Faucon (abridged)

Faucon - ABRIDGED

(text-colour:white)[Now, fate approaches.] (text-colour:red)[[But there is more than one way to embrace it.]]

(text-colour:white)[The door bangs open, loud and harsh. The man who keeps the keys enters and meets your eyes, more directly than he should dare. These walls may contain your power, but you’re about to step outside.] (text-colour:red)[["So, this is it."]] (text-colour:red)[["Gaoler, please. You’ll disturb the nearly dead."]] (text-colour:red)[["Let's hope the swordsman's hand is as determined as yours."]]

(text-colour:white)[“Gaoler, Ma’am?” the man ripostes, in mock affront. “I just keep the keys.”] (text-colour:red)[["I think you do a little more than that."|MAIN BRANCH 5]] (text-colour:red)[["Of course," you nod.|MAIN BRANCH 5]]

(text-colour:white)["The Swordsman of Talunfern is an… artist, Ma’am," the man says, his voice low and delicate. "It’ll be quick."] (text-colour:red)[["An artist? Well, I hope he’ll find my blood just the right shade of red."|MAIN BRANCH 5]] (text-colour:red)[["So I hear. Good of Hlaford Auren to spare the coin."|MAIN BRANCH 5]]

(text-colour:white)["The moment arrives for us all, Ma’am."] (text-colour:red)[["Quite. Shame some of us get cut off a little early, though."|MAIN BRANCH 5]] (text-colour:red)[["Mm indeed. I wonder when yours will. Soon, perhaps."|MAIN BRANCH 5]] (text-colour:red)[[You straighten and smooth the wrinkles in your robe. "Some of us are readier than others."|MAIN BRANCH 5]]

(text-colour:white)[The gaoler bows his head but his eyes flash back to yours. Something jangles by his keys. He jangles it.] (text-colour:red)[["What’s that?"|MAIN BRANCH 6]] (text-colour:red)[[//Really? They’re doing this?//|MAIN BRANCH 6]]

(text-colour:white)[The gaoler produces a pair of opaline cuffs that thrum with an arcane energy. "Tamerbane. For safety."] (text-colour:red)[["I see."|MAIN BRANCH 7]] (text-colour:red)[["Mine or yours?"|MAIN BRANCH 7]]

"For the... viewers. And the Hlaford." //He'll be there?// (text-colour:red)[["He'll be there?"]] (text-colour:red)[["Ha. I didn't think he had the stones."]] (text-colour:red)[["Right. I suppose I'll have to look at him as I say it, then."]]

(text-colour:red)[["Naturally."|MAIN BRANCH 8]]

(text-colour:red)[[The gaoler hisses a hush at you as his neck whips around for others.|MAIN BRANCH 8]]

(text-colour:red)[["I suppose so, ma'am."|MAIN BRANCH 8]]

(text-colour:red)[["They expect us. You must ready yourself. Now."]]

The blood in your head beats against the bone, counting time. Marching it out as it runs low. Your breath threatens to run ragged. (text-colour:red)[[Your fingertips go cold, ready for the rest of you to catch up soon.]]

"You won’t need that anymore." The gaoler gestures at your necklace - a pendant bearing the mark of your Master. Your true Master. (text-colour:red)[[You unclasp it carefully and place it in his palm.|MAIN BRANCH 9]] (text-colour:red)[[You yank at it, snapping its cord on your neck, and stuff it into his hair-matted hand.|MAIN BRANCH 9]] (text-colour:red)[[You place your hand over it. "I didn’t get to this point just to throw them away."|MAIN BRANCH 9]]

"Ma’am," he bows. Like you’ll bow soon. You wish he’d stop. "Are you ready?" (text-colour:red)[["Wait. Please."]] (text-colour:red)[[You look at him. You hope that look will linger long after... after.|MAIN BRANCH 12]] (text-colour:red)[["Yes. Let's... let's."|MAIN BRANCH 12]]

You tie back your hair and tuck it under a plain cap. You catch sight of yourself in the window pane. The hair that blazed and whipped across your eyes when Euae's power last coursed through you, now tamed. (text-colour:red)[[You could be anyone now.]]

"Very wise." Coils of long hair, carefully nurtured, fall to the floor in your mind's eye - memories of your mother snipping it shorter for the solstice months. You wonder if she’s heard, if she knows. If she’ll be there, watching the head she tended all those years fall from the body she gave life. You wonder if those strands will slip from their modest restraint. (text-colour:red)[[If they’ll soak up what spills out.]]

“Ma’am?” (text-colour:red)[["Just another moment."|MAIN BRANCH 10]] (text-colour:red)[["Just give me a minute."|MAIN BRANCH 10]] (text-colour:red)[["Sorry. I’m ready."|MAIN BRANCH 12]]

You take the cloak that lies folded by the fire and wrap it around you. Its smell fills your senses, all wood and smoke and warmth. You almost feel your father’s arms, which wrapped his own cloak around you all those times the frosttide months bit too sharp. Wyvern Hall was so cold. It was too big. You’d tripped on its folds, clipped your chin on the hearth’s stone. (text-colour:red)[[Your fingertips feel for the trace - it lives in your skin like the smell of fire and home that never really washed out.]]

“You’re cold, ma'am? It’s only a short walk. And it will be of short… duration.” (text-colour:red)[["I won’t let them see me shake."|MAIN BRANCH 11]] (text-colour:red)[["I’m going on a journey. I always take my cloak."|MAIN BRANCH 11]]

"I understand. Are you ready? They await." He taps his fingers on the cuffs. (text-colour:red)[[You smooth your robe and clear your throat.]] (text-colour:red)[["Yes."|MAIN BRANCH 12]]

Your tongue lies weak in your mouth. A languid instrument that once quelled Miril's most savage storms and compelled His Tempers to cool. (text-colour:red)[[It'll soon be dust and rot.]]

You can barely speak as it is for all the seams of Tamerbane running through the walls of your chamber. Because there’s no point at which your speech ends and your power begins. You’re the first of your kind - the first for many ages, anyway. The Hlaford wanted you downstairs with the rats and other traitors, but this was the only place they had that could hold you. You eye the glistening malice in the walls, half-buried in the soothing sandstone. (text-colour:red)[[Did they put it there for you?]]

"Ma'am, please. Now. The Hlaford." (text-colour:red)[[Nod. Step forward.|MAIN BRANCH 12]] (text-colour:red)[["I'm ready."|MAIN BRANCH 12]]

The moment is here. (text-colour:red)[[Fate is here.]]

But how will you embrace it? (text-colour:red)[[I will take the blade. And...|BLADE PATH 1]] (text-colour:red)[[These walls can’t hold me, and the Balance can’t have me. I’ll Tame again.|ESCAPE PATH 1]]

(text-colour:red)[[I will rejoin the Balance.|BALANCE PATH 1]] (text-colour:red)[[I will take another turn. This isn’t it.|TAME PATH 1]]

“Your hands, ma’am.” He wants to quell you - to purge the last dregs of power that these walls haven’t yet flushed from your tongue. And there is a little of it left - just a little. You can taste the sparks and fizzes that linger even in your Tamerbane cage. They probably don’t know that, though. They want to cuff you just to be sure. To tame the Tamer. And to have her seen that way, of course. He’ll be sitting somewhere, watching. He’ll want to see the falcon’s wings clipped before the blade trims more than (text-colour:red)[[just its feathers.]]

“Your hands, ma’am.” (text-colour:red)[[You put your wrists out, palms up, eyes down.|BALANCE PATH 2]] (text-colour:red)[[You put your wrists out, fists balled, eyes fixed on his.|BALANCE PATH 2]]

(text-colour:red)[[“Your hands, ma’am.”]]

He clamps the cuffs around you. They’re colder than metal or ice. You shudder and your mouth goes numb. (text-colour:red)[[“This way, Euaekin.”|BALANCE PATH 2A]]

You follow the gaoler into the narrow hall beyond your chamber - the first time you’ve left it in seventeen days. You counted them as the light crawled into the sky and slunk away again, over and over. It tries to enter now, shafts of the sun’s gaze cutting the stone into strips. (text-colour:red)[[Two women you don’t know nod at you, briefly; stoically.]]

They're Tenders. Night Tenders - Miril’s lesser chosen - by the look of it, from their sage robes. Agents of the Master that Euae’s own spend their lives beating back. It’s custom, you remember, that they attend now. Your stomach tightens at their presence. And yet... (text-colour:red)[[You nod back.]] (text-colour:red)[[You nod deeply, with a smile.]] (text-colour:red)[[You avert your gaze, chin high, and keep walking.]]

They return it as freely as they dare before slipping into a train in your wake, followed by two guards at the rear. (text-colour:red)[[Two march ahead of you.|BALANCE PATH 3]]

They’re only Tenders. And His, too. Lesser chosen of the one whose Tempers you’ve long fought hard to quell. They step into line behind you; you can feel their glare burning your back. (text-colour:red)[[Two guards follow behind; two march ahead.|BALANCE PATH 3]]

(text-colour:red)[[They slip into a train in your wake, as four guards follow - two ahead, two at the rear.|BALANCE PATH 3]]

The gaoler leads you, flanked by guards marching ahead and behind, out into the main tower. You don’t know how long it takes your train to snake the corridors and halls of the tower. More and more figures you don’t know nod and slip into step behind you as you go. The pattering of feet on wood and stone beats like rain on a roof, marching you forward, watched by the painted eyes of paragons and traitors past that line the walls. (text-colour:red)[[Slow a little. Drink in the beauty.]] (text-colour:red)[[Speed up. There’s no beauty here.]]

The train fumbles a little behind you. You try to take in the tapestries, pick out the weft and weave that give life to their bucolic scenes; the glint of every gold thread. One depicts a lone woman who stands at a cliff edge. Copper hair bursts from her hood and spirals of spellwork unspool from her tongue to calm the sea’s raging. (text-colour:red)[[She’s so angry.|BALANCE PATH 4]] (text-colour:red)[[She’s at peace.|BALANCE PATH 4]]

Those eyes follow you until you turn the corner into a courtyard. (text-colour:red)[[The courtyard.|BALANCE PATH 7]]

You see the woven image of the Hlaford, stalking majestic red deer in the forest. His tongue has its own power, commanding serfs to risk a goring all for his easier sport. (text-colour:red)[[His tongue holds the greatest power.|BALANCE PATH 5]] (text-colour:red)[[He has nothing. Not now.|BALANCE PATH 5]]

You then meet those masterfully daubed eyes. What they bear of their Masters’ power in these dust-flecked canvases that are all that’s left of them. (text-colour:red)[[Look at a Gale-Tamer, one of Euae’s chosen.]] (text-colour:green)[[Look at a Night-Tamer, one of Miril’s chosen.]] (text-colour:grey)[[Look at a Tide-Tamer, one of Mōna’s chosen.]] (text-colour:blue)[[Look at a Blood-Tamer, one of Olessa’s chosen.]]

You stare, until their crimson robes seem to smear and blur in your eyes. (text-colour:red)[[They belong to time now.|BALANCE PATH 6]] (text-colour:red)[[They live on. As will I.|BALANCE PATH 6]]

You stare, until their sage robes seem to smear and blur in your eyes. (text-colour:red)[[They belong to time now.|BALANCE PATH 6]] (text-colour:red)[[They live on. As will I.|BALANCE PATH 6]]

You stare, until their silver robes seem to smear and blur in your eyes. (text-colour:red)[[They belong to time now.|BALANCE PATH 6]] (text-colour:red)[[They live on. As will I.|BALANCE PATH 6]]

You stare, until their blue robes seem to smear and blur in your eyes. (text-colour:red)[[They belong to time now.|BALANCE PATH 6]] (text-colour:red)[[They live on. As will I.|BALANCE PATH 6]]

“Ma’am. Time marches.” You resume, turning a corner into a courtyard. (text-colour:red)[[The courtyard.|BALANCE PATH 7]]

You squint as the sun’s full glare scalds your sheltered eyes. Air hisses through your teeth as the very veins in your arms weaken. They’re burning torches of Tamerbane throughout the stone square. Just in case. (text-colour:red)[[Then, a roar erupts.]]

You can’t make it out, and you feel it rumble through your bones and brain before you understand it. You’ve never been good at guessing crowd numbers, though you’ve certainly performed your art to many before. What seems like a thousand faces, warped with every expression, blend into a howling mass. Fists beat the air; hands reach out to grab you, grasping; clutching; tearing. You feel the seams of your cloak begin to strain as the guards - more than earlier - try to force the hands back. (text-colour:red)[[Draw your cloak closer. They will not take any part of you. They will not see you shiver.]] (text-colour:red)[[Shrug your cloak off. Reveal your true colours.]]

You try as best as you can in your cuffs to pull the folds tighter around you. The hands release you and become one with the mass again, fading into the blur of everything. (text-colour:red)[[Like the last moments anyone will try to protect you before no-one will.|BALANCE PATH 9]]

Your hands are cuffed, but you manage to pull the cord loose with your teeth and shuffle the cloak from your shoulders. The crowd’s howls shrink to murmurs. Because your cloak is… (text-colour:red)[[Crimson. You are still Euae’s. You are innocent.]] (text-colour:green)[[Sage. You are Miril’s now. And now they all know.|BALANCE PATH 8]] (text-colour:blue)[[Blue. You are Olessa’s now. And now they all know.|BALANCE PATH 8]] (text-colour:grey)[[Silver. You are Mōna’s now. And now they all know.|BALANCE PATH 8]]

The crowd gasps. There's a breath. And it erupts again. Some hiss and shout, their cries trying to quake the blood from your body before it's time. But most don't. (text-colour:red)[[There's a hum that wasn't there before; a swell of something other than anger.|BALANCE PATH 9]]

The crowd gasps. There's a breath. And it erupts again. A few call your name, and the name of your Master, whose colours you wear. (text-colour:red)[[But most hiss and shout, their cries trying to quake the blood from your body before it's time.|BALANCE PATH 9]]

“Coin, ma’am. For the swordsman.” The gaoler places a small purse of coppers into your hand. You clutch the little bag, closing your hands around its delicate embroidery. Its worth is almost as much as the tokens clinking inside. The swordsman stands ahead, a silhouette on that hard scaffold at its centre. (text-colour:red)[[The crowd near you, many in rags barely holding together as clothes, stare avidly at your clasped hands.]]

The swordsman travelled all the way from Talunfern, across the Nassaeilan Channel. He deserves his pay. And the coin would guarantee his gentleness. If you could call it that. It could also silence the wolfish hunger prowling the stomachs of ten or more people for a week. Some of them clamour to see your end. But not all of them. (text-colour:red)[[Hold onto the bag. This is your end. It cannot go badly.]] (text-colour:red)[[Cast the coins into the crowd, and the bag, too.]]

Arms jostle and jab, and heads dip to search the cobblestones, as the coins scatter. People’s cries reach a pitch again as some wail their thanks and others their dismay. A mother bellows and hisses as she lifts her daughter up onto her shoulders, the child’s legs knotted around her mother’s neck as she sits high above the crowd. She clutches the purse in her hands. “Fank you.” Her words cut through the din. (text-colour:red)[[You smile weakly before you turn and make your way through the wrangled crowd to the foot of the scaffold.]]

You stare straight ahead as you make your way through the dispersed crowd to the foot of the scaffold. Their cries reach a pitch again as your knuckles whiten to hide the purse from view. You step onto the scaffold as carefully as you can but slip on the last step. Your cuffed hands are no use with the purse clasped between them. The swordsman, his features buried beneath a dark hood, helps you stand straight. (text-colour:red)[[“Madame.”]]

He kneels before you and bows his head. “Madame, please forgive me for what I ‘ave to do now.” You force your voice through the numbness in your mouth. (text-colour:red)[[“Most happily.”|BALANCE PATH 10]] (text-colour:red)[["I will. I do."|BALANCE PATH 10]] (text-colour:red)[[“We’re all playing our part.”|BALANCE PATH 10]] (text-colour:red)[[“You have nerve.”|BALANCE PATH 10]]

The man stands. “Here is your purse,” you say. (text-colour:red)[[He takes it from you and hands it to his assistant, a mere youth.]]

He sits high above the crowd, in the shadow of the canopy of his colours draped over his head. You can’t read him, not from here. Maybe he can’t read you, either. But you could make him see you - hear you - one last time. An arrow of birds crosses the sky overhead. You take a deep breath. (text-colour:red)[[Be a swan]] (text-colour:red)[[Be a falcon]]

You try to swallow the numbness in your throat and gather the traces of your power one last time. But the words won’t come. They can’t. You stand tall, mustering all your grace, though you're kicking beneath the surface. You appeal to the gaoler. You're proud but exposed. He must give you your chance. He looks nervously to the Hlaford’s shadow beneath his canopy, high on the terrace. A nod must follow, because the man approaches you and gently unclicks the cuffs from your hands. You feel power flood back into your tongue. Not enough for anything other than the last words you’ll choose to leave your lips. They’ve been on too long; you’d need an hour or more to shake their grip off. And the Tamerbane torches still crackle cruelly throughout the courtyard. (text-colour:red)[[But you have this. You will be heard.]]

You try to swallow the numbness in your throat and gather the traces of your power one last time. But the words won’t come. They can’t. You draw yourself up and sharpen; your eyes seek their mark. Because you will soar before you're felled. You glare at the gaoler, your prey. He will get you your chance. He looks nervously to the Hlaford’s shadow beneath his canopy, high on the terrace. A nod must follow, because the man approaches you and gently unclicks the cuffs from your hands. You feel power flood back into your tongue. Not enough for anything other than the last words you’ll choose to leave your lips. They’ve been on too long; you’d need an hour or more to shake their grip off. And the Tamerbane torches still crackle cruelly throughout the courtyard. (text-colour:red)[[But you have this. You will be heard.]]

“Good Nassaeilan people. I have come here to die, for according to the law, and by the law, I am judged to die. Therefore, I will speak nothing against it. I come here not to accuse anyone, or speak against anything for which I’m accused and condemned to die; but I ask my true Master to save the Hlaford, and send him long to watch over you. For there’s never been a gentler or more merciful lord, and to me he was always a good, gentle, and a sovereign lord. And if any person should meddle for my cause, I ask them to judge the (text-colour:red)[[best]].”

You step forward and kneel, tucking your robe neatly beneath your shins. “Now I take my leave of the world, and of you all. I heartily desire you all to show tribute to my Master for (text-colour:red)[[me]].”

You take a deep (text-colour:red)[[breath.]]

(text-colour:red)[[And another.]]

“Master, have mercy on me. To the Balance I commend my spell and soul.” (text-colour:red)[[Close your eyes. You won’t see them stare.]] (text-colour:red)[[Look up. You will see the sky until you can’t.]]

The world is just you and the beating of the blood in your head. All else is dark and quiet. (text-colour:red)[[You wait.]]

A lone falcon circles overhead, carving whirls against the sharp blue sky. (text-colour:red)[[The world is sublime.|WAIT 2]] (text-colour:red)[[The world is savage.|WAIT 2]]

“Master, have mercy on me. To the Balance I commend my spell and soul,” you repeat, (text-colour:red)[[over and over.]]

(text-colour:red)[[You wait...]]

(text-colour:red)[[“Apportez l'epee.”]]

(text-colour:red)[[And then…]]

//Faucon, by Carrie Talbot.//

(text-colour:red)[[And I was sublime within it.|WAIT 3]] (text-colour:red)[[And I was savage within it.|WAIT 3]]

(text-colour:red)[[You wait.]]

“My coin?” The swordsman, features buried beneath a dark hood, asks you. You force your voice through the numbness of your mouth. “They needed it more.” “More ‘zan you? The one ‘oo needs to sweeten the man who’s about to trim ‘er short?” “Yes.” “An’ ‘ow do you propose I get my pay, hm?” (text-colour:red)[["You’ll still get your pay. Go to the Hlaford. He’ll give you your due.”]] (text-colour:red)[[Give him your necklace - the mark of your Master. “Here. It’s worth more than that coin.”]]

He smirks. (text-colour:red)[[He smirks. "We shall have to see if my blade’s sweet enough for now, ‘zen, shan’t we?”|BALANCE PATH 11]]

He turns it over in his hand for a moment before nodding, graciously. “Madame.” (text-colour:red)[[He hands it to his assistant, a mere youth.|BALANCE PATH 11]]

You stand on the scaffold, bathed in the heavy silence that has fallen. And you see him: Hlaford Auren. The one who was there when this all began, when there was so much light neither of you ever imagined such darkness could follow one day. The one who scratched his twisting mark onto the parchment that sealed what’s about to happen. He sits high above the crowd, in the shadow of the canopy of his colours draped over his head. You can’t read him, not from here. Maybe he can’t read you, either. But you could make him see you - hear you - one last time. An arrow of birds crosses the sky overhead. You take a deep breath. (text-colour:red)[[Be a swan.|BALANCE PATH 12]] (text-colour:red)[[Be a falcon.|BALANCE PATH 12]]

You try to swallow the numbness in your throat and gather the traces of your power one last time. But the words won’t come. They can’t. (text-colour:red)[[Appeal to the gaoler, who stands to your side.|BALANCE PATH 13]] (text-colour:red)[[Try to force it again. You must be heard.|BALANCE PATH 13]]

The gaoler looks nervously to the Hlaford’s shadow beneath his canopy, high on the terrace. A nod must follow, because the man approaches you and gently unclicks the cuffs from your hands. You feel power flood back into your tongue. Not enough for anything other than the last words you’ll choose to leave your lips. They’ve been on too long; you’d need an hour or more to shake their grip off. And the Tamerbane torches still crackle cruelly throughout the courtyard. (text-colour:red)[[But you have this. You will be heard.]]

He wants to quell you - to purge the last dregs of power that these walls haven’t yet flushed from your tongue. But you will take another turn. You will let them take your head, but not you - (text-colour:red)[[whatever magic, mystery matter that makes you what you are.]]

And you are a Tamer. You have options they don’t know or understand. If you can grasp at enough of your Master’s threads, cling to them through what must happen, you might just hang on. You might be allowed to pass through it all. You might still clutch that lifeline through the maelstrom and surface once more on the other side. Emerge a chosen, as you did in this life - a greater part of the Balance than just one of the millions of souls subsumed into its greedy embrace. (text-colour:red)[[One who lives and breathes and speaks the power into submission.]]

You won’t serve the Balance. You will Tame it. One way or another. But the gaoler can’t clap those things on you. You’d never find the threads with the last sparks of your power snuffed. (text-colour:red)[[“These walls have held me for seventeen days. I haven’t broken out yet, sir.”]] (text-colour:red)[[“I’ve already accepted my fate. Those aren’t necessary.”]] (text-colour:red)[[“You would strip me of my last dignity, gaoler?”]]

The gaoler’s eyes fix on yours for a few long moments. You hold them, forbidding your cheeks to burn and betray you under their glare. “The Hlaford’s orders, ma’am. He might insist.” “I presume you’ll have other means, though? Like these walls?” “Well–yes, ma’am. Tamerbane torches are already burning in the courtyard.” His eyes dip, apologetically. “How… resourceful. Well-executed. Ha. You’ll pardon my humour, sir.” (text-colour:red)[[“Dark wit’s only fitting for a dark day, such as it is, my lady.”]]

“The Hlaford’s orders, ma’am. He’ll insist.” “He won’t need to. As I said, I’ve already come to terms–” “Forgive me ma’am, but it’s out of my hands. I, uh–so to speak.” He clutches the cuffs gingerly, shifting and clearing his throat apologetically. “No, you really don’t have t–” (text-colour:red)[[“I must. I’m sorry, ma’am. I must.”]]

“Of course not, ma’am. I would never. But it’s the Hlaford’s orders. I’m afraid I must insist.” (text-colour:red)[[“I presume you’ll have other means, though? Without the need to physically bind me like some small-time scumbag?”]] (text-colour:red)[[“But I’ve already come to terms with it. I will go willingly. I swear to you.”]]

You bow your head low, all grace and care. “I can’t fight this - not now. I just ask to be spared the cuffs. I’m a Tamer, one of the Masters’ chosen. Not some small-time scumbag.” “Of course, ma’am. But the Hlaford–if he should dispute it–” “He won’t need to. It’ll be done soon; he’ll have my head. He can do what he wants with me when I’m… gone. There’s no reason I should have a taste of that now, before.” The gaoler ponders your words, turning them over in his mind like a coin between fingers. “It’s a fair ask, ma’am. Very well. And I’ll answer to it, should he be angry when you’re– afterwards.” “Thank you.” (text-colour:red)[[“Ma’am. Now, this way. Please.”]]

(text-colour:red)[[This is it. You must find the threads and grasp them. You don’t have much time.]]

You follow the gaoler into the narrow hall beyond your chamber - the first time you’ve left it in seventeen days. You counted them as the light crawled into the sky and slunk away, over and over. It tries to enter now, with shafts of the sun’s gaze cutting the stone into strips ahead of you. Two women you don’t know nod at you, briefly; stoically. Tenders. Miril’s lesser chosen - Night Tenders - by the look of it, from their sage robes. Agents of the Master that Euae’s own spend their lives beating back. It’s custom, you remember, that they attend now. (text-colour:red)[[Your stomach tightens at their presence. And yet.]]

Well–yes, ma’am. Tamerbane torches are already burning in the courtyard.” His eyes dip, apologetically. “How… resourceful. Well-executed. Ha. You’ll pardon my humour, sir.” (text-colour:red)[[“Dark wit’s only fitting for a dark day, such as it is, my lady.”]]

“Forgive me ma’am, but it’s out of my hands. I, uh–so to speak.” He clutches the cuffs gingerly, shifting and clearing his throat apologetically. “No, you really don’t have t–” (text-colour:red)[[“I must. I’m sorry, ma’am. I must.”]]

He pounces, catching you off-guard. You pull your wrists away but you have nowhere to go; you back into the bedpost as he clamps them around one, then the other. You gasp at their touch. They’re colder than metal or ice. You feel your tongue - your precious instrument; the key to your rebirth - go numb. “I’m sorry it came to this, ma’am. Miril forgive me. Now, we must go. This way, please.” That’s it. It’s over. You will rejoin the Balance. (text-colour:red)[[It will consume you.|BALANCE PATH 2A]]

Whatever’s happened, you were born Euae’s chosen. Your greatest power lies in Hers: blood. These two might do, you think. But they’re so dour; their shine - such as it is in mere Tenders - so dulled right now. It would be better if they were Tamers like you, with tides and swells of blood to whip into a frenzy, to unlock the power coursing through your own. But they’re all you have, along with only moments to do it. You must act. (text-colour:red)[[Resist. Refuse. They’re a threat.]] (text-colour:red)[[Object. Think of your dignity.]] (text-colour:red)[[Tease them. Draw them in.]]

“Night-Tenders? Miril’s whispering little squallers? They’re dangerous, and they’re not coming near me.” “Yes, they bloody are,” a guard barks at you as he grabs your arms and forces you up the corridor, followed by another three and the two Tenders. (text-colour:red)[[“What the Tempersvoid are you doing? Get off me!”]]

“Night-Tenders? I see, so I skip the chains but have to endure another affront to my dignity?” “Ma’am?” The gaoler turns around. “Whatever happened - whatever that council said - I was born one of Euae’s greatest Tamers. Her greatest ever, even. You’ve spared me the cuffs, but now I have to walk to my end with them? (text-colour:red)[[Barely fit to count themselves among the Gale-Master’s lowest things.”]]

Bow deeply to the two women. “How charming. Why, pray, were they not let into my chamber last night when I had need of some… succour?” “I–I beg your pardon, ma’am?” You ignore the gaoler, keeping your eyes fixed on the Tenders. One scowls, almost baring her teeth into a hiss. But the other - the taller one, with dark, tightly curled hair - doesn’t. (text-colour:red)[[You set your gaze on her.]]

You kick at him until his fingers spring from your skin and he staggers back a step or two. “Don’t you dare, blood-sucker.” “How about don’t you dare? I have Her on my side.” This is it. His blood begins to rise. You can feel it rising and thrumming like the tide, hot in his veins. Rich in Her power; your power. You begin to murmur your Master’s glamours, searching for a strand of Her precious power to grab. (text-colour:red)[[But another guard swoops behind you.]]

He clamps a pair of Tamerbane cuffs on your wrists and spits at the floor. “Jumped-up little blood-bride bitch.” You gasp at their touch. They’re colder than metal or ice. You feel your tongue - your precious instrument; the key to your rebirth - go numb. That’s it. It’s over; it’s too late. You will rejoin the Balance. (text-colour:red)[[It will consume you.|BALANCE PATH 3]]

“Silence, blood-bitch,” one of the Tenders snarls. “You’ve been caged like a disobedient pup these past few weeks and now you’re being led like a dog to die in the square. And you still think you’re that blood-sucker Euae’s chosen? Her greatest? Ha! (text-colour:red)[[Let’s see if you feel that way in ten minutes, eh?”]]

That’s it. You can feel her blood rising. It thrums and rises like the tide. “I don’t need my head. The tongue in my skull will still have a thousand times the power your wind-wizard ever deigned to give you when it’s dust and rot. Tender.” “I don’t care if Hlaford Auren hears about this, I will wipe that–” “Stop, Elyn!” The other Tender barks. “Yes, stop, Elyn. You wouldn’t try a Tamer. Even here.” “Yes, I fucking would, you blood-sucking—” The Tender lunges, but two guards do, too. “Enough! Please!” The gaoler cries as they close in around her. (text-colour:red)[[Now.]]

Your fingers twitch; you mutter your Master’s glamours. You feel the Tenders’ blood gushing and crashing, echoed in your own. Your lips barely move but you feel your power piercing the Tamerbane’s grip on you. (text-colour:red)[[One more push, just to find it - to feel for it; for Her - in the timeless air and space.]]

“She should have been born to Euae’s kin. Her chosen aren’t so wet and weak as Miril’s gusts.” “Fucking blood-bitch! You dare speak of my Mast–” There. In the din, the beating blood, is She. Your fingers close around a precious strand of Her power. (text-colour:red)[[You must hold on. But you have reached Her, for now.]]

“I think it would perhaps be best if we dispensed with the custom, on this occasion,” the gaoler says as he wipes the sweat from his brow with a square of dirty silk. The two guards hold the howling Tender back, while the other hisses at her to hush. “No need,” you say. “I’m sure they can find a way not to be a total disgrace to their wind-wizard.” At this, they both suck in their breath and quit their protests. The calmer Tender nods curtly, and they step behind you, ready to follow you out. “Of course. Good. I would urge you, though, ma’am, to refrain from any other such… displays from here on.” “That rather depends on them, I think.” (text-colour:red)[[The gaoler nods, flustered, but leads on.|TAME PATH 2]]

The gaoler leads you, flanked by guards marching ahead and behind, out into the main tower. You don’t know how long it takes your train to snake the corridors and halls of the tower. More figures you don’t know nod and slip into step behind you as you go. (text-colour:red)[[The pattering of feet on wood and stone beats like rain on a roof, marching you forward, watched by the painted eyes of paragons and traitors past that line the walls.]]

“What’s your name?” “Lilyth,” she replies. “Shame you’ll only get to know it for all of, what, ten minutes? Less?” You can almost taste the salt in her words, but there’s a flicker. You can feel her blood rising. It begins to lap through her veins like the tide. This might work. “What the Tempersvoid is this? Get moving. Now,” a guard barks. “Yes, ma’am. We must. Please.” “A moment won’t change what’s to come,” you say. But you know it could, and it has to. This is it. (text-colour:red)[[You step towards her, amused as her fellow Tender steps back in disgust.]]

“Lilyth. That’s delicate; elegant. Shame your Master wouldn’t know those things even if they stuffed him into a windsock and shipped him off to the Alexandrite Halls.” Lilyth pants a laugh and raises her eyebrow. She steps closer; you can almost hear it - the beat, beat, beat - from here. “And yet, for all Her own devastating, red-blooded grace, yours has abandoned you. Or was it the other way around?” “Her power will never leave my tongue.” “Ah, but it will. Just as the life will soon seep from your pretty little neck. My heart bleeds for you, Euaekin.” “Oh, stop. Your fair-weather heart would bleed for me? So soon? Or, so late, I should say. (text-colour:red)[[How generous.”]]

You smile and breathe it in. Her blood’s thrumming begins to course through you, too. Your fingers twitch; you can begin to feel Euae in the air and space. If you could just find a thread… “Ah, only a little. It’s thicker than water, so I hear. Or is it? You’d know, wouldn’t you? Seeing as you were there, meddling in one of Olessa’s little sea tantrums where you shouldn’t have. That’s where they caught you, isn’t it? Slippery little leech.” You’re so close. Your fingers grasp the air as she charges your bloodstream, but your power is just out of reach. You could push her harder. Just once more. You’re nearly there. Or you could retreat. Her blood is starting to seize and sputter; you could let it flow freely. (text-colour:red)[[Push her harder.]] (text-colour:red)[[Retreat.]]

“All the better to suck the air out of you, my dear,” you snarl, inches from her face. “Tha’s it,” one of the guards barks. (text-colour:red)[[“I dunno what games you magians’re playin’ but I’m stoppin’ it, now.”]]

“Not slippery enough, I suppose, Mirilkin.” Confusion sweeps across Lilyth’s features for a moment. “Kin”. That’s only for your kind - the greater chosen. But then a satisfied smirk replaces it, and a blush blooms across the sharp lines of her cheeks. The dam breaks and her blood flows fast and fluid throughout her - and your power follows. You begin to murmur your Master’s glamours. (text-colour:red)[[Your lips barely move but you feel your power piercing the Tamerbane’s grip on you.]]

NO. YOU’RE SO CLOSE. You back away from him and begin to murmur your Master’s glamours, searching for a strand of Her precious power to grab. But another guard swoops behind you. He clamps a pair of Tamerbane cuffs on your wrists and spits at the floor. “Jumped-up little blood-bride bitch.” You gasp at their touch. They’re colder than metal or ice. You feel your tongue - your precious instrument; the key to your rebirth - go numb. That’s it. It’s over; it’s too late. You will rejoin the Balance. (text-colour:red)[[It will consume you.|BALANCE PATH 3]]

There. In the din, the beating blood, is She. Your fingers close around a precious strand of Her power. You must hold on. But you have Her, for now. “What was that, blue-blood?” Lilyth asks with a grin. “Oh, just… a thank-you.” “What for?” (text-colour:red)[[“This little tête-à-tête. It’s been a lifeline.”]]

She covers her bewilderment with a look you can’t quite read before finally stepping back into line with the other Tender. They shoot each other a glance: how strange you are! Good. They don’t know. “Shall we?” You ask the gaoler. “Oh, yes, ma’am. Yes. Please. And quick. The Hlaford–” “Will still have my head. And soon. He won’t miss a few minutes.” (text-colour:red)[[“I hope so, ma’am. And now, please, this way.”|TAME PATH 2]]

The portrait of Hlaford Auren, whose gaze used to make your skin prickle hot and stir the air in your lungs, is long gone. Now there’s only a giant, gold-licked tribute to the face you don’t recognise anymore. A paltry imitation of the one that came before. You clasp the thread of Euae’s power in your hand as you pass the paintings. But it’s not enough; it’s so brittle, it won’t carry you through the maelstrom. You need more. And it has to be now. The courtyard must be close. Think. (text-colour:red)[[Be outrageous. Inflame.]] (text-colour:red)[[Be piteous. Tug at their heart strings.]] (text-colour:red)[[Be you. Take the chance.]]

The procession clatters to a halt as you stop and behold the Hlaford’s portrait. “Ma’am? Please - there’s no time to stop. It must be done.” You smile at the sullen, waxy face peering through the paint. At the sage-green smears declaring him, though unchosen, the Gale-Master’s willing pup. And you laugh. “Such a shame. To think, the cost of this, not to mention the clothes he had to buy to sit for it. And yet…” “Ma’am?” “It hasn’t worked.” “I–sorry?” (text-colour:red)[[“He’s still inadequate.”]]

The procession clatters to a halt as you stop and behold the Hlaford’s portrait. “Ma’am? Please - there’s no time to stop. It must be done.” You search the sullen, waxy face peering through the paint. The sage-green smears declaring him, though unchosen, the Gale-Master’s willing pup. And you try to dredge something - anything - from the pits of your stomach that still hide things long-since buried. “By daily proof you shall me find / To be your one, in heart and mind.” (text-colour:red)[[“Ma’am?”]]

You stand in silence, staring at the painting for several moments. “You are… bidding the Hlaford farewell, ma’am?” You stare at the sullen, waxy face peering through the paint. At the sage-green smears declaring him, though unchosen, the Gale-Master’s willing pup. And… nothing. You can’t feel anything. Say it. (text-colour:red)[[“I can’t feel anything.”]]

The Tenders erupt. You feel their blood boom and crash like waves battering the cliffs. You smile as you feel it feeding your power. It comes over you, fast and delicious. It pounds in your tongue, ready to spill your Master’s spells and find more of Her in the air around you. “Heretic!”; “traitor!”; “bloodthirsty leech!”; “bloodhungry bitch!”, they rage as the guards fight to contain them, as well as their own flaring tempers. (text-colour:red)[[You begin murmuring your Master’s glamours once again, searching for more threads as their blood’s pounding surges in you.]]

Nothing. It’s too raw and ragged; it’s not been warmed to taste like a frosttide wine, but boiled like offcuts stew. It’s hard to grapple, and it’s still rising. You went far, fast - maybe too far, too fast. You won’t coax them down from this. You’ll have to go for broke. It’s your only chance. The thread still buried in your clenched fist tenses and thrums. Never turning your gaze from them, you rip the portrait from the wall. “Stop, madam! Now! Please!” the gaoler cries over the clamour of the others. The guards loosen their grip on the Tenders as they turn towards you. (text-colour:red)[[Now.|TAME PATH 3]]

You bring the frame down hard on your leg. Your knee splits the canvas’ pallid visage in two. “It’s only fair to return the favour, don’t you think? Given today.” The Tenders gasp. The guards rush you. (text-colour:red)[[Now.|TAME PATH 4]]

Your Master’s spells slip through your lips as you cast your fingers through the air’s fibres, searching for Her. But they’re almost on you. “Come on,” you hiss between murmurs. “Come on.” A guard grabs your arm and wrenches it to your side. You cry out but– There. You feel it - a precious strand; part of the Blood-Master’s own weave. You clasp it, winding it tightly around the other you still clutch, even as the guards wrestle your arms to your sides. That’s it. They’re safe, buried. You’ll need more to survive your end, to come through the other side. But you’ll find a way. You still have time. (text-colour:red)[[But then you feel something else.]]

One of them clamps a pair of Tamerbane cuffs on your wrists and spits at the floor. “Nice try, blood-bride.” You gasp at their touch. They’re colder than metal or ice. You feel your tongue - your precious instrument; the key to your rebirth - go numb. And those precious strands burst free of your grasp. They’re gone, and you won’t find them again. That’s it. It’s over; it’s too late. You will rejoin the Balance. (text-colour:red)[[It will consume you.|BALANCE PATH 6]]

“It was written on the back of his last portrait - the one that hung here - where no-one could see it.” “I, uh, see. And how is it that you–?” “I wrote it. It was a promise.” The others shuffle slightly where they stand. And you feel their blood begin to simmer - one more than most. (text-colour:red)[[“Shame you broke it, then. Leech.” Another of Miril’s Tenders - a man, just joined - glares at you.]]

The patter beats louder and louder, its pounding beginning to fill your head and pulse through your veins. Your fingers loosen just a little from your palm as you begin to search the air for a precious strand of Her weave. This is it. Keep going. “I broke nothing. I’m walking to my end on his command, aren’t I? May I not stop to see his face one more time?” The Tender sniffs, and his mouth warps into a wolfish sneer. “Ha. So it has nothing to do with the guards and all that Tamerbane they’ve had on you, then? You’re here out of the goodness of your bleeding heart, are you? The Hlaford’s ‘one in heart and mind’” (text-colour:red)[[He spits at the floor.]]

His own blood is pulsing, rising; it’s raw and ragged - potent but risky. But others are on the edge of something else; you can feel the other Tenders; the gaoler; even one of the guards brimming; threatening to spill. You could make them spill. You grasp the air; you can almost feel the delicate threads of Her power. You could almost pluck one, but it’s just out of reach for now. You have to tip them over. You have to make them spill, before the moment’s lost. Do it now. (text-colour:red)[[Trickle. A single tear.]] (text-colour:red)[[Flood. Don’t hold back.]]

You close your eyes and tip your head up. They can’t miss this; they have to see it, or it’s over. You swallow and force your simmering blood to dredge up a single memory - little more than a fragment of a look, shared between lovers all that time ago. You squeeze your eyes shut, crinkle your face, and let it slip from your eye. It slides languidly down your cheek and drops onto the carpet. You almost hear it; the others are silent, agape at you. (text-colour:red)[[And now, the flourish.]]

You take a deep breath and drop to your knees, head down. You can risk this chance; they have to see it - the full force of it - or it’s over. You swallow and force the full flow of your simmering blood to dredge up a single memory - little more than a fragment of a look, shared between lovers all that time ago. You squeeze your eyes shut, crinkle your face, and let the dam burst. You cup your face in your hands and sob. Your ribs shake as the tide breaks. It could be seventeen days of bottling the disgrace - cradling the hurts in your core that it’s all coming to an end, like this - or the numb, desperate clawings of a woman drowning. You don’t know. But you feel the surge of their blood begin to swoop through your own veins. (text-colour:red)[[This is it.|TAME PATH 5]]

“Master gaoler… might you have–?” “Of course, ma’am. Please, take this.” You take the grime-flecked square from his hand and dab your eyes gently, delicately, with it, careful to cover your mouth as you begin to mutter your Master’s spells once again. Your other hand, the one buried at your side, searches - grasping, reaching… Your veins echo the rolling crests and crashes of the others’ blood. They feel for you; you’ve stirred something in each of them, and it fills the silence in the room. You sniff and clear your throat quietly. You swallow, your eyes still fixed demurely on the ground. You can feel it rising, and rising… (text-colour:red)[[There.]]

You find one. You clasp it, winding it tightly around the other still clutched in your palm. That’s it. They’re safe, buried. You’ll need more to survive your end, to come through the other side. But you’ll find a way. You still have time. “We should go,” you say. “Oh, yes–please. Now, ma’am. And all.”

You begin to mutter your Master’s spells once again. Your other hand, the one buried at your side, searches - grasping, reaching… You feel arms grip your arms and pull you to your feet. “That’s enough. Bloody princess, trying to turn us with her poison tears,” a guard snarls. “You’re done; now get on with it,” a Tender hisses. “No, I wasn’t–” (text-colour:red)[[“Quiet, leech.”]]

The nearest guard clamps a pair of Tamerbane cuffs on your wrists and spits at the floor. “Try your tricks now, blue-blood.” You gasp at their touch. They’re colder than metal or ice. You feel your tongue - your precious instrument; the key to your rebirth - go numb. And those precious strands burst free of your grasp. They’re gone, and you won’t find them again. That’s it. It’s over; it’s too late. You will rejoin the Balance. (text-colour:red)[[It will consume you.|BALANCE PATH 6]]

Silence fills the room, airless and suffocating. “He’s already gone. And I’m nearly gone.” The gaoler clears his throat, gently; softly. “All things come to an end, my lady. It will be over soon.” “Yes. It’s nearly over, and it already is.” (text-colour:red)[[Something changes; the group’s blood begins to stir.]]

But you don’t know what that feeling is; its shape, its flow - you don’t recognise it. But it’s strong. They feel something, and now you do, too. It courses around you, strange and soothing and stark. You take a deep breath and let it flood you. You murmur Her spells once again and begin searching, running your fingers through the fabric of the air, seeking Her precious threads out. Your veins echo the simmering, cresting, and washing of the others’ blood. They feel for you; you’ve stirred something in each of them, and it soothes the silence in the room. You feel it rising, and rising… (text-colour:red)[[And there it is.]]

You find one. You clasp the strand, winding it tightly around the other still clutched in your palm. That’s it. They’re safe, buried. You’ll need more to survive your end, to come through the other side. But you’ll find a way. You still have time. “We should go,” you mutter. (text-colour:red)[[“Oh, yes–please. Now, ma’am. And all.”]]

At last, you pass through an ancient, heaving oak door and out into the courtyard. You squint as the sun’s full glare scalds your sheltered eyes. Air hisses through your teeth as the very veins in your arms weaken. They’re burning torches of Tamerbane throughout the stone square. Just in case. (text-colour:red)[[Then, a roar erupts.|TAME PATH 6]]

You can’t make it out, and you feel it quake through your bones and rush through your veins before you understand it. You’ve never been good at guessing crowd numbers, though you’ve certainly performed your art to many before. What seems like a thousand faces, warped with every expression, blend into a howling mass. Fists beat the air; hands reach out to grab you, grasping; clutching; tearing. You feel the seams of your cloak begin to strain as the guards - more than earlier - try to force the hands back. So much blood. And it’s almost time. (text-colour:red)[[You could snatch a fistful of strands here, if you play it right.]]

You could untie your cloak, show them your true colours. Rouse them. But it could backfire. What if they revolt, and their blood runs too ragged and raw? There’s so much Tamerbane burning in those torches all around. You might not be able to wield it. You’ll have the scaffold, but that’ll be it. Your last chance. Do you take this one, too? (text-colour:red)[[Untie your cloak. Show them your true colours.]] (text-colour:red)[[Draw it closer around you. You can’t risk losing what you have now.]]

The cloak drops to the cobblestones, revealing your robes. They are… (text-colour:red)[[Crimson. You are still Euae’s. You are innocent.|TAME PATH 7]] (text-colour:green)[[Sage. You are Miril’s now. And now they all know.|TAME PATH 7]] (text-colour:blue)[[Blue. You are Olessa’s now. And now they all know.|TAME PATH 7]] (text-colour:grey)[[Silver. You are Mōna’s now. And now they all know.|TAME PATH 7]]

“What are you doing? Get on with it,” the nearest guard barks, grabbing your arm and trying to shove you forwards. As you try to push him back, your cloak slips off anyway, revealing your robes. They are… (text-colour:red)[[Crimson. You are still Euae’s. You are innocent.|TAME PATH 8]] (text-colour:green)[[Sage. You are Miril’s now. And now they all know.|TAME PATH 8]] (text-colour:blue)[[Blue. You are Olessa’s now. And now they all know.|TAME PATH 8]] (text-colour:grey)[[Silver. You are Mōna’s now. And now they all know.|TAME PATH 8]]

There’s a breath. It’s strange. The crowd’s roars simmer down to a hum as they take you in before bursting once again. You hear cries of “traitor!” and “turncoat!” among the clamour, and you feel the surge of their anger fight against the blistering Tamerbane crackling and spitting in your blood. But it doesn’t overwhelm you, because there’s something just as strong pulling in the other direction. You see others - a few of them bearing your colours - crying out for you. Begging the Masters to have pity on you. Praying that the Balance won’t absorb you, but pluck you out to be a chosen once again, in your next turn. (text-colour:red)[[Some go further - dissenting, bellowing at the Hlaford to spare you.]]

And there he sits. Hlaford Auren. The one who was there when this all began, when there was so much light neither of you ever imagined such darkness could follow one day. The one who scratched his twisting mark onto the parchment that sealed what’s about to happen. He sits high above the crowd, in the shadow of the canopy of his colours draped over his head. You can’t read him, not from here. But maybe he can’t read you, either. The blood of the crowd rolls like ocean waves. The Tamerbane can’t stop you. You can wield this; it’s almost easy. (text-colour:red)[[You close your eyes for just a moment and let the spells slip from your lips once again.]]

Like a lute player stretching their fingers to bring a grand sonata to life, your own find several of Her precious strands in mere moments. You take them gently into your palm and twist them into a cord with the others. You’re nearly there. You almost forget for a moment what has to come first. But you’re so close. (text-colour:red)[[You //will// take another turn.]]

“Coin, ma’am. For the swordsman.” The gaoler places a small purse of coppers into your hand. You clutch the little bag, closing your hands around its delicate embroidery. Its worth is almost as much as the tokens clinking inside. You smirk. (text-colour:red)[[Of course he’d have you do this yourself.]]

It doesn’t matter. They saw you try to hide it. “Traitor!” “Turncoat!” “Poison!” they howl at you. Their tempers erupt in jagged swells and crashes. You start to murmur your spells and reach out to find Her strands, but the Tamerbane torches crackle and hiss. It’s as you feared. Mortal as the tempers are, you can’t wield them - not now, not like this. You retch at the effort, the smoke of the Tamerbane singeing your throat. (text-colour:red)[[The crowd squalls its disgust.]]

“That’s enough.” The guard drags you to your feet and clamps a pair of Tamerbane cuffs on your wrists. He spits at the floor. “Try your tricks now, blue-blood.” You gasp at their touch. They’re colder than metal or ice. You feel your tongue - your precious instrument; the key to your rebirth - go numb. And those precious strands burst free of your grasp. They’re gone, and you won’t find them again. That’s it. It’s over; it’s too late. You will rejoin the Balance. (text-colour:red)[[It will consume you.|BALANCE PATH 9]]

The swordsman stands ahead, a silhouette on that hard scaffold. He travelled all the way from Talunfern, across the Nassaeilan Channel. A mercy for you, and a boon for him. The coin should guarantee his gentleness. If you could call it that. You stare straight ahead as you make your way through the dispersed crowd to the foot of the scaffold. Their cries reach a pitch again as your knuckles whiten around the little clutch of fabric. (text-colour:red)[[You take a deep breath and walk slowly.|TAME PATH 9]] (text-colour:red)[[You march up the steps. They won’t see you falter.|TAME PATH 9]]

The swordsman bows low to you, before kneeling at your feet. “Madame, please forgive me for what I ‘ave to do now.” You swallow. (text-colour:red)[[“Most happily.”|TAME PATH 10]] (text-colour:red)[[“I will. I do.”|TAME PATH 10]] (text-colour:red)[[“We’re all playing our role.”|TAME PATH 10]] (text-colour:red)[[“You have nerve.”|TAME PATH 10]]

The man stands. “Here is your purse.” (text-colour:red)[[He takes it from you and hands it to his assistant, a mere youth.|TAME PATH 11]]

(text-colour:red)[[This is it. Fate calls.]]

Your fist tightens around the strands you hold. They might be enough. Maybe. But you know in your blood - that stoking, singing blood Euae lit like kindling all those years ago - that it might not. One last chance to make sure. To pass through the Balance - to cling to a lifeline through the maelstrom and out the other side as a chosen once again. You’ve come this far. (text-colour:red)[[And you will not fail.]]

The final choice this body - this mind - will make before you awaken on the other side in another’s. Yours - almost. Make it. (text-colour:red)[[Address the Hlaford. Stoke his blood.]] (text-colour:red)[[Address the crowd. Rouse them for you.]]

“You.” You stare at him - what you can see of him under that coward’s canopy from here. The crowd gasps, as if they’re one. Silence falls. You already feel a twang, even from over here - a little tug in your veins. His heart slaps angrily against his ribs as he decides how to respond. (text-colour:red)[[But you won’t let him.]]

The crowd falls (text-colour:red)[[silent.]]

“Your displeasure and my imprisonment are too strange to me. I didn’t know what to write, or what to excuse. I am altogether ignorant, it seems. You sent my enemies after me, and I thought I understood what they wanted. If I’d confess the truth I might procure my safety. If that were true, I should - with all willingness and duty - have performed your command." Your lips part, ready to spit their poison. “But don’t imagine that I would ever be brought to acknowledge a fault (text-colour:red)[[where none ever existed.”]]

Pound; pound; pound. You can feel his blood, ugly and furious, in his shadow. The Tamerbane fizzes as it begins to flood into you. “I will tell you a truth," you say, loud; strong. "No lord ever saw a Tamer more loyal in duty and true in affection as the one you’ve found in (text-colour:red)[[Faucon.”]]

Pound; pound; pound. “You chose me from a low estate, to be your one - your true companion - far beyond what I (text-colour:red)[[deserved or first desired.”]]

Pound; pound; pound. “And yet, I chose you from a lower estate, still.” The Hlaford stands. At last, you see his face, as waxy as his portrait but now white-hot with anger. //Say it.// (text-colour:red)[[“Unchosen.”]]

The crowd erupts. The guards jostle and fight to hold them back. Your blood roars. It’s time. “Silence, leech!” The Hlaford bellows, his mask broken. “You can have my head. Tempersvoid, you can have my body. Do what you will with it. I won't need it. But I will pass through it. I //will// take another turn.” (text-colour:red)[[“Cut her short! Now!” He screams.]]

You shout this time, crying the words of your Master. You throw your arms wide, gathering Her strands from the air as if strumming a Talunfern harp. They come into your embrace, and fast. “Master, carry me. The Balance cannot have my spell and soul.” Guards storm the scaffold. The swordsman grabs his instrument. (text-colour:red)[[You clutch the bundles of strands, and hold tight.]]

But something shifts. The crowd turns violent; it descends into fury. Real blood spills and it smothers your senses. You gasp. You can almost feel it flooding your mouth. It’s Euae’s element; Her literal lifeblood. It would help, any other time, any other day. But those Tamerbane torches burn hot and cruel, and they’re everywhere. Too much shifts; you cannot wield your power as they scorch your throat and choke your veins. //No. NO.// “NOT NOW!” (text-colour:red)[[“Aye. Now.”]]

Hands grip both of your arms. You’re pushed to your knees. Ridges in the wooden deck chip your skin through your robes. You howl as something is scattered across your face. It blisters and bursts the power in your bloodstream. You can’t wield it; you can’t wield anything. You can’t think. You can’t breathe. You can’t live. Boiling blood begins to pour from splits in your arms and brand the skin in blistering streaks. (text-colour:red)[[“NO!”]]

The strands - those threads of Her precious power; your lifeline - spring from your hands and shatter into the air. Gone. You’ll never get them back. Not now. (text-colour:red)[[“NO!”|TAME PATH 12]]

You try to open your eyes, through the blood now leaking from somewhere behind them. A lone falcon circles overhead, carving whirls against the sharp blue sky. The swordsman readies his arm. (text-colour:red)[[And—]]

//Faucon//, by Carrie Talbot.

You feel their blood begin to stir, for the last time in this life. Something shifts. It’s surprise; for some, relief. For most it’s… something else. But it works. It begins to lap in their bloodstreams like the tide on a balmy summer’s eve. It flows, strong but soft, wave after wave. You can feel it. And the Tamerbane hardly spits in reply. You can wield this. You won’t be stopped. (text-colour:red)[[It’s going to work.]]

You step forward and kneel, tucking your robe neatly under your shins. You leave your hands tucked at your sides, fingers gentle and searching, and begin to murmur your spells. The waves lap, stronger and stronger as the moment approaches. It’s working. (text-colour:red)[[They think you’re speaking to your Master.]]

You glance at the gaoler, who bows his head deeply. You look to the swordsman, who does the same, all the while murmuring the words that will carry you through the sea and to the shore on the other side. (text-colour:red)[[You search; your fingers search.]]

And you find them. You gasp with relief as you close your palms around them and hang on tighter than you’ve ever held onto anything. More than you’ll cling to the body about to be trimmed for your last art. (text-colour:red)[[The costume you’ll shed for your escape.]]

“Now I take my leave of the world, and of you all. I heartily desire you all to show tribute to my Master for me.” You take a deep breath. (text-colour:red)[[And another.|TAME PATH 13]]

“Master, have mercy on me. To the Balance I commend my spell and soul.” You look up. A lone falcon circles overhead, carving whirls against the sharp blue sky. (text-colour:red)[[“I will take another turn,” you whisper.]]

“Apportez l'epee.” (text-colour:red)[[And then…|TAME PATH 14]]

//Faucon//, by Carrie Talbot.

Whatever’s happened, you were born Euae’s chosen. Your greatest power lies in Hers: blood. You still have that. It’s still there - and if you play your cards right, you could use it to get yourself out. To Tame once again. To be Faucon. But those cuffs would cauterise the last traces of your power. You //cannot// let him put those on you. (text-colour:red)[[“These walls have held me for seventeen days. I haven’t broken out yet, sir.”|ESCAPE PATH 2]] (text-colour:red)[[“I’ve already accepted my fate. Those aren’t necessary.”|ESCAPE PATH 3]] (text-colour:red)[[“You would strip me of my last dignity, gaoler?”|ESCAPE PATH 4]]

The gaoler’s eyes fix on yours for a few long moments. You hold them, forbidding your cheeks to burn and betray you under their glare. “The Hlaford’s orders, ma’am. He might insist.” “I presume you’ll have other means, though? Like these walls?” “Well–yes, ma’am. Tamerbane torches are already burning in the courtyard.” His eyes dip, apologetically. Tamerbane torches. Great. And already lit, crackling away, ready to scorch the spells from your throat before you can even murmur them. They’ll be tricky. (text-colour:red)[[But you’ll find a way; you have to.]]

“Of course not, ma’am. I would never. But it’s the Hlaford’s orders. I’m afraid I must insist.” (text-colour:red)[[“I presume you’ll have other means, though? Without the need to physically bind me like some small-time scumbag?”|ESCAPE PATH 5]] (text-colour:red)[[“But I’ve already come to terms with it. I will go willingly. I swear to you.”]]

“How… resourceful. Well-executed. Ha! You’ll pardon my humour, sir.” “Dark wit’s only fitting for a dark day, such as it is, my lady.” You bow your head low, all grace and care. “I can’t fight this - not now. I just ask to be spared the cuffs. I’m a Tamer, one of the Masters’ chosen. Not some small-time scumbag.” “Of course, ma’am. But the Hlaford–if he should dispute it–” “He won’t need to. It’ll be done soon; he’ll have my head. He can do what he wants with me when I’m… gone. (text-colour:red)[[There’s no reason I should have a taste of that now, before.”]]

The gaoler ponders your words, turning them over in his mind like a coin between fingers. “It’s a fair ask, ma’am. Very well. And I’ll answer to it, should he be angry when you’re– afterwards.” “Thank you.” “Ma’am. Now, this way. Please.” He turns his back to you and gestures to the door. (text-colour:red)[[This is it.]]

Your heart beats hard against your ribs. He takes a step forward. In a few moments he’ll turn around, and there’ll be more than just him to worry about. Guards, certainly. Others, too, probably. Your entourage - the gaggle of lessers they’ll send for your sick little parade to the end. You only have a moment, (text-colour:red)[[and everything turns on it.]]

“Well–yes, ma’am. Tamerbane torches are already burning in the courtyard.” His eyes dip, apologetically. Tamerbane torches. Great. And already lit, crackling away, ready to scorch the spells from your throat before you can even murmur them. They’ll be tricky. (text-colour:red)[[But you’ll find a way; you have to.]]

You could try to provoke his blood, stoke it with fury, fast and sharp. Enough to brute-force your powers into your tongue. But it’s risky - your instrument’s strangled right now. You might not be able to wrangle his sudden tempers. You could kill him, or (text-colour:red)[[fail entirely.]]

Or you could go the old-fashioned route. Your eyes flick across the room. There’s a poker by the grate. It’s blunt. Beneath you. But mighty effective. You’ve never resorted to that, though; your strength is in your tongue, not your arms. Knocking someone out can’t be that easy, surely? And the blood you’d spill - (text-colour:red)[[you might still kill him.]]

You have to choose right, and now. (text-colour:red)[[Stoke his blood. Scream something obscene.]] (text-colour:red)[[Grab the fire-poker. Strike the back of his head.]]

“Death and dread-pox on that bastard Auren! The Balance can’t have me, and he can’t have my fucking head!” you bellow, and spit on the flagstones. (text-colour:red)[[Nothing wrong with a flourish, you hope.]]

You slip the poker silently from the grate and rush the man from behind. You brace your arms and, with all the might you can muster, bring it down on his head with a crack. (text-colour:red)[[His breath catches in his throat and he drops to the floor, sprawling awkwardly on the flagstones.]]

“What in the //Tempersvoid// did you say?” The gaoler doesn’t wheel around so much as stagger, as if your words struck him with force. And soon, they will. You feel it. His blood begins to roar like a hunting xacat. It pounds, pounds, pounds in echo through your own veins, igniting nerves as it bursts and flows through them. Your fingers search the air for strands of Euae’s power and Her spells spiral from your lips in lyrical coils. (text-colour:red)[[This is the shot.]]

The gaoler gasps and cries out before dropping to his knees. You can see the veins snaking his arms and throat bulge - threatening to burst - as your Master’s glamours fill the air. You wince against the crackle and hiss of the Tamerbane threaded through the walls, as it tries to quell the words in your throat, but you’ve already got him. Just a little more, and he’ll be done; those veins will burst with his own fury, weaponised by your devastating tongue. (text-colour:red)[[You force it. Just another few moments and…]]

“GUARDS! GUARDS! HELP ME! PLEASE!” //No!// (text-colour:red)[[Not now.]]

Four guards barge into your chamber from the hall, almost battering the door from its hinges. They don’t even pause. They suspected you - that ‘traitor’ Tamer - would try something. They were ready. (text-colour:red)[[“No! You don’t–wait!”]]

It doesn’t matter. You try to hold the gaoler where he is - force him down - but the guards’ fury erupts in their own blood. It smothers and shatters the control you had; it destroys the balance coursing through your fingers and tongue. The Tamerbane shimmers in the walls, cold and cruel once again. It kills the spells in your mouth. (text-colour:red)[[You scream, and then you fall.]]

“That’s enough.” The guard drags you to your feet and clamps a pair of Tamerbane cuffs on your wrists. “Try your tricks now, blood-sucking bitch.” You gasp at their touch. They’re colder than metal or ice. You feel your tongue - your precious instrument; the key to your rebirth - go numb. That’s it. It’s over; it’s too late. You will rejoin the Balance. (text-colour:red)[[It will consume you.|BALANCE PATH 2A]]

He’s silent; no-one heard. It’s your turn to gasp. You clutch your side as you force the Tamerbane-tainted air in and out of your lungs for a few moments. “Thank Euae. Masters, that was… phphf.” You look at the gaoler. Crimson is already leaking from his head into a sticky pool. (text-colour:red)[[Streaks flee in streaks between the flagstones towards the door.]]

You don’t know if he’s dead. You can decide if that matters once you’re far from this place. Now, you need to hurry. You’re supposed to be on your way to the courtyard right now. You drop the poker to the ground. (text-colour:red)[[It clangs.]]

You wince and scrunch your eyes shut as soon as you hear it. You wait. (text-colour:red)[[Even your breath feels too loud.]]

Nothing happens. And you sigh again. (text-colour:red)[[“Fuck’s sake. Come on,” you mutter.]]

You stand by the door, straining your ears to pick on something - anything - from the hallway outside. There must be guards, but how many? And how many others? There’ll be Tenders, probably. Night-Tenders - Miril’s loyal, lesser pups. Agents of the Master that Euae’s own chosen spend their lives beating back. It’s custom to have them here, for ‘traitors’’ final marches - representatives of the Master you fought against. So they can gloat, probably. A fallen foe. Though you’re all needed to keep the Balance. But how many, usually? (text-colour:red)[[And how many for you?]]

You hear… an argument. Two women hissing at eachother while someone else - another woman - barks at them to shut up. Because you’ll be here soon. You push your ear against the old oak. It’s about you. The indignity of having to be within feet of you, on one side. The privilege of being Miril’s witness at the fall of “the bloodsucker”, on the other. They’re not listening to the guard. One of them snarls at her to mind her place before ripping back into the other, (text-colour:red)[[who rips back.]]

They go on, and on. You breathe in their beating blood as yours begins to simmer in you; even in here, you can feel it starting to channel in your veins and throat. Two Tenders, at least. Only two, probably - others would have joined in by now, one way or the other. At least one guard. Wait–no, two or more. You hear a fourth voice - a man’s - snapping at them now, too. (text-colour:red)[[You strain harder.]]

No others. That’s it: two Tenders, two guards. That’s a lot, and yet not too many. Not if they’ve skipped the Tamerbane in the hall. You think they have; you don’t remember seeing its shimmer or feeling its scorch in your mouth until you were marched into this chamber. You can’t linger any longer. The moment they do shut up, they’ll wonder where you are. And they’ll see. (text-colour:red)[[And it’ll be over.]]

You can’t see. You have options but you’re working on guesses; senses less sure. You could push your luck, wait for the argument to erupt, and burst in while they’re distracted. You don’t think there’s any Tamerbane in that hall. You’re supposed to be cuffed right now. They think you’re quelled. But this is your window. You already feel your power rising and cresting more easily than you have in the seventeen days they’ve caged you here, and it can only get better out there, can’t it? In the (text-colour:red)[[careless little pocket they’ve left you.]]

If you can wield it - the shocked and furious blood of four - you could drop them, but not enough to kill them. You could sink their blood pressure, knock them out - give yourself enough time to get out. But that’s a lot of ifs. What if you can’t wield it? (text-colour:red)[[Or…]]

You could distract them. You could scream to draw them in here, and slip behind them. You’ve always been slight and quick. It’s a big door - they’d not see you hiding behind it, surely? You’d alert them to the gaoler, but you could hide him first. Scrub that blood off the floor. They’d know you were missing, so you’d have to be fast, but it would be bloodless. You wouldn’t even have to worry about your power - you could be out of here before they worked out (text-colour:red)[[which way you’d gone.]]

You can hear the crescendo of their argument reach its peak, voices straining with anger, determined to conquer the other. You must act. Now. (text-colour:red)[[Use your power. Drop them.]] (text-colour:red)[[Use your wiles. Lure them.]]

You take a deep breath, and then another. You close your eyes, trying to latch onto every word you can grasp through the thick, ancient oak. You have to find the moment. The argument blazes down the hall on the other side. (text-colour:red)[[You hear snatches.]]

You slip away from the door over to the gaoler, lifting the hem of your robe to step over the seeping pool of red. It’s spread far in the past couple of minutes. A lot. (text-colour:red)[[“Shit,” you hiss.]]

“–doesn’t even make sense. It should be Night-Tamers, not us. To watch that fucking queen leech lose her head–” “–they’re not everything - we’re still Miril’s chosen! Tempersvoid, why don’t you get it? How can you even be angry about getting picked for this–?” “–people already think we’re lesser! Olessa’s fucking sea-pups; Mōna’s little moonbeams; even the blood-bitch’s little suckers; they’re think we’re all just hot air as it is. (text-colour:red)[[We should be showing them–”]]

Their blood rises and rises. Its echoes simmer and roil in your veins, and the Tamerbane in the walls begins to crackle. You suck the air between your teeth. Nearly. Just a little longer… “Would you both shut the Tempersvoid up! It’s not like Miril can’t hear–” “That’s the whole point, he’ll know we’re not—!” (text-colour:red)[[Nearly. Just a little more…]]

“She’s one of Euae’s best, and she has to stand on a shitty wooden deck and lose her head here, in His own land! She’s already lost. This can’t be what they see out there. You can’t let Her win—!” “You’re not even fucking listening–!” “QUIET! NOW!” (text-colour:red)[[Yes, now.]]

You burst from your chamber into the hall. There are four of them: two guards, two Tenders, as you guessed. You hear the rasp of their breath between their teeth at the sight of you, but it’s too late. (text-colour:red)[[You were right: there’s no Tamerbane in this hall.]]

You feel the force of their blood’s furious surges immediately begin to wash and crash under your skin, threatening to break through it. You lift your fingers into the air and feel for the strands of Euae’s weft, spilling Her spells from your lips. It works. All four of them - the guards in their shining metal bulk and Tenders wrapped in Miril’s sage green - cry out as you (text-colour:red)[[compel their blood to swell and their hearts to slow.]]

They drop to their knees. You twang and strum Euae’s precious threads, willing them to act with your words, until each of them falls limp, one by one. They’re not dead; you can feel their faltering hearts’ sluggish patter. You let go and each of them gasps at the release, their eyes still closed. You probably have five, maybe ten, minutes. Light on your feet, you slip into the next hall, then the next, past the walls of tapestries and painted eyes of paragons and (text-colour:red)[[traitors past.]]

You don’t know how long it takes you to snake and slip your way through the halls and corridors. And you cannot believe your luck. All the other guards must be posted in the courtyard, managing the hungry throngs waiting to see your head fall. They thought you’d be tamed by now. Cuffed and compliant. You catch sight of a portrait of the Hlaford and have a moment to take it in. It’s a grand, gruesome affair that’s replaced the modest one that used to hang there - the one you knew. His face is sullen and waxy, peering through the paint. He’s drowned in sage-green smears that declare him, though unchosen, the Gale-Master’s willing pup. (text-colour:red)[[You smile, but it’s sad. And sour.]]

You roll up your sleeves and try to lift him, but have to abandon it quickly. He towers over you when he’s not sprawled on the floor, and you can’t do it. You clutch his arms and try dragging him over to the bed instead. It works; you can slip him across the now blood-slicked flagstones. But every inch you move him leaves you moments’ - maybe minutes’ - more work to do to scrub it away. You curse under your breath, hop onto the bed, and drag him up onto it before folding the thick quilts over him. The floor is a mess. An artists’ overzealous daubing; a blot and brush-stroke of (text-colour:red)[[angry red streaked across the whole canvas.]]

Your eyes flit towards the door. You can’t hear them from here - not properly. You can’t feel their blood’s pounding, only your own. It taps impatiently against your skull, urging you to get this done before the chance slips away. You can’t kid yourself. You were supposed to be cuffed, in that corridor, on the way to end by now. They’ll burst in to find out why you’re not any second now. Their squabbling is the only reason they haven’t yet. “Ok. Ok,” you pant through ragged breaths. (text-colour:red)[[“Think.”]]

You grab the jug of water from your wash basin and toss its contents across the floor, diluting the red into a sickly pink. But there are still streaks and daubs of crimson in the wash. You run to the great wood chest at the foot of your bed and rip out several blankets and quilts. Luckily, they’re dark, in regal shades of burgundy and blue. You drape them on the ground, covering the blood. It looks odd, but it’ll have to do. Then the door latch clicks. (text-colour:red)[[Your heart freezes.]]

“I’ll check—” “Shit!” you whisper, then bite your lip. You slip across the blankets and tuck yourself behind the door. The guard bangs the door wide open, and you have to cling to it with your fingertips to stop it bouncing back off you and closing. “What the–?” A guard enters, then another. Then a woman - one of Miril’s Night-Tenders from the look of her sage robes. You will the last one - the one whose voice you’re sure you heard - to come into the room. (text-colour:red)[[Come on. Come on. Please.]]

“Where in the Tempersvoid is she?” “Where’s Filgyn?” “What’s all this? It’s wet?” “What? What’s–?” “Under the blankets, look.” You close your eyes. Your teeth clamp your lips. You try not to breathe. (text-colour:red)[[“Masters aground, it’s blood!”]]

You listen as they tear through the room - through your pitiable work. It’s all you can do until that other Tender enters. She’s out there - she’ll catch you if you leave now. Even your own heart is angry with you. It punches your ribs, bang after bang after bang. Like it wants to be free of you, and the mess you’ve made. “The Hlaford’ll have our head.” “Find her! NOW.” You shrink. You try to fold yourself as small as you can. You have to get out somehow. Now. Your chance was so small, and it’s already smaller. It’s slipping away. (text-colour:red)[[Bang, bang, bang, your heart urges.]]

You peer around the door and see the guards trying to force open the window and whipping blankets off of the bed. “Filgyn! He’s here.” “Dead?” “I don’t know. There’s a lot of blood.” “Tempersvoid, quickly! Find her!” The Tender has gone. (text-colour:red)[[This is it. She’s run off - they’ll be out searching for you. This is your chance.]]

You take a couple of deep breaths and touch your neck. It’s only little after all. You wait until the guards’ backs are to you and you step out. You slip around the door, keeping its wood close to your back, and step out into the hall. (text-colour:red)[[And…]]

“SHE’S HERE!” Two of Miril’s Tenders in sage robes stand before you. “Fuck.” A guard grips your arms and the other clamps a pair of Tamerbane cuffs on your wrists. “Try your tricks now, blood-sucking bitch.” You gasp at their touch. They’re colder than metal or ice. You feel your tongue - your precious instrument; the key to your rebirth - go numb. That’s it. It’s over; it’s too late. You will rejoin the Balance. (text-colour:red)[[It will consume you.|ESCAPE PATH 6]]

“What’s this?” A harried younger man approaches, a bustle of dark, drab robes. You know him; the assistant gaoler, who escorted you to your chamber the day you were brought here. He’s offered the odd kind word through the door. He let you speak to a cleric of your Master last night to make your last pledge. “Tried an escape, she did, gaoler. Split Filgyn’s head - might be dead. You’ll have to come instead.” “Masters aground. I see. Well, yes, Ok.” He straightens himself. “Then we need to proceed, ma’am. (text-colour:red)[[The Hlaford waits.”|BALANCE PATH 3]]

At last you reach the door leading to the courtyard on the left. Clatters from a room where staff are fretting away over the Hlaford’s dinner lies to the right. There’s nowhere else to go. (text-colour:red)[[You have to choose.]]

The pathway through the kitchen would be easier; they’re just cooks, not guards. They’ll be armed with paring knives, not halberds and staves. They won’t be expecting you. You could just slip out, surely? But you don’t know how many of them there are. You don’t know the way out from there - which labyrinth of courtyards it leads to. It’s unknown. It’s risky. You could get tangled up in walls and shut doors beyond it. (text-colour:red)[[But, then… it’s not madness.]]

If you step into the courtyard, everyone will see you. The hungry crowd, the guards, even the Hlaford. He’ll be sitting somewhere - up high probably, away from the rabble - peering down at you as fate comes for your neck. You won’t have your entourage. They’ll know something’s off. Why would you be alone? Why would you come alone? There are Tamerbane torches everywhere - you can already feel their crackling cruelty burning in your throat from here. (text-colour:red)[[It would be madness to go out that way, surely?]]

But, then… there’s so much blood that way. So much power for the taking, to stir up and seize for your own ends. You heard that a thousand might come. If you could rouse them, the right way, maybe - maybe - you could break through the Tamerbane smoke smothering the air and drop them, like you did the gaoler. Even the Hlaford. And you know that way out. They’ve put the scaffold front and centre; the main gate looms over it. It’s a straight path out into the world from there. But it’s such a risk. What if you don’t rouse them? What if you can’t - if the Tamerbane suffocates your spells before they leave your lips? What if you don’t convince the guards you came there of your own will - demure, ready for your end? They might grab you and drag you to the swordsman before you get a chance to (text-colour:red)[[find Eaue’s power in the air.]]

You have to decide, and quickly. Guards will know you’re behind schedule; they’ll come looking any second. (text-colour:red)[[Go through the kitchens.]] (text-colour:red)[[Go into the courtyard.]]

You step into the hall to the right and try to peer around the door. You can see six cooks battering chopping boards with knives, dicing, slicing, and tenderising more food than the Hlaford’s table could devour in a week. A woman spins a crackled, spitting roast beast on a spit over a fire as big as your chamber. Youths rush around to the barks of their elders, scrubbing pots and clinking piles of plates. They’re all dressed in white. You’re in robes - the best - in the bold colours of your Master. They might all sport varying shades of kitchen grime, and most, if not all, of them will only know your face from its painted likeness, but you know you’ll stand out the moment you step among them. There’s nothing for it - you’ll have to sprint. Not give them a chance to work out what’s happening. You take a deep breath, then another. (text-colour:red)[[And you go.]]

You pass through the ancient, heaving oak door and out into the courtyard. You squint as the sun’s full glare scalds your sheltered eyes. Air hisses through your teeth as the very veins in your arms weaken. They’re burning torches of Tamerbane throughout the stone square. Just in case. They’re going to be difficult to overcome. But you’ll have to. (text-colour:red)[[Then, a roar erupts.|ESCAPE PATH 7]]

Dragging your robes into your arm to keep your feet free, you burst into the room and head for the archway leading to the next room. Confusion and fury erupt among the cooks while the pot-boys and pot-girls scatter. Things smash and clang behind you as you push through them all. The next chamber is a storeroom with sacks of grain, meats and herbs hanging to dry, pastry-cloaked pies, and barrels of fruit. (text-colour:red)[[And no windows.]]

“Shit!” you hiss. As you wheel around. Before you can think, you sprint back into the kitchen and push past the others to climb up onto the counter. You start to shoulder the window open. But it’s old and warped, and it sticks. “Come on! COME ON!” “Is that–?” “Can’t be–!” (text-colour:red)[[“GUARDS, HELP!”]]

“No! Don’t!” you cry out, though you know it’s no use before the words even slip from your lips. On your third bash you batter the window open, knocking it from its hinge, and slip your head and shoulder out. But then you feel fingers grip your arm. Four guards have stormed in, and two are dragging you from the window. “No! NO!” (text-colour:red)[[“Aye. Little blood-bitch coward you are.”]]

A guard clamps a pair of Tamerbane cuffs on your wrists. “Try your tricks now, leech.” You gasp at their touch. They’re colder than metal or ice. You feel your tongue - your precious instrument; the key to your rebirth - go numb. That’s it. It’s over; it’s too late. You will rejoin the Balance. It will consume you. (text-colour:red)[[They march you back through the corridors and out into the courtyard.|BALANCE PATH 7]]

You can’t make it out, and you feel it quake through your bones and rush through your veins before you understand it. You’ve never been good at guessing crowd numbers, though you’ve certainly performed your art to many before. What does seem like a thousand faces, warped with every expression, blend into a howling mass. Fists beat the air; hands reach out to grab you, grasping; clutching; tearing. (text-colour:red)[[So much blood. And it’s almost time.]]

“Where are the others?” the nearest guard barks at you. “I left them behind,” you say. It’s not quite a lie. “I don’t need them here. I’ve come of my own will.” The guard’s look of suspicion slips into something softer; something you hadn’t expected. “I see. Well, that’s very, uh… very well, my lady.” You nod, eyes as low and pious as you can make them through your chattering nerves. The guard - a captain, you think - nods at the others, and they clear pockets of a path through the roaring crowd. (text-colour:red)[[A younger, harried man - the assistant gaoler - approaches.]]

“Coin, ma’am. For the swordsman.” He places a small purse of coppers into your hand. You clutch the little bag, closing your hands around its delicate embroidery. Its worth is almost as much as the tokens clinking inside. The swordsman stands ahead, a silhouette on that hard scaffold at its centre. The crowd near you, many in rags barely holding together as clothes, stare avidly at your clasped hands. This could help. But not yet. You ignore them for now. You look at the scaffold - the stage to either your greatest or your final show - and push through the crowd towards it, (text-colour:red)[[clutching the purse tight in your hand.]]

The swordsman kneels before you and bows his head as you take your place on the decks. “Madame, please forgive me for what I ‘ave to do now.” The Tamerbane torches spit and scorch your throat, and make your tongue numb. But you force your words through it. You’ll have to. (text-colour:red)[[“Most happily.”|ESCAPE PATH 8]] (text-colour:red)[[“We’re all playing our part.”|ESCAPE PATH 8]] (text-colour:red)[[“There’s nothing to forgive.”|ESCAPE PATH 8]]

The man stands. This is it. The final flourish. The one that decides whether you’ll live to Tame again. Or whether the two halves of you will soon be tossed into the arrow trunk waiting nearby, and (text-colour:red)[[buried in the floor of the shrine only steps away.]]

The main gate looms ahead of you. It’s barely guarded. They’re complacent; they underestimate you. They don’t understand who you really are; how Euae rushes and roars beneath your skin. You need to find your power and harness it. (text-colour:red)[[But how?]]

You stand on the scaffold, bathed in the heavy silence that has fallen. You look at the crowd; at the tempers swirling through the blood that’s circling their bodies. Some think you innocent; some think you a traitor; some don’t care. They all want to watch you die. You could use that. (text-colour:red)[[Or you could turn it around.]]

Then you see him: Hlaford Auren. The one who was there when this all began, when there was so much light neither of you ever imagined such darkness could follow one day. The one who scratched his twisting mark onto the parchment that sealed what’s supposed to happen mere breaths from now. He sits high above the crowd, in the shadow of the canopy of his colours draped over his head. You can’t read him, not from here. Maybe he can’t read you, either. (text-colour:red)[[But you could make him see you - hear you - one last time.]]

You look at the crowd. You see the split instantly: flashes of rich, generous colour in the Masters’ hues, dripping from bodies staring at you from the balconies and terraces up high. And the humble grey of the many crowding the square before you, jostling with the guards to see everything - anything; as much as they can. The ones who trudged miles - many of them bootless - to catch a glimpse of someone they don’t know bleed into the history books; to bank a memory they can tell and embellish for their grandchildren. The few and the many. (text-colour:red)[[All of them with blood stirring, just waiting to fuel your power.]]

The Tamerbane torches crackle, all smoke and sour spitting. You count at least eight of them. You’re are Euae’s chosen, one of Her greatest. If anyone can overcome them - break through their power-sapping strength - it’s you. But they’re choking the spells on your tongue where you stand. You feel weak and woozy, and your head is filled with their fog. This has to be the greatest blood-rousing you’ve ever attempted. (text-colour:red)[[And it has to work.]]

The choice becomes clear. You could win them over - rouse their sympathy and delight and adoration. You could rip your cloak off and show them your true colours - win over those loyal to your true master. You could toss the swordsman’s fee into the crowd, and - heck - your jewellery, too. Everything you have. You could give them everything: the wronged woman who won’t leave anything on the stage before she takes leave of this place. (text-colour:red)[[They will love you for it, and you will use it.]]

But it could backfire, and easily. You have no idea how many in the crowd follow your master; only the wealthy few can afford to drape themselves in the colour of their allegiance. Even with your gifts and your pretty tongue, they might still hate you. You can’t do much here to dislodge what they’ve already taken into their heads about you. They might still want to devour you; to dip their cloths in your blood for souvenirs. If you cannot rouse their hearts and minds enough, you will not overcome that Tamerbane. (text-colour:red)[[And you will fail. Or…]]

You could play to the stalls and stir their hate. You could address the Hlaford directly - stare his cowardly silhouette down - and boil his blood into anger. Enough to make it spill over, and make him drag his coterie of nodding sycophants right into the bloodbath with him. You know what you could say to guarantee his anger. You know him best of all, no matter what The New One - the successor - might think. It should be enough to break through the Tamerbane. But it’s risky. Managing fury-stoked blood is always harder - raw; unwieldy; liable to tip too far one way or another until it sli[s from your fingers and you have nothing. (text-colour:red)[[And then your head will slip from your shoulders.]]

This is it. The end, one way or another. Choose. Now. (text-colour:red)[[Play to the many.]] (text-colour:red)[[Play to the few.]]

You will speak. Then you will act. (text-colour:red)[[The crowd falls silent.]]

(text-colour:red)[[“You.”]]

It’s surprise; for some, relief. For most it’s… something else. But it works. It begins to lap in their bloodstreams like the tide on a balmy summer’s eve. It flows, strong but soft, wave after wave. You can feel it. And the Tamerbane hardly spits in reply. You can wield this. You won’t be stopped. “But I will show you my true self.” The crowd hums, avid; ravenous. You untie your cloak and drop it to the decks, revealing your robes. They are… (text-colour:red)[[Crimson. You are still Euae’s. You are innocent.|ESCAPE PATH 9]] (text-colour:green)[[Sage. You are Miril’s now. And now they all know.|ESCAPE PATH 9]] (text-colour:blue)[[Blue. You are Olessa’s now. And now they all know.|ESCAPE PATH 9]] (text-colour:grey)[[Silver. You are Mōna’s now. And now they all know.|ESCAPE PATH 9]]

There’s a breath. It’s strange. The crowd’s blood simmers, full and flowing, as they devour your every word. You hear cries of “traitor!” and “turncoat!” among the clamour, and you feel the surge of their anger fight against the blistering Tamerbane crackling and spitting in your blood. But it doesn’t overwhelm you, because there’s something stronger pulling in the other way. You see others - a few of them bearing your colours - crying out for you. Begging the Masters to have pity on you. Praying that the Balance won’t absorb you, but pluck you out to be a chosen once again. (text-colour:red)[[Some go further - dissenting, bellowing at the Hlaford to spare you.|ESCAPE PATH 10]]

Their blood rises and rises. Your blood responds, hears its call. The barriers between your flesh and that of the many standing before you dissipates. You become one; their blood fuels your power and flows through you, as freely as the tide draws in and out of the shore. You take a deep breath. And another. Euae’s power floods your skin, igniting your nerves until you can’t feel your own flesh anymore. (text-colour:red)[[You are her instrument.]]

“And I will never betray you, Nasaaeil.” You rip the swordsman’s fee from the purse still clutched in your hand and toss the copper coins into the crowd. People scream and fight for even a single disc. Just one that could hush the prowling of the starving beasts in their stomachs for a week. (text-colour:red)[[“Never.”]]

You toss the pouch into the crowd. Then you rip off your jewellery - your rings and bangles; even the clips pinning your hair into submission. It flows freely now, wild in the wind and wake of your power. You throw those into the crowd, too. The swordsman objects, but without his pay he won’t act. He just gestures in fury at the Hlaford’s shadow. You grab the sword from his hand and cut several long locks from your hair, before throwing them into the crowd. “He doesn’t have me, Nasaeeil. But you do. And the Masters do. (text-colour:red)[[We are all the Balance.”]]

The crowd erupts with… cheers. They’re cheering for you. The Hlaford’s shadow stands, furious, and you feel your grasp shift - it could topple you. But it’s not enough. The flood comes. (text-colour:red)[[[[It spills and it pours and it crashes.]]

You scream as your body fights to hold itself intact, flesh and bone clinging together not to split from the might of your blood. It bursts, and you wield it. Everyone in the crowd drops, their hearts instantly lulled into a stupor. A thousand quelled - the many and the few alike. The Tamerbane torches shatter. (text-colour:red)[[Their smoke spirals into the air and nothingness.]]

You breathe. You’ve done it. (text-colour:red)[[The way out is clear.]]

You hurtle towards the gate, piercing through the tamed crowd like a needle through silk. You reach the gate and drag it open. The crowd is almost silent as you drag it wide open. Almost. (text-colour:red)[[“Faucon…”]]

You stare at the Hlaford - what you can see of him under that coward’s canopy from here. The crowd gasps, as if they’re one. Silence falls. You already feel a twang, even from over here - a little tug in your veins. His heart slaps angrily against his ribs as he decides how to respond. (text-colour:red)[[But you won’t let him.|ESCAPE PATH 11]]

“Your displeasure and my imprisonment are too strange to me. I didn’t know what to write, or what to excuse. I am altogether ignorant, it seems. You sent my enemies after me, and I thought I understood what they wanted. If I’d confess the truth I might procure my safety. If that were true, I should - with all willingness and duty - have performed your command. “But don’t imagine that I would ever be brought to acknowledge (text-colour:red)[[a fault where none ever existed.”]]

Pound; pound; pound. You can feel his blood, ugly and furious, in his shadow. The Tamerbane fizzes as it begins to flood into you and try to blot out your words from the air. “I will tell you a truth. No lord ever saw a Tamer more loyal in duty and true in affection as the one you’ve (text-colour:red)[[found in Faucon.”]]

Pound; pound; pound. “You chose me from a low estate, to be your one - your true companion - far beyond what I deserved or first desired.” Pound; pound; pound. “And yet, I chose you from a lower estate, still.” The Hlaford stands. At last, you see his face, as waxy as his portrait but now white-hot with anger. //Say it.// (text-colour:red)[[“Unchosen.”|ESCAPE PATH 12]]

The crowd erupts, some in horror, many in delight. The guards jostle and fight to hold them back. Your blood roars. It’s time. “Silence, leech!” The Hlaford bellows, his mask broken. “You try to have my head, Miril-pup, because you cannot have me. You try to smite my tongue because you cannot have my power. You never will. And you never did.” “Cut her short! NOW!” (text-colour:red)[[He screams.]]

You shout, this time, the words of your Master and throw your arms wide, finding and drawing Her strands in the air as if readying a Talunfern longbow to fire. To kill. The power roils in your bloodstream and splices the courtyard. You can feel the Hlaford and his coterie falter at your command over their own hearts’ beating. “Master, guide me. The Balance cannot have my spell and soul.” Guards storm the scaffold. The swordsman grabs his instrument. (text-colour:red)[[You try to drop them.]]

But something shifts. The crowd turns violent; it descends into fury. Real blood spills and it smothers your senses. You gasp. You can almost feel it flooding your mouth. It’s Euae’s element; her literal lifeblood. It would help, any other time, any other day. But those Tamerbane torches burn hot and cruel, and they’re everywhere. Too much shifts; you cannot wield your power as they scorch your throat and choke your veins. No. NO. “NOT NOW.” “Aye. (text-colour:red)[[Now.”]]

Hands grip both of your arms. You’re pushed to your knees. Ridges in the wooden deck chip your skin through your robes. You howl as something is scattered across your face. It blisters and bursts the power in your bloodstream. You can’t wield it; you can’t wield anything. You can’t think. You can’t breathe. Boiling blood begins to pour from splits in your arms and brand the skin in blistering streaks. “No!” Your power - your lifeline - fractures in your hands and shatters into the air. Gone. (text-colour:red)[[You’ll never get it back. Not now.]]

“NO!” You try to open your eyes, through the blood now leaking from somewhere behind them. A lone falcon circles overhead, carving whirls against the sharp blue sky. The swordsman readies his arm. (text-colour:red)[[And—|ESCAPE PATH 13]]

//Faucon//, by Carrie Talbot.

You turn around and see the Hlaford, half propping himself up on the balcony wall to see you. Your blood is still alive. You could bring him down, forever, right now. The man who put you here; who was ready to watch a stranger take the head he knew so well; he’d seen so close, so many times. For… what? Whatever he thought he knew, whatever those boot-licking councillors of his whispered in his ear; whatever they hissed at you in that court before signing away your life… it was a sham. And he must - //must// - have known. All you’d have to do is reach out right now. You’ll already have got away with one life: yours. What’s another? He’s vulnerable; it’d be an easy kill. (text-colour:red)[[Prey. Easy for a falcon.]]

And yet, your life has already changed. You’ll have to fight to keep your own now, after this. He won’t stand for the humiliation; they’ll spill blood to find you again. To get you in that box, buried and out the way, cut in two. The New One can’t have her place without you gone. Pouring fuel on that fire could get too hard. You could stay your hand, bide your time. Drop him when the time’s right. You could even take his head. The path is clear. (text-colour:red)[[Have your kill now.]] (text-colour:red)[[Save your kill for later.]]

“Faucon.” You could taunt him; tease it out, make him beg. But you won’t. You’re not a cat. You’re Faucon. And it’s only right that it’s the last word that leaves his lips. You bring your hand up, draw your fingers as if ready to fire a longbow, and (text-colour:red)[[release.]]

“Faucon.” You could tease him; tease it out, make him beg, before you slip away. But you won’t. You’re not a cat. You’re Faucon. And it’s only right that it’s the last one that passes between you before the end, whenever you decide that will be. The name he’ll be screaming over and over and over as he bangs his fists on his table, demanding that they find you. You smile and take a deep bow. (text-colour:red)[[Then you turn to leave.]]

The Hlaford gasps and starts to gurgle as the blood in his throat bursts. You can feel its fading power echoed in your own as it slips from him, leaving his body behind. You watch as he drops, out of sight. You hear him cough and croak over the strange silence of the courtyard. And then you feel his blood break. The thread snapped forever. (text-colour:red)[[You smile and turn to leave.]]

You run and you run and you run, out of the city and into the wilds. A lone falcon circles overhead, carving whirls against the sharp blue sky. Maybe you’re a fool. Maybe revenge is the poisoned path after all, as all those soft-minded fools tell their children in those bedtime stories. But you are not a dove; you are not virtue. You are not a swan; you are not grace. (text-colour:red)[[You are Faucon.]]

“Le tiemps viendra?” No. (text-colour:red)[[“Mon temps est venu.”]]

//Faucon//, by Carrie Talbot.

You run and you run and you run, out of the city and into the wilds. A lone falcon circles overhead, carving whirls against the sharp blue sky. Maybe you’re a fool. Maybe revenge will be the poisoned path after all, as all those soft-minded fools tell their children in those bedtime stories. But you are not a dove; you are not virtue. You are not a swan; you are not grace. You are Faucon. (text-colour:red)[[And you will have your prey, when you decide.]]

“Le tiemps viendra?” No. (text-colour:red)[[“Mon temps est venu.”]]

(text-colour:white)[The scaffold stands bare in the courtyard below, hard against the weak sun. The moment is close. You are Faucon - a Gale-Tamer. A wielder of your elemental Blood Master Euae's greatest powers. Chosen to play your part in keeping the other Masters' roiling Tempers from spoiling the Balance. Trusted. Revered. But you'd turned coat, the foamy-mouthed criers had squealed, pledging your powers - your own tongue, Euae's precious vessel in you - to serve another. Your name was scratched onto the parchment as the council pronounced your fate. The wax seal made it official. The swordsman of Talunfern was dispatched at your request. And Hlaford Auren's pleasure, of course. So generous, so benevolent of him to spare you the flames' licks. Now they want your head; to dip their rags in the blood that will soon leave it. Are you guilty? Only you know.] (text-colour:red)[[The hour beckons|MAIN BRANCH 4]]