assigned. The introductions would come planetside once more. If her necromantic abilities didn't 'mesh' with the cav, they'd have to find another. That made little sense to her, given a cavalier was just a means of defense. But so little made sense thus far. That was just one more piece of a batshit insane puzzle. A puzzle she would obviously get to the bottom of, but there was no denying the insanity.

"Don't let them distract you," Palamedes said once more, dropping his voice for Harrow alone. "They're in this just like you and I."

"You mean—"

"Against our will!" Palamedes let out a small chuckle, even as Camilla eyed him warily. "I suppose that's a little unfair. The House had a choice of who to send. There's something brewing under the surface, something that I can't talk about without risk of bodily harm."

"The project," Harrow said.

"Oh. Oh. Are you—"

"Recruited. Yes."

"I was right in assuming they'd salivate at your talent." Was that a compliment? Harrow quirked a brow, not entirely sure if that should fill her with pride or with concern. "And your cav, then?"

"I'll meet them once we land."

"Good. Fantastic. There's a lot to discuss, once we're outside of the crowd. I will tell you that the princesses," he said, glancing toward the twins, "Are also part of this secret project."

"Princesses? They conscripted heirs?"

"Aren't you the lone heir yourself, Reverend Daughter?"

"Well, yes, but the Ninth had no other option. The Third must be drowning in necromancers."

"Probably, but those two have the sort of talent they're looking for. As do I and Camilla, and two from the Second as well." He turned his attention over his shoulder, toward the front of the cargo hold. Harrow had to shift and lean forward just to see through the crowd, but eventually her eyes landed on a pair of women in crisp uniform. They were all in uniform, but the Second's were starched and fresh, the whites brighter than any other whites, reds along the shoulders and arms, their posture stiff and measured, without a hint of nerves.

The Second only caught her attention for a moment. A brief flash of red hair snatched her gaze. Not far from them stood the aggravating woman from the coffee stand.

Nav.

By sheer dumb luck, the woman happened to look back right as Harrow was glaring. Keen yellow eyes met her own, quickly followed by a wink. Harrow scoffed and turned her attention back to Palamedes. Somewhere deep down, in the thoughts she kept shackled out of the light, there might've been a hint of intrigue. Not excitement, god no. She wasn't excited to face that woman's harassment again. But…she couldn't deny that the woman—Nav was talented enough to earn herself a position onboard. She wasn't just a coffee attendant.

"Why does the Third have two necromancers?" Harrow asked, forcing her mind to focus once more.

"That's a very good question that I haven't been able to pick apart yet. They claim its because they're twins. Though, both you and I know that one cav can't serve two adepts. Maybe they'll gain another once we land. Or maybe there's something else. I can't quite say."

A docking announcement boomed over the intercom, causing a wave of cheers to flow through the crowd. Once the shuttle secured itself within the Emperor's Dominion, everyone shuffled their way out. Harrow kept close to the Sixth. She wouldn't exactly call them friends, but they'd been one of the few to not instantly condemn her for her appearance.

Them and Nav. That one teased, but not maliciously. Harrow begrudgingly admitted that the woman had treated her kinder than most.

Everyone moved in a flurry of activity, excitement buzzing through the crowd. In the commotion, she failed to notice a presence slink up beside her rear. Only when a finger poked into her shoulder did she startle and whip her head around.

"I regret to inform you that there is no coffee shop here."

Nav.

How someone with such ridiculous hair could've slipped past Harrow's sights, she couldn't answer. Nor could she answer why her heart rate ticked up a notch. Surely it was just familiarity. In a sea of strangers, it was only human nature to cling onto one the few moorings you passed along the way.

"I think I will manage just fine without a 'double shot,'" Harrow huffed.

"Oh, there's coffee here. Don't you worry. Its just not as good as my juice."

Harrow's eyes widened as heat flushed up her neck.

"Are you always like this?"

"Absolutely," she said with a wink. "Gideon, by the way."

"Gideon?"

"Yeah, that's my name. Try to remember it, Lady Nonagesimus." Before Harrow could get another word in, Gideon slipped into a group intent on marching off down a side corridor. She wouldn't have a chance to berate the woman for being so…so infuriating! In all her irritation, she barely caught just who Gideon was walking away with. Camilla had joined the group, as well as the cav from the Third, and one of the women from the Second.

Perhaps…they were simply filtering out infantry and adept? It seemed a bit unnecessary, but then again, much of the Cohort seemed unnecessary.

After a moment, Harrow realized that the adepts were filtered off into a separate group. A crowd of maybe a dozen individuals moved down an opposite corridor until they arrived at a small classroom, the seats arranged in benches at descending elevation. She took a seat beside Palamedes, feeling the glare of the Third on her back. The woman from the Second sat not far away, utterly unfazed by whatever tension brewed in the air. Harrow noted that she seemed on the younger end, despite her overwhelming professionalism. Early twenties, perhaps? The adept caught Harrow's gaze and returned it with a crisp nod, then drew her attention back to the front of the room.

Two hours of debrief followed, including intel on the base, the local flora and fauna, what to expect within the first week of arrival. They were all given thick packets of vitamins, a tube of cream to apply while in direct sunlight, and handful of bottles labeled as various antidotes. Even if the planet had been rendered habitable, no one could predict the behavior of each individual immune system. One person might be entirely asymptomatic, while another could suffer every allergy imaginable. They'd each have regular access to medical facilities, but as necromancers, they were responsible for maintaining their health to the highest capacity. Contagion spread quickly in closed quarters.

Harrow knew that all too well.

After what felt like endless preparation, the circadian lights finally signaled that 'evening' was upon them. The group dismissed, given free reign to handle their evening as they saw fit. Most everyone filtered toward the cafeteria, including Harrow. As much as she wanted quiet and privacy, even she recognized her stomach begging for nutrients. Palamedes broke off from her, reuniting with Camilla once more. The two lost themselves in intense conversation, keeping their voices too low for Harrow to hear.

People still stared as she sat by herself. Of course they stared. None of them would've been alive to see the last penitent of the Ninth among their ranks. She was an oddity as far as they were concerned. That left her prickly and agitated, ready to lash out at the first person who dared to open their mouth.

"It's much better if you mix the brown slop with the white slop."

The bench beside her shifted with the weight of a newcomer. Harrow nearly jumped out of her skin at the voice.

"Gideon," she warned. "I'd very much appreciate if you didn't sneak up on me."

"I wasn't trying to sneak up on you. You're just too busy glaring and not eating. It'll go cold." Gideon leaned her elbows into the table. With a spoon, she mixed together her 'slop' as she called it—some sort of tuber root mashed down to a pulp, paired with a brown sauce laden with little flecks of meat. Harrow found it utterly unappetizing. Unlike the Rigor, they had little option onboard the Emperor's Dominion.

"You find this edible?" Harrow watched closely, then tried to mimic Gideon's movements. It did little to improve the dish.

"I think 'edible' gives it too much credit. But with all the steles we're about to jump through, you'll need some carbs in your belly. No one tells you about the supra-whatever seasickness."

"Supraluminal," Harrow corrected. "Telling you ahead of time gives you a chance to fret about it."

"Yeah, well, worry a little bit at least. Nothing worse than being hunched over puking and expected to clean it up yourself." Gideon took in a big spoonful of 'slop', enough that one cheek bulged. Then, she tapped at the space next to Harrow's plate. After a thick swallow, she said "Eat up."

Harrow grumbled to herself as she managed a few bites. Once she got through the initial texture, it wasn't that horrible. A little less salt would do it wonders. At least eating a meager diet on the Ninth prepared her for bland military meals. Nothing on the Ninth could prepare her for the dyspraxia, though. Even as they ate in silence, she had to take slow bites or risk dumping the spoonful right down her shirt. She felt stupid and useless, though she imagined every adept felt similar. That wasn't a comforting thought in the least.

"Why's the mutt wasting her time on the bone witch?"

Harrow felt the hairs on her neck raise as she caught wind of idle chatter just behind her. She felt half tempted to spin around and address them head on, but her mind caught on a single word.

Mutt?

Gideon didn't seem bothered, at least not outwardly. She was too engrossed in polishing off her meal to say anything. Harrow should've dropped it. Whatever it meant, it was probably just as rude as the things they said about her. But what would Harrow be if she didn't follow every single thread of curiosity dangled in front of her?

"Why do they call you that?" she whispered.

"Huh?" Gideon glanced over, swallowing down her last bite. "Oh, mutt? Because the Cohort loves to wank about Houses and pedigree."

Harrow did not know what the word 'wank' meant, but since it was Gideon, it was probably something rude.

"What House are you, then?" That earned an eye roll from Gideon.

"Don't be like them. C'mon, you seemed alright. At least with the stick up your ass, that didn't leave room for your head as well."

Harrow wanted to beat the woman over the head. In fact, she imagined summoning a construct to do just that. One hand even went so far as to slip into a pocket and finger a chip of bone. She didn't, of course. But her imagination flared for a second or so.

"I didn't mean to offend," she said, holding her chin up high. "It was merely a point of intrigue."

"I'm Fourth," Gideon said. Then, she added, "On paper."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Harrow quirked a brow, genuinely intrigued. How was someone only a citizen of a House 'on paper'?

"Well," Gideon said, turning to face Harrow head on. "Once you pull the stick and your head out of your ass, I might tell you. For now, keep stewing on it." Without waiting for a response, she stood and grabbed her tray, then promptly made her escape.

Harrow watched her retreat, until the woman turned down a hallway and disappeared from view. On some level, a tiny part of her worried that she'd really offended her. That part was far overshadowed by the side of her that savored solitude once more. With her own meal finished, she retreated back to her quarters. Alone, she could pray without disruption. No one would raise a brow or comment about the soft clack of her knucklebones. No one would stare in disgust as she recited the words she'd known since childhood.

In her solitude, no one had to see the anguish on her face. She'd lived her entire life in devotion to the Tomb. She'd loved it, as much as one lonely girl could love anything. She'd dreamed of the day she could crack the final blood ward and slip inside, committing the single most blasphemous act in all of Dominicus's light. All of those dreams screeched to a halt the day the Cohort letter arrived.

She'd never see her home again. She'd never see the Tomb again, nor her parents, nor Aiglamene or Crux or Ortus. Her service would earn the Ninth new souls, maybe an influx of immigrants and supplies. They wouldn't die, like she'd predicted. Regardless of what happened to her life, the Ninth would live on. She wished she could pretend that duty mattered above all else. She wished she could sleep easy knowing that she'd served her House without faltering.

Deep down, in the very pit of her heart where the light never touched, Harrow didn't want to die.

The next morning, the 0600 bell chimed, prompting Harrow to leave her quarters. Except, a knock came at the door just before she could reach it. Outside stood Palamedes, alone. No Camilla in tow this time.

"Sextus?" Harrow said, adjusting the cape over her shoulders.

"I don't usually make a habit of announcing grim news first thing in the morning," Palamedes started. "But I'm here to collect you for a medical examination."

"Why'd they send you?" The question came out harsher than Harrow intended. She actually didn't mind seeing a familiar face, for once.

"For my delightful bedside manner." A small smile stretched across the man's face, laced with sarcasm. "Come then. The sooner you get through this, the better. You have my apology in advance."

"Sextus, I regularly make blood wards. Surely this can't be worse."

"Most of it won't be." He took off down the corridor, giving Harrow only a moment to collect herself and follow. Keeping up wasn't exactly easy, either. Long legs and purposeful strides had her nearly jogging to keep up with Palamedes' pace. They traveled down hallway after hallway, up an elevator, through a door labeled 'Security Clearance Required', then through another labeled 'Med Bay 3.' Inside, one bright gas light shown down from the ceiling, focused on a table in the middle. Two narrow extensions came out from the table, with straps at the ends. Arm straps, Harrow gathered. If they meant to strap her down, they meant to inflict pain.

Wonderful.

"Cape, jacket, and shoes off," Palamedes started, his voice ringing cool and clinical against the walls. "Supine on the table, arms abducted."

"Are you the one performing the tests?" Harrow did as instructed, ignoring the tension in her chest as she undressed in front of another.

"Just assisting. Mercymorn will be here shortly—"

"I thought I said to have her on the table." Both heads turned toward the door as a third walked in. The peach-haired woman, the lyctor from prior stomped inside, pulling along a cart of tools with her. She took one disdainful look at Harrow, then scoffed. "You made sure she's fasting, right?"

"I am," Harrow said, perfectly capable of speaking for herself. Her arms shivered from the distinct lack of fabric over top of them. She wasn't cold. No, Drearburh prepared her well for the chill of space flight. She was exposed, which felt utterly detestable. As she hopped onto the table, Palamedes came over to lower her down and snugly strap her arms down.

"This is going to hurt far worse if you move, Ninth." The lyctor—Mercymorn took hold of what looked like some sort of tongs, holding a clump of fiber coated in brown fluid. The scent of iodine hit Harrow's nose a moment later.

"I'm well acquainted with drawing blood," Harrow said, turning her attention toward the far corner of the room.

"Sextus is the one getting your blood. I need your genetic material."

"Excuse me?" Harrow's gaze shot back to meet Mercymorn's, the color draining from her face.

"If it were up to me, I wouldn't waste the energy even bothering. But God insists that we give your eggs back to the Ninth House, so they don't completely lose their heir. Since you'll never see it again."

Harrow swallowed against a dry throat. On some level, in the depths of her frenzied thoughts, she felt relief. A sick sort of relief, granted, but relief that her House would have options even in her absence. She'd have utterly no say in who the heir was, who the other parent would be, what would happen to the potential child. Even knowing on some level that, in the not too distant future, she could be a mother left her stomach curdling. Whatever relief that briefly permeated her thoughts quickly burned away as Mercymorn forcefully pulled up Harrow's shirt, then yanked down her trousers, exposing the cradle of her pelvis. Harrow yelped, then promptly bit down on her tongue, utterly ashamed of the noise.

"Do not move," Mercymorn spat. "I'd prefer not to puncture your bowels, if I can avoid it."

"You aren't going to sedate—" Palamedes had just begun to speak as he worked on sanitizing Harrow's right forearm.

"You're right, Sextus. She'll probably squirm." With a single tap of finger against Harrow's exposed belly, something warm rushed through her veins. Her vision quickly clouded over, rendered into a fuzzy haze of colors and shapes. Her limbs grew heavy as every muscle in her body released its tension. Under different circumstances, she'd call the sensations 'pleasurable.' A touch lascivious, even. She'd never experienced anything like it, and had no intention of entertaining how to achieve a similar sensation on her own.

"…Endorphin flood? That's clever…"

"…mix with oxytocin, a drop in blood pressure…"

The words all mingled together into soup, making less and less sense as her brain flooded with whatever hormone onslaught Mercymorn had wrought. On some level, she registered a needle stabbing through her abdomen, then her arm. She drifted further and further away from the sensations as time passed. All of existence floated in a warm cloud of chemicals, leaving her intoxicated and dreamy. Harrow had never understood euphoria until that moment, though the reason behind it soured the enjoyment.

When her vision started to clear, she felt the vague presence of bandages, both on her lower stomach and her arm. Mercymorn and Palamedes stood in the corner, quietly conversing over her biological samples. A second later, she registered a dumb, drunk smile on her lips and very quickly replaced it with a frown.

"Are you going to leave me here all day?" she said, her voice a touch raspy.

"Long enough for your heart to catch up with your brain," Palamedes said, stepping closer. "If you stand up now, you'll promptly faint—"

"And I am not healing your concussion, Ninth." Mercymorn gave one disdainful look, then stormed off, a collection of vials in tow. With her went any tie Harrow had to her future. She only wished the end result would never face the horrors she had.

Chapter Text

For the rest of that day, and the few days after, Palamedes seemed overly apologetic. He'd explained that, out of everyone involved in the 'project', he was the only one with a knack for the medical arts. He explained that everyone else involved had to undergo the same procedure, as a means of 'assurance.' The details were kept hidden, no matter how much Harrow probed. Not because Palamedes didn't want to share, but because he didn't know either. They all operated under the same shadow, given just enough details to grope in the dark, but never enough clarity to see the path before them.

Harrow felt her patience slipping away with each passing hour. The threat of space sickness didn't even overpower her annoyance. No one was giving details, and her brain demanded explanations. On the morning of the final transit day, she entered in the mess hall, tense and irritated.

The ship did not have a coffee stand, as Gideon had confirmed. A row of coffee machines stood along one wall, but with no attendant, she hadn't the slightest clue how to make herself a cup. And, sadly, she had to admit that the caffeine boost did pleasant things to her brain. She'd almost given up when a voice spoke softly behind her.

"Can I interest you in some of my juice?"

"Nav!" she barked, spinning around to glare up at the redhead. "For the last time, stop being so—"

"Charming, I know."

"Insufferable!"

"Sorry, Nonagesimus. It's part of the package." Gideon grinned that stupid, cocky, infuriating smile once more as she approached one of the machines. "This stuff's all pre-portioned and kind of shit, but they didn't add 'espresso machine' into the budget."

Harrow fumed as she watched Gideon pull out a pair of little containers, like sealed cups. She popped one into the top of one machine, then stuck an empty mug under what looked like a spout. With a press of a button, the machine started to churn and whine. She did the same to its neighbor, then turned back to Harrow.

"Did you watch?" she asked. "I mean, I'm happy to make you a drink whenever you want, but you seem the independent type."

"Yes, I watched! I'm not stupid."

"Never said you were." Gideon gave another wink, causing something warm to spike in Harrow's chest. She forced the sensation down with another huff and a glare, but that only seemed to egg Gideon on.

Thankfully, the coffee machines sputtered out the last drops of fluid and ground to a halt. Gideon took both mugs, pumped a bit of the 'BARI' syrup into both, then handed one over to Harrow.

"Can't fault me if this one's gross," she said, lifting her mug up like a toast. "I'll make you the good stuff once they give me the right equipment."

Harrow rolled her eyes as she lifted the mug to her lips. Obviously, the drink wasn't nearly as good as the first one Gideon had made for her. It wasn't as uninspired and diluted as her second drink, though. She didn't mind it, if she were being honest.

The sentiment that Gideon would be around to make another drink wasn't lost on Harrow. She assumed they'd get separated once planetside, since Gideon wasn't involved in the 'project.' A tiny part of her resented that. Not because she had any attachment to the awful woman, but because Gideon was…marginally more tolerable than the rest. Her and Palamedes were the only people that showed genuine interest in Harrow's existence. Camilla was fine, too. She kept quiet most of the time, which Harrow enjoyed. The faintest hint of sadness lingered in her chest. Gideon would get shipped to the front line and probably die in service of the Cohort.

Truthfully, she might never see her again, which left her weirdly sentimental. As the pair stood in silence, quietly sipping their coffee, Harrow allowed herself a moment to glance over Gideon's form. She probably was a damn good soldier, given the size of her biceps.

"Well?" Gideon finally asked, glancing between Harrow and her mug. "How is it?"

"Tolerable."

"That confirms it. The first time was definitely a compliment."

"…It was." Harrow frowned, not entirely enthused about the admission. Knowing that Gideon's final days were upon her, though, left her frigid heart just a touch warmer. "You're talented. A dreadful person, but talented."

"When can I propose?" Gideon grinned up to her ears.

"I swear to fuck, Nav! I try to compliment you and you prove you're the worst person to ever draw breath!" Harrow grit her teeth as the slight warmth turned into an inferno of annoyance. She glared daggers into Gideon for only another second, then turned and stormed off.

"Is that a yes, Nonagesimus?"

"Fuck OFF!"

Harrow would never admit that she felt a hint of shame for speaking so harshly. Even if Gideon were a wretched human, she hadn't actually meant any malice. At least, not on the outside. Now the girl was doomed to die, and Harrow's last words were 'fuck off.'

That probably wasn't the worst way to go out. Still, she did wish she could've said something a little more diplomatic. 'Good luck,' 'Stay strong,' 'Until we meet again.'

In the River, perhaps. She didn't want to dwell on her own mortality.

She did not see Gideon again, unfortunately. They arrived within orbit of Rigel an hour or so after breakfast. Harrow had been so intent on studying a string of theorums from an old text that she jumped when she heard the arrival bell. An officer met her at her door and escorted her to the docking bay. A series of shuttles sat, ready to transport everyone down to the surface. Just ahead, a man stood, with graying hair and pearlescent robes over his outfit.

The other lyctor.

"Ah, we finally meet!" he announced, though his voice lacked complete enthusiasm. He gestured for Harrow to follow into the shuttle. Once they were both inside, the door slid shut and pressurized.

"Is it just us?" Harrow asked, taking her seat along one wall. The lyctor took a seat opposite, crossing one leg over the other.

"For now, yes. Don't worry. You'll soon be reunited with your comrades. I requested a private shuttle for us to talk."

Harrow tried to keep the worry from her brow. Something told her the journey entailed more than just talking.

"Allow me to introduce myself," the man said. "I am Augustine the First, First Saint to serve the King Undying. And, for the near future, I will serve as your, well, 'commanding officer.' I'd prefer if you didn't call me as such, but you know how the Cohort is. Regardless! It's a pleasure to meet you, Reverend Daughter."

"The further we move from Dominicus, the less that title holds any sway." Harrow really was losing her patience.

"You'd be right about that! You and the Princesses might as well accept that you aren't any sort of royalty here. Not under contract."

"I never assumed I was."

"Good. That makes it much easier." From his breast pocket, he pulled out a small tin and a lighter. Inside the tin lay a half dozen cigarettes. He lit one, letting the flame smolder on the tip before breathing in a deep lungful of tobacco. How he managed to get anything flammable onboard was beyond her. She could only stare in disgust while trying (and failing) to avoid breathing in any of the smoke.

"I'm sure you've been told," he said, holding the cigarette between his fingers as he canted his head to the side. "You've been assigned a cavalier. You'll meet soon. We have a series of examinations for the two of you to complete. I expect that you'll do your utmost to succeed in them?"

"Why wouldn't I?" Harrow gripped at her knees unconsciously.

"That's the spirit," he said, an uncomfortable purr in his voice. "You're not here by accident, Nonagesimus. You're here because of your merit, your talent. You are one of four necromancers we've selected for our operation. Unlike the others, you don't have a lengthy relationship with your cavalier. This does put you at a bit of a disadvantage, but I suspect you'll overcome that. Won't you?"

"I will do whatever is needed for the King Undying," she said, voice hard. "I will do anything necessary for my House."

"Which means you'll do anything necessary for the Cohort," Augustine added, taking another drag. "Good. We're on the same page."

The shuttle hit the first wave of turbulence as it entered the upper atmosphere. Harrow shuddered at first, adjusting to the slight shift in gravity. The lyctor seemed entirely unaffected.

"Your comrades, or, siblings rather—you've met them all. Palamedes Sextus of the Sixth, Judith Deuteros of the Second, and Ianthe Tridentarius of the Third. Or, well, I suspect it'll be that sister. Leave it to the Third to cause the most problems."

Palamedes was a welcomed reprieve. Even if she knew of his involvement, she was still thankful for one soul that didn't want to see her immediately suffer. Deuteros, she assumed, was the woman she'd seen in a prior debrief. At least the Second would remain professional and cool, if a little too conventional. As for Ianthe, that name left a sour taste in her mouth.

"And my cavalier?" The sooner she knew a name, the sooner she'd have something for her mind to latch onto.

"Patience, my dear. We're just about to land." He sucked in the last of his cigarette, then put it out against his chair, flicking it onto the ground. As if on cue, the ship leveled out and finally touched down against solid ground. A flood of thanergy spilled through Harrow once more, giving her the same potent relief she'd felt on Tau Ceti. No matter how much she traveled, she'd never fully adjust to space flight.

As the hatch slid open, a pair of soldiers stood to escort Harrow away. The shuttle landed just outside of a docking station, exposed to the strange bluish-tinged air of the planet. Rigel slowly rose in the sky, casting long shadows and warmth wherever it touched. The air felt alive in a way Harrow couldn't describe. She'd spent her entire life breathing in the recyc air of Drearburh's oxygen generators, then the same sort of stale air onboard massive ships. This air held a touch of moisture, a hint of a scent—something a little sulfurous, a little salty. The distant sound of crashing waves hit her ears, even above the hum of the shuttle. When she glanced out, she caught the flicker of sunlight against an ocean.

"Welcome to your home for the next six months," one soldier said, offering a lukewarm salute. They didn't give Harrow another second to gawk. She had business to attend to.

The inside of the base felt similar to Tau Ceti, except newer. There were still plenty of bodies rushing about, though far less this time around. The usual reds and whites of uniforms were occasionally replaced with a matte gunmetal gray. The first destination on the itinerary was, thankfully, Harrow's quarters.

"Your new uniform is in there," the soldier said. "Drop your belongings and get changed. We're taking you to the training facility."

Inside the room, Harrow immediately noticed the presence of two beds; one against a wall, the other at the foot of that bed, perpendicular. She'd heard of cavalier beds before, but the Ninth had never utilized the practice. Solitude and quiet contemplation were far too important. Now, for the first time since she was a small child, she'd have to share her living space.

That thought did not excite her.

Laying on what she assumed was her bed were the same dark gray clothes; trousers, undershirt, jacket. She could keep her boots and her half cape. Truthfully, the gray was a touch more tolerable. Better than white.

She made quick work of changing, ensuring everything was in place without issue. A quick peek in the mirror revealed her face was still acceptable. A sinking realization hit low in her belly. Would they supply her with new paint?

Surely they would.

In the hallway once more, she followed along down another series of corridors. Augustine had long since left, which was a welcomed reprieve. The soldiers stayed silent, which meant Harrow didn't have to speak. That didn't last for long, though.

As they entered through a final door, she spotted the lyctor once more. The soldiers each gave a salute and promptly left, letting the door whoosh shut. Inside, the walls were entirely lined with plex, giving a clear view into a chamber one floor below. The room below was wide, possibly bigger than the Drearburh chapel. Bright gas lights illuminated every corner, while white lines traced across the ground, forming an inner box and a series of smaller boxes. And inside of them stood two figures.

Both were clad in the same gray uniforms, though they had no capes. They each had a padded helmet on with a tinted visor, coupled with extra padding to their chests and bellies. Harrow couldn't tell any details about them from her height, besides the fact that one was slightly shorter than the other. The smaller one held two training swords—shafts of metal padded with something softer along the blade. Clearly, they weren't meant to injure one another. The taller one held a much bigger sword, requiring two hands.

From the edge of the lower room, she heard someone call out.

"Hyoid to calcaneus, to the touch. And…begin!"

The fighters didn't immediately rush toward one another. They each stalked around the periphery, sizing the other up, waiting for the first move. A few seconds passed before the longsword user dashed forward, swinging high. The dual-bladed one ducked to the side, swiping at the other's torso. The dance had begun. The clash of weapon against weapon only left a dull thwunk sounding in its wake, but Harrow could tell neither of them held back their hits. Longsword spun and swung, bringing the weapon down. Dual blades rolled to the side, then snatched the end of the longsword between both blades in a vice grip. The pair pulled apart, moving in a blur as the waltz continued. Harrow tried to make sense of the movements, but she'd never witnessed an actual cavalier duel. She started to understand the appeal. Their bodies moved like art, like they'd practiced their whole lives for that single dance.

A grunt echoed through the room as longsword charged forward. Dual blades tried to block the blow, but the bigger weapon barreled through.

"Match!"

She barely caught the ending move. Longsword had the tip of their blade against Dual blade's chest. The cav gave what looked like a playful poke against their opponent, which earned a slap on the weapon.

"Looks like your cav won, Ninth." Augustine waggled his brows as he guided Harrow toward a set of stairs. That brought a spark of pride and anticipation in Harrow's chest. Finally, she'd get to meet the mystery partner everyone kept hinting at. The fact that this person was also quite talented boded well for the months ahead.

Down the stairs, both figures approached. The smaller one removed their helmet, causing dark brown hair to fall to just below her jaw.

Camilla the Sixth.

Camilla gave a polite nod to Harrow before she wiped sweat from her brow.

"Nonagesimus," Augustine said. "Allow me to introduce—"

The taller figure removed their helmet. The moment Harrow's gaze landed on red hair and golden eyes, she froze.

"Oh, we've met," Gideon said, winking.

"Nav?!" Harrow felt the color draining from her face. She felt her chest tighten and her pulse pound in her ears. Emotions clashed hard inside of her; pride in the talent of her chosen cavalier, but absolute horror that she's been assigned the worst person aboard the ship. Someone utterly incorrigible and crude. Someone who made sex jokes and had utter irreverence toward, well, everything.

Quite literally the hard opposite of everything the Ninth stood for.

"It is my pleasure to serve you, my Penumbral Lady." Gideon gave a low bow, crossing one arm over her torso and the other behind her back.

"You….you're serious?!" Harrow looked toward Augustine, then back to Gideon. Clearly this was some elaborate joke.

"May I remind you, Reverend Daughter," Augustine said, a sharpness in his tone. "You're not in a position to negotiate. You've been matched for your talents—"

"Clearly not our chemistry," Harrow corrected.

"You wound me!" Gideon ran a hand through her hair, smiling that ridiculous smile. "Here I thought we were getting along."

"Whatever gave you that impression?" Harrow snapped. For a moment, Gideon's eyes betrayed her unshakable mirth. Maybe it was a trick of the light, but she seemed to flinch.

"Imagine that," said another voice from far off in the corner. "The provincial little bone witch is also a bit of a cunt."

Ianthe.

Harrow turned to face the pallid twin, glaring daggers in her direction. In the back of her mind, she did feel grateful that her ire fell off of Gideon. As aggravating as the woman was, she wasn't purposely trying to hurt Harrow. Unlike some.

"Save the quarreling for your training," Augustine said, holding his hands out toward both adepts. "And once you beat the shit out of each other, get over it. You're part of a team, now. We expect you act like it."

"Of course," Ianthe drawled. She snatched up the shoulder of her nearby cavalier and dragged him into a back room. Harrow let out a huff, then turned back to her own cav. Palamedes had joined Camilla's side, quickly glancing her over for injury.

"C'mon, it won't be that bad," Gideon said, trying to lighten the mood. "At least I won't call you a cunt."

"I'd certainly hope not," Harrow growled.

Gideon, indeed, did not call Harrow a cunt. Or any insult, for that matter. For the next hour, she kept surprisingly quiet. Harrow sensed that was not the slightest bit normal. In the brief time she'd interacted with Gideon, she only stayed silent when she had a drink in hand. Neither had any drink or any reason not to talk, which meant Harrow was right. She'd hurt Gideon's feelings.

Back home, Harrow never had to even consider hurting anyone's feelings. Having 'feelings' to begin with was more of a weakness. Any penitent worth their flesh gave their love and devotion to the Tomb above all else. Petty quarrels dissolved over time as the focus returned to their one, true love. She'd only shed tears over hurt feelings as a child, when her Mother harangued her for slacking on her lessons.

She never slacked after that.

Now, she had to contend with keeping amicable relations with others. Gideon wasn't going to be an Ortus. Gideon would not jump at her every command. Gideon would not take every snap and snarl with a shrug of indifference. Gideon would probably punch her if Harrow pushed too hard.

Gideon was the first girl her age she'd ever connected with. Harrow did not know what "friend" meant, because the Tomb had always been her only friend.

The Tomb was so far away now. She'd never see it again.

"Nonagesimus?"

Harrow stared hard at the ground, chewing on the corner of her lip. She'd lost herself in contemplation, idly clicking her knucklebones as she tried and tried to sort her thoughts out.

"Uh, Harrow?" Gideon gently nudged her shoulder. That snapped Harrow to attention.

"What is it?"

"The training room is ours now." Gideon gestured through the door. They stood in their own prep room—nothing more than a closet to store their gear and a single washroom. Just outside lay the training arena. The Second had just finished up their drill. Their specialty still confused Harrow. Thalergy transferral. Anything to do with thalergy felt wriggly and grostesque against her fingers. She utterly despised the art. But the Second used the talent to transfer energy from Judith, the adept, to Marta, her cavalier. Marta fought like a reckoning. She was less feral animal than Camilla, and not quite the brute force of Gideon. Harrow hadn't seen Naberius fight yet, but imagined he was nothing like Marta. Her strikes were clean and precise, almost surgical. She took on two soldiers at once, dispatching them easily with the aid of Judith just behind her.

Now that they'd finished, it was Harrow and Gideon's turn. And given that they'd never practiced together a day in their life, Harrow immediately assumed it would turn into a clusterfuck.

"So…you do bones?" Gideon asked, sliding her training helmet on.

"Obviously." Harrow said, reaching in her pocket for a handful of bone chips.

"Okay, dumb question." Her voice came out muffled under the helmet. "I meant, I've never really seen an, uh, what's it called—"

"Osseo. Bone magician. Or witch, if you're feeling impolite."

"Right, that. Do you like, summon skeletons?" An attendant came forward with Gideon's training sword, which she gladly lifted into her hands.

"Let me show you." Harrow paced several steps back. She breathed in, grabbed the bone chips in her pockets and promptly scattered the floor with them. In a burst of thanergy, four skeletons emerged, as elegant and elaborate as the ones she'd summoned on Tau Ceti. Gideon probably gawked in amazement, but Harrow couldn't gain the satisfaction of seeing her face. She did stare, though, unmoving as the constructs took a few steps forward.

"Can I fight them?!" Gideon held her sword at the ready, almost trembling with excitement.

"Do your worst, Nav."

Chapter Text

Gideon sprung into action like a whirlwind. The moment Harrow gave her the signal to attack, she sprinted forward and slammed her sword hard into one construct. Harrow hadn't been prepared for the sheer force of Gideon's blade. The first skeleton crumbled into dust, scattering in Gideon's footsteps as she pounded toward the next. That called for a change in tactics. The prior soldiers were sluggish in comparison. Which, either said how much the Cohort lacked, or how much talent Gideon held.

Something told Harrow that truth leaned toward the latter.

"Holy shit, Nonagesimus!" Gideon yelled in delight as she hefted her sword up high, intent on a top-down blow. Harrow gave her the pleasure of cleaving the second construct in half. It didn't speak much for Harrow's skill, but secretly, she needed to see exactly what her cav was made of. The third and forth constructs did not go quietly. She worked them in tandem, striking at Gideon from either flank. To Harrow's utter surprise, Gideon kicked upward, locking her foot into one pelvis and using the force to propel herself into the other construct. The end of her sword cracked right through the cranium, rendering one useless. The final one, the one that'd been kicked, came charging at her. With a grunt, she spun the longsword around like the damn thing weighed nothing. When the faux blade impacted the final construct, it practically exploded into bone dust.

The Second House had lingered on the sidelines, watching with intense curiosity. As Gideon huffed and came to a stop amidst all the white dust, both adept and cavalier of the Second clapped.

"Your ferocity is impressive, Nav." Judith gave a polite salute toward Gideon, then turned to Harrow. "I had a feeling you'd be pleased with your assignment."

"You knew? About Nav?" Harrow stared perplexed between the three, like a secret joke lingered just beneath the surface and the punchline was coming her way.

"Gideon, you didn't tell her?" Marta asked.

"Nope! And let me tell you, watching her reaction was worth every time I bit my tongue in silence!" Gideon seemed awfully proud of herself, enough to make Harrow fume with annoyance. When she pulled her helmet off, her eyes gleamed with mischief.

"When?!" Harrow barked.

"When did I know? Oh, at Tau Ceti, before we departed a second time."

"Nav! You absolute ass! You could've at least given me, oh, I don't know, some indication! I was bashing my head against the wall for days because no one told me a thing!"

"You never thought to ask me," Gideon said.

"Why would I—"

"Alright, alright, that's enough." A new voice entered the training hall. Palamedes, tailed closely by Camilla. "Gideon, you're an ass for not telling Harrow. Harrow, you're an ass for being so peeved about it."

"That's not—"

"Harrow." Palamedes approached her, calmly pushing his glasses up his nose. "I understand your frustration. I really do. But bickering about it isn't going to make any of our situations better."

"You act like our situation is dire, Sixth." Judith stepped forward. "We've all been awarded the most prized spot in the Cohort, only rivaled by the Emperor's Hands themselves."

"I don't think I'd go quite that far," Palamedes corrected. Judith didn't seem deterred, though.

"I understand its difficult for civilians to grasp military etiquette," Judith continued. "Our commanding officers cannot simply tell us every detail. That's a flagrant disregard of security protocol. We work through the proper channels. We demonstrate our might. We find the reward at the end of the journey. You're obscuring the process by trying to dissect every detail."

"Well, yes. That's what I do." Palamedes crossed his arms over his chest.

"And I'm telling you to stop. If you don't trust in command, you might as well leave now."

"Funny thing about that. We quite literally cannot leave," he said, canting his head.

"He's right," Harrow added. "We are under strict contract."

Judith looked between both adepts for several seconds, blinking and processing, like she needed to chew on the words first. Apparently even she did not have the full picture.

"…It seems I misunderstood," she spoke, her tone growing solemn. "That explains why Coronabeth—"

"Captain," Marta interrupted. "We should get going. Sixth, Ninth, and…Gideon, keep your spirits high." Without another word, the Second departed, leaving the rest muddled in even more confusion than when the training session began. Gideon ventured to break the silence first.

"So, uh. Bones, yeah? Those were pretty badass, Harrow."

Two people so far felt enough familiarity to not only call Harrow by her first name, but to shorten it. Not even Ortus dared to do that. She chewed furiously at her bottom lip as her mood vacillated between unsure acceptance and outright indignation.

The concept of 'friends' still felt incredibly foreign.

"That was merely a demonstration," she finally said, dabbing at the blood she'd drawn from her lip. "I don't imagine we'll succeed in this project if we only fight one another."

"Definitely not," Camilla added, glancing over to Harrow. "You'll need coordination—"

"Synchrony," Palamedes said. "With both Harrow's constructs and Gideon's sword—"

"They'll be quite the force."

"Indeed, Cam."

"If we keep practicing," Gideon said, taking a step closer to Harrow, "We can finish each other's sentences like that." That earned another irritated glare from Harrow. She huffed in annoyance before stomping back toward the prep room. In that moment, she'd determined that the entire operation, from God himself down to every last soul, was purely an instrument to test her very last nerve.

"Aw c'mon!" Gideon called out. "That was a joke!"

"Leave her." Harrow only caught the movement of Camilla in her periphery, coming to place a hand on Gideon's shoulder. Then, she ducked away from the group and promptly locked herself in the washroom.

For a long while, she simply glared at herself in the mirror. Her paint did wonders to hide the dark circles under her eyes, but she knew they lingered just under the surface. She'd never slept well, not since early childhood. Now, she wondered if she'd ever sleep again. Everything she'd ever known had been strategically stripped away from her, leaving only a fragment of the Reverend Daughter behind. And that fragment was carefully tied with strings, dancing to the tune of the Emperor Undying and his Hands.

She'd never have sovereignty again. Not that she ever had it to begin with, but at least as an heir to the Ninth, she could hold some things sacred. She had nowhere here to pray, no hour of contemplation, no quiet solitude. She couldn't even guarantee they'd resupply her with paint when she ran out.

All the 'honor' the Second preached meant nothing to her. She should've been bursting at the seams with pride, but all she felt was numb resignation. At least the Ninth wouldn't die. That was her only cold comfort. The Ninth would have an heir, new souls, monetary support. The Ninth would grow and prosper once more, all at the cost of her blood. That was always the cost from the beginning, when they'd gassed two hundred souls for Harrow's birth.

When she finally left the washroom, she had every intention of finding a quiet space to pray. But Gideon's broad figure blocked the doorway out of the prep room.

"Move," Harrow barked.

"Nope." Gideon turned to face Harrow, using the bulk of her shoulders to box Harrow in. "Not until we talk."

"And what do we possibly have to talk about, Nav?"

"Um, hello? Did you not realize that we're partners now?" Gideon put her hands on her hips, leaning forward. "We're kind of a team, yeah? I know you can't stand me—"

"I never said I can't stand you," Harrow corrected.

"Oh, excuse me, Reverend Daughter. You only told me to fuck off once. Then called me an ass, then—"

"You are an ass."

"Well I'm your ass!" The words fell from Gideon's mouth before she could think them through. She paused, quirking her head for a second. "Okay, weird phrasing. I'm your cav. I'm your bodyguard, your loyal shield. I'm here to keep you safe while you do bone things. Imagine how effective I could be if you could just be nice."

"Nice?" Harrow flung her hands in the air. "You want me to be nice? Do you understand the situation I'm in, Nav? My entire life has been flipped on its head. Everything I've ever known is dead to me. I've been relegated to Cohort Puppet in the span of two weeks! Not even two weeks! You'll forgive me if I can't exactly stomach nice right now."

"Maybe if you opened your beady little eyes, you'd realize that we're in the same fucking boat." Gideon's face grew red while the veins in her neck started to bulge. She was losing her cool.

"And what boat is that, Nav? You don't have the weight of an entire House on your shoulders."

Gideon froze, her coin-gold eyes wide. A subtle shudder ran through her as she clenched her fists.

"Yeah, how could I forget?" she spat. "I'm just a Cohort mutt. A worthless stray. I wouldn't know a thing about your House struggles."

"Nav, wait—" Harrow felt a sudden jolt of ice in her chest. She'd gone too far. She knew too little. Even in her anger, she didn't intend to stab Gideon's heart. At least, not as fiercely as she'd done.

"No no no, you're absolutely right, Nonagesimus! I am a waste of time, aren't I? It doesn't matter than I'm ready to put my life on the line for you. My life isn't even worth your stupid bones." Gideon huffed through her nose, trembling with anger. Harrow fully expected a fist to fly at her own cheek. She quietly hoped for it. At least the pain would derail the guilt poisoning her mind. But Gideon didn't advance. She simply turned, stalking across the training ground in her fury. Within seconds, she'd disappeared up the stairs, leaving Harrow completely alone.

"….Fuck."

Harrow felt numb as she wandered the halls. Back home, she wouldn't have given a second thought to barking at Ortus or Aiglamene. They had no choice but to put up with her. They might not forgive her, but they'd forget the insult and move along. This was entirely different. For all of their cool distance, Gideon was hot passion and fire and feelings. Gideon felt alive in a way the Ninth never did.

If Harrow was honest with herself, she'd admit that the energy intrigued her. She'd never felt the kind of rush Gideon gave her. She didn't even imagine she was capable of feeling a rush of anything besides grim satisfaction.

Now, she felt nothing.

In her gloom, she nearly stumbled into the mess hall, but the sound of voices caught her first.

"—There's no covering it up now, Ianthe!"

Coronabeth.

"Yes, I'm well aware. It's simply how the cards have fallen."

"You can't act so flippant about this! What will happen when the Cohort realizes? What will they do with me?!"

"Relax, darling. Relax. I'm sure we can pull some strings to keep you occupied. Or rather, keep them occupied."

"Ianthe, this isn't home! You know damn well they don't care that we're princesses! They don't care about a damn thing, except following through on whatever sick plan they've sucked you into."

"You're being negative and emotional, Corona. You know it'll give you a terrible headache."

Harrow pressed against the wall, staying out of sight but well within earshot. She didn't dare reveal herself in front of the Third. She was outnumbered, for one. And truthfully, getting even a scrap of intel about the twins gave her an edge she desperately needed. She'd just started to lean in closer to the door when someone tugged at her sleeve.

Camilla stood beside her, causing Harrow to nearly jump out of her skin. Was she always that silent?

"Come," Camilla whispered, gesturing for Harrow to follow. She didn't give the woman a choice, though. Another tug on Harrow's sleeve got her moving. Only when they'd slipped through a further set of doors did she speak again.

"Don't test the Third," she said. "Palamedes doesn't trust them. They're up to something."

"Well yes, that's obvious," Harrow said.

"I mean it." Camilla paused, glaring her hard stony eyes right through Harrow. The tension soon softened, though. She even managed something akin to friendliness. Not exactly a smile, but not outright hostility either. "Come sit with me?"

That was an…odd request. Harrow almost refused just on principle. But given the fragile state of her own chest at the moment, she agreed. Having both Gideon and the Sixth annoyed at her might push her over the edge.

Camilla lead her toward the back of the building, a place Harrow hadn't explored yet. A small courtyard lay outside, framed on two sides by a short stone wall. Just beyond lay a path that lead down toward the distant shoreline. The bright sun hung low on the horizon, casting long shadows as they walked. Camilla lead them to the wall and swung her legs over it, sitting and facing the sea. Harrow followed, though she had to hop up just to reach.

"Have you ever seen a sunset, Harrowhark?" At least Camilla used her full name.

"I wasn't on Tau Ceti long enough to see one. And the Ninth certainly has none."

"Neither does the Sixth. Dominicus would kill us if we looked at it directly. This is my first."

Harrow blinked as she glanced over at Camilla. The woman had her gaze set distant, far toward the ocean. The blueish light of Rigel faded into a mix of purples and oranges as it sunk lower in the sky. Harrow noticed how the colors played against Camilla's olive skin, her dark eyes and hair. She hadn't given the Sixth cavalier much thought before, since Palamedes always dominated the scene. But she was…rather pretty, actually.

Harrow immediately pulled the thought back and turned her attention to the horizon. She'd never had to deal with anything resembling 'allure' and 'attraction' before. It left her brain scrambling in fluttery and unpleasant ways. Her thoughts flashed to Gideon once more and she felt her mood crashing all over again.

"Why did you ask me to watch it with you?" Harrow asked. "Wouldn't Sextus be more appropriate?"

"Maybe. But he suggested I talk to you."

"…Why?" She didn't mean to sound rude. And thankfully, Camilla didn't take it as such.

"He's under the impression that you'd listen to a woman better than him." The tiniest smile formed on Camilla's lips. Harrow immediately scoffed.

"He's awfully presumptuous and opinionated," Harrow said with a growl. "…But…"

"But?"

"…He's far too observant for his own good." Admitting such left Harrow flushed under her paint.

"Thought so." Camilla lifted her legs up, hugging her knees to her chest.

"To be fair, you are easier to talk to. Even if you say so little."

Camilla didn't respond right away. She rested her chin onto her knees, watching as the foreign sun kissed the horizon and steadily slipped away. A faint wind brushed against Harrow's short hair, reminding her that she'd need a fresh cut soon. She'd need to trust someone with a razor and her scalp, which was asking a lot in her circumstances.

"We're all walking into the unknown," Camilla said once more. "Most of us blindly, though I suspect the Second knows more."

"As do I."

"We'll get nowhere if we're divided." Camilla glanced over, keeping her gaze locked onto Harrow.

"You expect me to cooperate with the Third?"

"Not them, no. With the Warden and I. And…with Gideon."

Harrow felt her spirit sink once more. Camilla had a point, just as Gideon had a point earlier. Whether she liked it or not, Gideon was officially her cavalier. They had to work together. And, if Harrow intended to collaborate with anyone, the Sixth hadn't given her reason to pause yet. It would've been so easy to grind her heels into the ground and stay just as stubborn as she had been in Drearburh. It would've been so easy to just stay frigid and angry and suspicious, to paint everyone as either a tool to use or an enemy to conquer.

The easy path would've been flinging herself into the deep shaft back home and ending it all, before the Cohort stole her. Harrowhark did not take the easy path.

"I was too harsh to her," she admitted. She didn't have to specify that she meant Gideon. They both knew.

"I don't know her that well, truthfully. But I do know she's gotten shit from the Cohort for years. I think one little apology would go a long way."

Harrow let out a long, low sigh. She hated admitting Camilla was right. The sun started to wink away, leaving the pair in hazy shadows. Night meant she had to return to her room, the room she now shared with her cavalier. Eventually, she lifted off the wall and brushed herself off.

"Any thoughts on where she'd be?" Harrow couldn't believe she was asking. It felt alien in her chest. She hadn't felt compassion for years, not since the last time Crux patched up a scuffed knee when she was six. She reached deep into herself, dragging up the shriveled remains of what passed as warmth. Somehow, she'd have to nourish a side of her she'd barely ever touched.

"Oh, please. Nav doesn't ever miss a meal. Dining hall, second floor."

Harrow glanced over her shoulder once more, holding Camilla's gaze. She didn't smile, but Harrow barely knew how to smile. What she lacked in expression she made up for in intensity, though.

"Thank you, Camilla."

Rigel's base held a much smaller contingent than Tau Ceti. Harrow estimated around a hundred bodies in total, give or take a handful. A good majority acted as guards, either patrolling the halls or the exterior. Another half dozen she recognized as engineering or some other type of non-combatant. The planet must've held other bases, too, as massive supply trucks moved once or twice a day, occasionally bringing in new faces or taking some away. The 'project,' as everyone colloquially called it, isolated her group from the rest of the base's activities. Even the older soldiers gave a certain level of disdain toward her. Though, she couldn't quite tell if that came from her assignment or her heritage. People who lived this far from Dominicus may never have even seen the star, much less a Ninth nun.

Less people meant, as Harrow rounded into the mess hall, less faces to shuffle through. Her gaze immediately landed on Gideon some tables away. She sat with a full meal before her, though her attention had currently shifted to the person sat beside her; Coronabeth.

Harrow simply paused and stared for several seconds. The pair chatted amicably, deeply involved in some topic. Enough that Gideon did not look up. The sight of Coronabeth putting her hand on Gideon's arm caused a flourish of heat to spread up Harrow's neck. The sight left her intensely bothered, in a way she'd never quite experienced. Maybe once or twice in childhood, when she felt the attention shift far away from her. But that was years and years ago. She grit her teeth, feeling the distinct desire to go over and slap the twin's hand right off of her cavalier.

…Which was ridiculous. Why should she care if someone touched Gideon? At least it wasn't Ianthe. That, she could justify. The Third might try to manipulate her cavalier and turn the odds in their favor. What odds, she didn't know, but she knew by now not to put anything past the Third. Coronabeth was still the Third, but an unknown part of the Third. Something happened to cause the Cohort to choose Ianthe instead. She certainly didn't trust Coronabeth by any means, but she wasn't the same sort of direct threat as her sister.

Harrow didn't have time to ruminate any longer. Gideon glanced over to her, immediately frowning. Harrow watched as Gideon politely nodded her head at Coronabeth, then stood and returned her meal tray. The golden twin simply looked over and waved. Nothing about it felt friendly, so Harrow did not return the gesture.

When Gideon approached, she felt the previous attempt at compassion slipping between her fingers.

"Why are you stalking around in the distance?" Gideon asked, leaning a shoulder against the wall. "You could be, you know, a normal person and come sit with us."

"I didn't want to interrupt," Harrow said, tilting her chin up indignantly.

"Interrupt what? Corona was just telling me about the food they make on the Third."

"You seemed rather invested." Harrow couldn't keep the glare out of her eyes. She really, truly, did not want to fight. The rational part of her brain knew that her success depended on her integration with Gideon. They needed each other. They had to work as a team.

But something roiling and raw clawed at her mind, something that filled her mouth with venom and left her furious. No amount of rationality could keep her from biting back. And Gideon had no interest in backing down.

"Yeah, I was invested!" she started, crossing her taut arms over her chest. "It's this little thing called 'friendship' and 'caring about other human beings.' I didn't think you'd find that such a foreign concept, Nonagesimus."

"It's not a foreign concept—"

"Then why are you being such a god awful bitch?"

"Nav, I would appreciate if you did not make the worst assumptions about me—"

"It's not an assumption! It's an observation, idiot!"

"Nonagesimus! Nav!"

Both girls startled and turned at a firm voice behind them. An officer stood, his hard eyes and graying hairline pairing harshly with several pips along his uniform. Gideon immediately jumped into a formal stance, arms behind her back, like a well-trained dog. Harrow hesitated, which earned a withering glare from the officer. Gideon shot her a look, like she was half angry, half begging for Harrow to just follow the damn rules.

Harrow complied, snapping her spine straight and her arms behind her back.

"Whatever you two have issue with, you will immediately drop it. The Cohort requires cooperation. Trust. And you two specifically must trust one another. I have no choice but to formally sanction you both."

"Sanction, sir?" Gideon sounded surprisingly calm, despite the hint of green growing on her face.

"Don't make me repeat myself. You'll report to the docking bay at 0700 tomorrow, no exceptions. Bring supplies for overnight. You two are going on a 'team building exercise.'"

Harrow wanted to curse under her breath. She wanted to scream a string of fuck words in rapid succession. She wanted to strangle herself and Gideon at the same time. But the Cohort did not care what Harrow wanted. They never had.

"Yes, sir," they said in unison.