Forgiveness was the worst thing Robur could have given. Eris did not deserve forgiveness. She deserved scorn and chastisement. Absolution made her feel only worse. Over the coming days she shed no more tears of self-pity, yet she found herself lost in roiling confusion.

She was alive. Her friends were alive. Her things were lost, but they could be recovered, and she would visit the place of their battle to retrieve them the moment her arm was healed. The end of the story was not unhappy. But she hated herself anyway. She could not stop thinking. She was never calm. Anxious uncertainty occupied her every thought, and no suitable distraction, no tome of lore or book of spells or handsome man, was available to keep her mind off despair.

As a younger woman she had been certain in everything she did. She could not be wrong. Even when she was, she wasn’t in principle. Her infallibility was undisputed. No one could deny she was an object of infinite desirability, nor that she knew magic better than at least her companions, or that she was intelligent and quick-witted. But did those she travel with like her? No, and why should they? She did not like them either.

Thus when an argument was had, she assumed some fault on the part of her interlocutor. She blamed others for mistakes. She was at peace with herself. She was a shining statue of perfection for all others to see; and if they refused to prostrate themselves and behold, the loss was theirs.

Time had chipped away at that statue, but not until Rook’s death, not until his subsequent absence, had she felt it crumble entirely. Her confidence withered. She saw, perhaps, how others saw her, and she did not like it.

She wondered now through freezing nights in the ruined, ancient castle if she were the one in the wrong. If, in some cosmological sense, she were spectating her life from afar, she would not side against herself. She wondered if fault lied with her more often than it did not. She wondered if her life might not be improved if she were someone else, with a different manner, and a conscience that did not assault her as hers did now.

She missed the freedom of her youth. She had no empathy for anyone at sixteen. She did not care what anyone thought about her. But she did care now, about Robur and Aletheia, and for all the time they spent comatose in their beds, she hated herself.

Not for being unempathetic. Eris didn’t care about anyone beyond those she knew, and she never would. But for being unable to show ability in social circumstances. Why could she not be as Rook? Easygoing and charismatic? What did he have that she lacked? Even when she tried she was not adept at any interpersonal art except lying. She never would be. She was beautiful, and men wanted her, and they would even after she was a mother, but she never knew what to say except when deceiving, scorning, deriding, insulting, harassing, snarking, or, perhaps, flirting. Otherwise she was dumb. Charm was a gift she did not have.

That was what she hated. She wanted to navigate social interactions as easily as she used mana and recalled lore, but she never would. She knew that. That part of her soul was broken, somehow, and only a true empath—a man like Rook—could see past that fact to what was within her.

But Aletheia, and Robur—they still did not see that Eris was merely off-kilter. Distempered. Strange. So even as she came to regard them as friends, they saw her as…

She didn’t know. It was useless to speculate. But that was just the thing. She knew it was useless, but she couldn’t stop herself from thinking anyway.

The only sound conclusion she came to was this: Eris would always be an outcast and a loner. She would never be able to navigate the strange world of man. It was no place for her. Something would always be wrong with her, and she knew it was unfixable.

That was the most fundamental reason of all to give the child away. She could not stand the thought that he would become like her.

The red potion burned Eris’ throat. She felt the warm fluid down her esophagus, as it snaked through her intestines, settling in her stomach, and then—the tingling on her arm. Her wounds bound themselves together.

It was unpleasant.

She grunted in disgust. “I think I prefer to be an amputee like Robur than drink another such draught.”

“Two more and you’ll be set to play with the cubs in the snow,” Juno said. “Although we can always operate, should you prefer that measure, hm?”

Eris pressed herself against the wall behind her bed. “Remove my arm and it can never be wounded again.”

“Good. Good, optimism is good. You’re too cynical for your age.” The Priestess examined the rest of Eris. “You are well enough to go about your business. Don’t slip on the ice.”

This crone was as encouraging as she was eerie. There was nothing to do, confined to her room, so Eris explored the ruined castle thereafter, and when bored—there was little but rubble to find—she ate dinner with the pride.

Minerva did not look it to Eris, but she was sickly and very old. She cared for two cubs—not her own—who could not leave the pride’s camp yet. There was also Cato, an elderly lion whose teeth were broken and could no longer hunt.

That meant food had to be brought to the ruins every day. And how did a pride of sapient lions feed itself?

Eris had asked just that question to Juno as the remains of three large deer were dragged through the gates.

“How do you think, girl?”

“The sciuri—they must carve the beasts, yes?”

Juno laughed. “You are too soft. Watch.”

So Eris watched from the steps leading up to the keep. The pride of these White Lions consisted of twenty adults, ten male and ten female, and five cubs. The hunters, male mostly, had eaten on their expedition; they abstained while the rest gorged.

It was a bloody sight, but even the cubs joined in. Eris had played with them briefly on her first day; they were friendly, if terrifying, creatures—intelligent, cute, affectionate. Now they were animal as the rest.

When the lions and lionesses were finished, the squirrels swooped down for their share. They similarly tore meat off raw.

“How are we—” Eris started.

“To eat?” Juno said. “You have teeth, don’t you?”

Eris glared at her. “My teeth are for eating bread and chewing cooked meat, not tearing sinew off buck raw.”

Juno laughed. “So they are. We will cut off some meat and eat it for ourselves, and administer it to your friends. But it must be raw.”

“Raw? Are you mad?”

“It is a sin in the eyes of the Lioness to eat cooked meat.”

“No, it is not. That is ludicrous.”

“It is a sin in their culture, and they are your hosts. So you will eat it raw, or go hungry.”

Eris frowned. But there was little choice, and so when she found herself handed a large haunch of raw venison, she ate it as it came. Like a lion. It was tough and flavorless, but it was food.

That had been on the first day after she awoke. Now she ate raw meat for every meal, every day. It could not have been good for her.

This time, after the frenzied feeding was finished, she decided to linger and introduce herself to all the pride. She needed a distraction from her own despair and was interested in these strange creatures.

She spoke to them using Wisdom of the Sages.

A badly scarred lion flicked his tail in the snow by the gates. On watch. Eris approached him first. He introduced himself as Ursus, but never looked at her.

“I found your body with my hunters,” he said. “We were the ones who retrieved you.”

She thought carefully about her words. “Thank you,” she said painfully. “‘Tis ironic, for we were the ones hunting you.”

“Us?”

“For the people of Coedwig. I—desired a bounty. They gave the impression you were but brutish monsters.”

Ursus growled. “We saw you many times before your battle, wandering through the forests.”

Eris hesitated. “You what?”

“We thought you were lost. My mate suspected you were a hunter, like the others.”

“…why did you not—attack us?”

“All women who bear children embody Leaena. It is sacred; not woman, nor lioness, nor animal can be killed until her child is born.”

She took a step back. “You would have killed us were it not for that I am pregnant?”

“Yes.”

Eris frowned. “That…is a foolish doctrine. For I would not have hesitated to kill you, had we seen each other.”

Ursus growled but said nothing else. This was unsurprising as doctrine, for animal-men who worshipped a woman. She continued,

“I sense you do not wish to speak to me.”

“No.”

The words were a sting. They fed into her current insecurities. “May I inquire after why?”

“You are a woman.”

“I am human.”

“It does not matter. Such things…are not done.”

“So why do you not fall silent and bid me depart?” Eris asked. Her curiosity was genuine.

“If a woman speaks to me, I am compelled to listen. Especially when she bears young.”

Such an arrangement where women ruled certainly suited Eris well enough, but it seemed foolish to her from the outset. These lions were strong, large, and powerful. Why did they answer to their slender reflections?

Later, she addressed Minerva. “Who is your queen?”

“We do not have a queen,” Minerva said. “When there is disagreement, the lionesses vote on the correct course. We decide all things as a group.”

“There must be some leader.”

“There are many. Each is responsible for her own field. You met Ursus already, our eldest hunter. I am grandmother to many cubs and responsible for imparting our stories to them. Saturn trains the sciuri. Yet no one lion knows all, so we decide that which requires all together.”

It was a fairly insane notion, but perhaps viable in a community of fewer than thirty.

“I invite you to meet them all while you are among us,” Minerva added.

So Eris did just that. She introduced herself to every member of the pride, learning their names, and listening to the role they played in their pack. It was a family, a government, a society, a community—everything together.

While she had time, she decided she would learn their language. It had many similarities to Kathar and she desired to learn something—if she could gather no other knowledge through her time here, let it be that.

A week passed quickly. Her arm and shoulder healed entirely, although she was left with three cruel scars. That was when her companions were finally lucid enough to speak with again.

Robur stared at her belly. “Were you always so large?” he asked.

Eris smiled. “No. ‘Tis larger each day. That is, I think, how it works.” She stood uncomfortable over him, fidgeting in his room, twiddling with her thumbs. She was cautious to say anything.

“How is Aletheia?” he asked.

“She will live. She is bedridden, like you, but—she will live. Better than you.”

He glanced down at his empty sleeve. “I believe I can still feel it.”

“I hope you cannot see it, too.”

“No. But—it’s very strange.”

“I am truly sorry,” Eris said again.

“I will grow used to it,” Robur said simply.

She shook her head. Had it been her arm—she would not be so calm. She might never be calm again.

Her conscience was once again consuming her. She had to speak what was on her mind.

“Do you—you do remember what we discussed? What I said to you, when we…when I first visited you here?”

“I was on several herbs,” he said. “Perhaps you can remind me.”

She wanted to die. To run away. She closed her eyes, to be spared looking at him. “What I said to you before our battle…I did not mean it.”

“I see.”

“Please,” she cut in quickly, “do not say that. It does not mean anything, I do not know what to think when you merely say, ‘I see.’ It is worse than nothing. Listen, I—I cannot help the way I am. And I do not hold it against you for wishing to be free of it. But please do not mistake my…unpleasantness…for a dislike of you, because I—do care for you, and Aletheia both.”

“I—” he began, but he said instead, “understand.”

Eris sighed. “You should return to rest. Just—thank you. For returning for me. For giving what you have given. I will never forget it.”

He nodded silently. She would never understand what he was thinking. Perhaps there was no other way for it to be.

She visited Aletheia next. Much more cautiously. She stopped in the doorway, just out of sight, and put her head in her hands. What to say? How to say it? It was easier to say nothing. She decided then to leave, but as she turned, she heard quiet tears from within.

She stopped herself.

Aletheia was already half-broken. Only in the last few months had she become a real member of the party. If Eris wanted her to take the child, and raise it well, she would need to be given…some support. Support Eris could not give, but there was no one else.

So she took a deep breath and stepped inside.

“Go away,” the girl whispered the moment Eris was over the threshold.

“You know I cannot,” Eris said.

“Just go.”

She sighed. She didn’t go. It was easy to apologize to Robur, because she hadn’t meant what she told him. But for Aletheia—the matter was more complicated. She regretted what she said, but it wasn’t quite so untrue.

But it was also strange. She and Aletheia had shared a great deal of affection over the last months. Was all that worth nothing? It wasn’t to Eris. But perhaps…

“I…thought you might wish to feel him,” she managed. She hated saying the words, but it was the only idea she had.

Aletheia’s sniveling stopped for a moment. She leaned up, flinching in pain, and looked across the room. “Really?”

‘No,’ was what Eris wanted to say, but instead she nodded. “He has been endlessly active lately. I do not think he enjoys the cold.”

Eris stepped forward, and when her ankles were against the feet of the straw bed, Aletheia flinched forward and embraced her around the gut, placing her ear by Eris’ bellybutton. She hated it, like she hated being touched by anyone, but she said nothing. She didn’t know what to do with her hands and so put one on the girl’s shoulder in a comforting gesture.

Aletheia tightened around Eris’ waist. She sobbed a few tears, but quieted. The embrace lasted forever. Then finally she said,

“I’m sorry.”

“What?” Eris nearly shouted.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Please don’t leave. You can’t leave. You have to stay with us. You’re the only one left, you can’t leave me.”

“You told me—”

“I didn’t mean it. I was just angry because you’re such a bitch that sometimes I can’t take it but I didn’t mean it, I promise. Please don’t go.”

At this point she tugged Eris downward; the gesture was so unexpected that she fell to her knees, and once on Aletheia’s level, the girl embraced her again around the torso. She started to cry once more.

“I didn’t mean it. I don’t hate you. I didn’t mean it.”

Eris cautiously returned the hug. It was a suffocating gesture, more of a strangulation than a hug. Though she hated to admit it, there was comfort in closeness—even to Aletheia. She did not hate this.

“It is all right,” she said. “I—was trying to be cruel in return. And I likewise regret it.” She held the girl by the arm. “How do you feel?”

Now she sobbed into Eris’ breast. “It hurts,” she whimpered. “It won’t stop.”

This was far beyond Eris’ abilities to handle. She tried her best. “Pain is terrible, and yet—it is a reminder that we are still alive. It is fleeting, and it will be gone soon. You…do not need to be afraid, so long as you feel yourself, you are certainly not yet gone from this world.”

That received no response. Eris wasn’t even certain it made sense, but it was an attempt.

They held each other for a long time longer yet. Eris’ thighs grew tired; still Aletheia did not let go. Finally her grip loosened, and she said, “You’re sure Rook is okay, right?”

Eris recoiled. She frowned at first—of course Rook was not okay, but then she realized what the girl meant. “You mean the child. He is fine, although there is little space left within me for my intestines and him both. But—do not call him that.”

“Rook?”

“Yes. That—is not his name.”

“But you said he’d be Korax XXXIII.”

“Yes, he is Korax, after his father, but—not Rook. That was his father’s nickname.”

Aletheia leaned back an inch and wiped off her eyes. “They mean the same things,” she sniffled.

“‘Rook’ means a man I slept with. It is not a name for my son.”

“You can’t call a baby ‘Korax.’”

“Yes we can.”

“I won’t.”

“Yes you will.”

“No I won’t!”

“Yes you—it does not—he may have a nickname, but it shall not be Rook.”

Aletheia lowered herself in the bed. “What do you care?”

Eris took a sharp breath. “I care for Rook’s legacy, that is why. Besides, ‘tis confusing, to refer to Rook and the child by the same name. He needs his own appellation.”

At this Aletheia nodded. “Like what?”

“If I knew, I would tell you.”

“Like Kirkos?”

“No!”

“Like Hierax?”

“Be careful what you say, Aletheia, for I might finish what the Seeker started while you convalesce in this bed.”

She had been smiling, but her mirth faded then. “Did you—do you know who she was?”

Eris shook her head. “No. She found us via Robur’s phylactery. I believe—while we fought—she mentioned Lukon. And she did not wear the colors of the Seekers, which I have not known them to do in the past. There may be some chance she was rogue, or undercover, and thus another shan’t be sent after us. At least for a time.”

“Maybe she wasn’t a Seeker.”

Eris contemplated this. It was possible. Someone else might have obtained the phylactery, but…

“No,” Eris said. “When we escaped the Dungeons of Pyrthos. I saw her in the tabard of a Seeker. I saw her beneath us, in the atrium of the Tower, as we used the elevator to the highest levels. It was her, I am certain; I shan’t soon forget the look on her face as she saw Lukon with us, branded as a Servitor. She was a Seeker.”

Aletheia frowned. “I don’t remember that. How can you—do you really remember that?”

“Do you not?”

“You only saw her face for two seconds.”

“Two seconds is enough. I do not remember every face, but hers—yes, that I do.”

The girl didn’t believe this, but she calmed down thereafter, retreating back to bed. Eris fetched Juno and helped administer a potion. While they waited for it to take effect, she explained where they were, the extent of her injuries, how Robur fared, and then, finally, what Eris next intended to do.

“My arm is healed,” she said. “I will go retrieve our things.”

Aletheia’s face contorted in fear. “You can’t,” she whispered.

“It has been a week already. If I do not act now, we are not likely to ever find what was lost again.”

“They’re just things. We can find new things.”

“Your bow is not ‘just’ a thing. ‘Tis all you have left of Astera.”

“I can get a new bow,” Aletheia said.

“Rook’s sword is neither ‘just’ a thing. I will not let it be lost on my watch.”

The girl closed her eyes. Shaking her head. Sobbing once. But at last she nodded, saying, “Please stay safe.”

“I—will try.”

Then the potions took hold. Aletheia drifted to sleep.

Eris stood and gathered the thickest clothes she could find, which was not much, and prepared to depart. She did not care about her staff. She hardly cared about the orb, or the bow, or her other things. But Rook’s sword—she was willing to risk everything for that. Thus she set off through the castle’s fallen gates, determined to take back what was hers.