*COMPLETE* Allayria promised to do what it takes to stop the Jarles, to make the ugly decision. She thinks, at last, she understands what the dynast meant. The lesson earned from the top of that lonely cliff and given the dark murky water below.
It...
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"Call the banners."
Mother, in the cold sunlight of the Throne Room, is seated on top of the silver throne, dark armor glinting in cruel purpose, darker eyes watching, needling, searching. Surrounding them, all the little human flies shrivel beneath her gaze, wilting, all arm-wings and puny, black-clad bodies. They delayed in telling Mother how far the Paragon has come, so now, at the eve of battle, they pay the price. Isati wonders how much they know about their sorry plots on this board, how much they understand of how little luck is left for them.
It's just a game.
When they file out it's in neat little lines meant to please the Imperator, acquiesce to her precise demands, her careful plans. And even if they murmur between themselves, as creatures do, they'll never raise their voices. Never lift a finger.
It's melted in their water.
Yes, a blood-red dawn settles on that brightening horizon and Isati wonders how much these little nobles know.
Mother had been so proud when she found out what Isati had discovered, those tiny metal deposits in the wells, the streams. She had been so satisfied. And now she influences through that mother metal, hidden up high above everything else, so that even the ones who thought they were free are not. She is comfortable in the knowledge that they cannot defy her even if they tried.
Comfortable in the belief that no one can defy her.
It's all it whittles down to in the end, the white bones of everything, everywhere.
Control.
Isati walks the line with Mother, down the neat row of shining, mechanic contraptions. They loom, like creatures from ancient fables, silent and gloomy, sharp and threatening, even in their stillness. Isati can see it, the way Mother's eyes glitter, the way she swells, down here, deep in the womb of the mountain, at her prize.
She believes she will win.
"Where are your little trinkets, Isati?" Mother asks, not even looking back. "Your Spirit finders."
Seekers. Spirit seekers.
Isati thinks of the dark cabinet tucked away in her room, a frozen-faced creature hovering next to it, waiting.
"Awaiting your instruction, Mother."
This pleases her, Isati doesn't need to see her face to know it; she can feel it through the metal laced across her face, skull, spine. It's gluttonous.
"Give them to every captain, every one of your little friends. They'll ferret that spineless possum out of whatever hole she tries to hide in."
"Yes, Mother."
"I want a guard on the Plinth," she continues. "Enter the battle, if you like. I will direct our machines from the Throne Room."
"Yes, Mother."
Mother stops, stands, staring up at the drill closest to her, and when she looks over with her black, flat stare, all she says is:
"They are coming."
I will dust them like all that came before, she murmurs silently and Isati smiles, a sharp glint like the blade of a knife, because this is what Mother needs. A creature on its leash, slobbering for blood under the direction of its master's careful purpose.
But beneath this clever mask a different kind of purpose, understanding, coils inside Isati. She knows she's at the cusp of something, the cusp of something more than what she is, more than... more than Mother. She only needs to take the leap.
Deep in her memory, a Spirit seeker chirps in the dark, slung on a black thread, set loose against her heart.
Isati thinks she understands what she must do if she wants things to go differently.
So she fucks up.
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A/N: Isati... maybe hold that thought for a second? No? Okay then....
Chapter notes: Isati first brags about her Spirit seekers in Partisan's "Sisterly Love." Lei goes over the three levels of the city of Vatra in Prodigal's "Lightning Bug //."
