Beginnings Are False
The air in Throne felt wrong. Back home, on Mykos, worlds away and years in the past- the air was clean. The smell of flowering duskwoods carried by far-off winds tempted from Nyave’s earliest memories. Before the queen burnt the forests, harvesting generations unplanted orchards for her palace of vanity. Just like she would have harvested me, Nyave thought. She tucked her orange shawl up over her mouth and nose. Even the ashes of Mykos smelled better than this.
Throne is unmistakable. The city of six hundred million souls, and half again as many bodies, reeked to high heaven. Considering that it is high heaven, or at least it once was, this wasn’t a terribly difficult accomplishment. It‘s not just one smell, Nyave mused, it’s the scent of people from across the multiverse cooking, brewing, fighting, and… making waste everywhere. Even on the deck of a floating ship high above the chilly, misty streets, there was no relief. Sometimes she imagined that it smelled a little bit like hope. The Yamga bobbed gently on its tether over the night-locked side of the city. Nyave couldn’t sleep.
Nyave had already checked the engines, the sails, every mechanical part of the ship and everything in working order. It Helped to have something to work on, something to focus on and shape with her hands. Work distracted from the dreams. Just over a month ago- Nyave gripped the deck railing. Barely more than a month had passed since Allison saved her life. That day, everything turned upside down. Years of studying to be a worthy handmaiden to that monster, Imperatrix Om. Years that would have ended, with my life, a tribute to her greed. That day, when I helped steal this ship and left home for good. Nyave shivered and looked down at her hands. She’d paid Allison back twice over, playing getaway pilot from Om herself. Since that day she’d grown to trust the strange Hero and her demonic companions. Trust didn't get rid of nightmares, though.
But also, that day, Nyave had met… her.
The glowing guardian of justice had plummeted out of the sky, just managing to latch onto the side of the ship. Nyave was even more amazed when Cio, a hijacking devil, called out to the angel as if they were partners in crime. 82 White Chain Born in Emptiness Returns to Subdue Evil. In all the nightmares replaying that moment when they came face-to-face with royalty, Nyave kept hold of one safe memory. As Queen Mottom summoned a storm of withering magical hatred, Nyave had held on to White Chain’s hand like an anchor. Her stone hand was ice-cold, but somehow felt just as alive as a human. Even in the terror and adrenaline of the moment, she couldn’t help but notice the gentle strength of White Chain’s grip.
White Chain was on the deck too, resting. At least that’s what it looked like. Allison and Cio were sleeping in the same room belowdecks while Princess, the other devil, tirelessly lifted weights through the night. The Angel sat cross legged at the prow of the ship, facing the multi-tiered center of the city. She hadn’t moved an inch even while Nyave had paced up and down the deck. Nyave pulled her shawl tighter around her and wondered if angels could dream.
The sons of white flame do not sleep. They do not eat. They especially do not dream. But sometimes they sit and rest. And sometimes they drift. White Chain felt herself falling out of her humanoid form, out of the material world. The blind eternity of the void expanded beneath White Chain’s ethereal wings. Ghostly structures, reflections of dead gods, loomed from the pallid landscape.
His voice was audible, even from here. A clarion of truth tuned to the frequency of insanity called from deep in the void. Metatron lives. White Chain glided through shadowy remains of ancient temples and petrified angel souls, unthinkingly drawn by the archangel’s voice.
Train the girl. Prepare for a war. Return the key to its rightful heir. Restore order to the multiverse. That is what matters, that is what is real. White Chain’s hue shifted from pink, to purple, to solemn blue. This is the right thing to do. This is justice. Then why does it feel like these humans-
“BROTHER”
The grating, familiar voice shattered White Chain’s thoughts. Before her unfolded the spiny, skeletal figure of 6 Juggernaut Star Scours the Universe, speaker for the thorns.
“Here to report your progress?” Juggernaut Star’s unmoving face stared down White Chain. “Your charge has been meddling in the affair of the demiurges. It would be unfortunate if you happened to lose control.”
“I have it under control, brother,” White chain met the fallen angel’s gaze. “The girl may not have earned that power, but for now she is its bearer. I will keep the key safe.”
“War is coming. The girl will perish, and so shall you if you mistake defending her for defending the key.”
White Chain bowed her head. She looked up at Juggernaut Star’s face and for a shadow of a second, saw something that wasn’t a thorned skull.
“LEAVE US. Return to you work, deviant,” Juggernaut Star turned away from the look in White Chain’s eyes. There was a rushing feeling, the uncomfortable stuffiness of physical form, as her soul began to ebb back into reality. The cold fire seeped back into her statue vessel, animating it by parts until White Chain could raise her hands to her head. She tried to forget who’s blood might be on them.
The Yamga was coasting into a new dawn. It must be another day. Gleaming mists rose from the city. White Chain straightened her back and began to re-center herself. She’d need a clear mind for the days ahead.
“Wisdom. Restraint. Emptiness. Wisdom. Restraint. E-“ She noticed something out of place.
A warm, orange cloth had been carefully laid across White Chain’s stone shoulders.