Praise the Lady Bhaeryn, last of her name, last of the old flesh the Gods once shaped.

  Let her rule over Perdition last a thousand years and more ‘til the daystar scours this world to dust.

  Let her voice unmake the starving Gods, and her wrath cast daemons to the wind.

  Praise the Lady Bhaeryn.

  Praise the Last Lady.

  Praise the Lady of Death, inheritor of the NILE.

  In your name, we kneel upon these blasted sands.

  And we wait for the stars to devour us.

  O’ Lady Bhaeryn, last of the old blood, great scion of a broken age, grant us some fragment of your curse that we might stand and bear it, too, that we might stand and rise up towards Paradise anew.

  CHAPTER 16: THE DEATH OF ACETYN

  A hall lost to time glowed with soft light as though Ymmngorad had stepped back into an earlier age. Bee’s infestation felt less burdensome today, allowing her to move and laugh with relative ease. Wind murmured through its arches, but the old tower breathed warmth instead of decay that evening.

  Soft light spilt from rows of bioluminescent growths overhead, painting the worn stone floors in a sepia glow. In one corner, Yoxsimer of the Abbalate lounged with a mischievous grin, insectoid legs rasping together in a lullaby of chirps. As they took the floor, his mandibles clicked in a teasing melody, half-mocking and wholly encouraging Bee and Vashante.

  Vashante stood radiant with her newly fashioned face. The mechanical contours of her skull gently mimicked human grace, shaped by Bee’s patient witchcraft. She could talk and smile now—her voice resonated with that triumphant discovery.

  “Have you ever danced?” Vashante asked, her tone almost playful.

  Bee’s purple cheeks flushed. “Never. I—I wouldn’t even know how.”

  Vashante swept her arms in a gentle flourish. “A Lady should know. Let’s fix that.”

  The rods in Vashante’s limbs hissed softly as she offered a bow and then extended her hand. Bee felt her heart thrum. She placed her only remaining hand in Vashante’s, a shy grin slipping into place. Yoxsimer’s tune quickened, bright and lyrical.

  In a graceful motion, Vashante pulled Bee into a measured turn across the worn tiles. Bee’s knees trembled—partly nerves, partly the insidious murmurs of her worms. Yet Vashante supported her effortlessly, mechanical arms carrying Bee as though guiding her through a long-practised ritual.

  “See?” Vashante murmured when Bee’s step faltered to reassure her. “You’re doing just fine.”

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  Bee glanced up, enchanted by the soft gentleness of Vashante’s new face. The camera-like lenses of her eyes caught the glimmer of overhead lights and reflected humour and warmth. A flutter in Bee’s chest made her breath catch; the emotion was new and unnamed, but it rose, filling her with a delightful ache.

  They paused at the centre of the hall, both breathing a little more quickly, Bee’s wings trembling behind her in a surge of excitement. A hush fell—the tower’s shadows held the moment like a secret. Carefully, Bee lifted her half-amputated right arm to prop it against Vashante’s shoulder, and she used her left hand to cradle Vashante’s cheek.

  Vashante’s eyes glowed faintly, gaze locking on Bee as she leaned into the touch. Their closeness radiated a silent understanding.

  “Bee,” Vashante whispered.

  Whatever came next dissolved in a harsh snap. Colour drained away, and the warmth of Ymmngorad’s hall vanished in an instant. Bee found herself upon the half-dead battlefield, red sky flaring overhead, noxious sludge, the remnants of the terrible battle, beneath her feet. She looked down at the face plate clutched between her trembling hands—the emptiness of it cold and cruel.

  The old dance had become just a memory, the once-vibrant warmth snatched away by grief.

  Bee looked up. Slashex had been talking to her in a low, measured voice. She struggled to focus.

  “The Daemon SepGNT,” he said, tapping a segmented finger against a data port in his chest. “An intelligence that is secured in the City’s depths, in one of the Immortal’s vaults, which the… Wire-Witch agreed to maintain. Unearthed more than a millennium ago in the wastes beyond, it was first under the control of those who opposed… your family. They took it by force.”

  Bee cradled Vashante’s metal face plate in trembling hands. She was beginning to feel numb to the pain, which somehow made it worse. Her eyes lifted to meet Slashex’s blind gaze again. For an instant, the notion of raising the dead filled her with hope, but the chill in Slashex’s tone curdled any anticipation. She sensed the weight of something forbidden in those words.

  “This daemon possesses the knowledge to repair mindstates that have been damaged,” Slashex continued, “It requires only crude neuromechanics, cognitronic substrates—call it what you like—but it is well within your abilities. And the end result?”

  He paused and let the words hang while Jhedothar and Yonmar Free stood a pace behind Bee, expression taut and uncertain, taking in each word with superstitious dread. Blachaeus, still half-sunk in gore, uttered nothing, though his maggot body shuddered as if recoiling from the mention.

  Lady Isbet Hash observed them all, arms folded. Beneath the curt angle of her brow, Bee sensed something unspoken—a grim understanding. Slashex’s head pivoted, neck whirring, locking onto Isbet for just an instant. A current of uneasy recognition passed between them.

  Slashex resumed speaking.

  “The knowledge to repair a mind from death itself. Encoded, digitized, and reassembled, so that flesh might be reacquainted with a spark of cognition… or forced into a new shell.”

  His words set Bee’s heart thrumming once more. She wanted to believe it could be done, that Vashante might live again. Stand again, perhaps free of mechanical corruption, just like Bee promised. Just like she promised. Yet the silence that fell over the group spoke volumes of the moral weight behind such dark power.

  Isbet Hash cleared her throat softly but made no protest. She merely shifted in place. The memory of her ancestor, Lord Centric Hash, hung heavily over the moment—though none who knew the tale spoke of it outright. Yet, despite the silence, everyone felt tension in the air. It warned of a forbidden legacy best left undisturbed.

  Jhedothar’s chest heaved. “So you’re saying we can bring them back?” He didn’t precisely voice Vashante’s name, perhaps because of their rivalry, but Bee felt his hesitation all the same.

  “Bee can restore their minds and build them new bodies,” Slashex said simply, cold intent behind his words. “If you do exactly as I instruct.”

  Yonmar Free, with old eyes sorrowful, bowed his head and whispered, “Such things… are beyond me. But if it can help—” He trailed off, uncertain whether they courted a miracle or a curse.

  Bee kept her gaze fixed on the mismatched pieces that shaped of Slashex’s head. The glimmering of the starmetal in his skull and that studded the back of his neck.

  Bee inhaled, steadying herself even as her heart hammered with uncertainty.

  Slashex’s regard was weighty with that promise—death’s secrets encoded, half-mad ingenuity shining through his grin. Bee had seen that madness before, in the most devout of that techno religion, when she was a newborn.

  In a fragile, trembling voice, Bee spoke up. “Tell me what I have to do.”

  Slashex offered her a crooked smile, his head with its echolocation plate tilting to regard her through mechanical senses. The air felt thick and feverish as though a thousand ghosts held their breath. For on that ashen plain, surrounded by the remains of the desecrated dead, they just might have.