Mother of Midnight

Chapter 207 – Bad Bad Bad

Kivvy wasn’t sure how happy she was to have found Vivienne, now that the rush of their escape was wearing off. The thrill of breaking free had dulled, leaving her with the stark memory of what the woman had done to Drakthar. The image of his ruined body, the wet, awful sounds of his death—it all clawed at the edges of her mind. She wasn’t sure how much she could stomach being around her.

And yet, when Vivienne landed before them, massive and monstrous in that drider form, Kivvy was the first to move. Before she could even think about it, she had leapt into Vivienne’s arms, clutching onto her like a child seeking comfort.

Vivienne didn’t push her away.

They were hidden now, deep in the forest, a good distance from the city’s looming walls. Kivvy shivered, wrapping her arms around herself. The chill had sunk into her bones, but at least they weren’t freezing to death. The stolen clothes from the workshop were thick, warm in the way only something made for function rather than comfort could be. Scratchy and stiff, but better than nothing.

She exhaled, watching the steam of her breath curl in the cold night air. They had made it out. That was what mattered. But the problem now was—what next? She had no real plan beyond getting out of the city. No routes, no safehouses, no allies waiting beyond the walls. If Vivienne hadn’t found them, they would’ve been sitting ducks.

Maybe she was a blessing in disguise.

“How long are we waiting around for?” came Jayce’s voice.

Kivvy turned to glance at her. Jayce, the first of her sisters to join her little cause, the one who had put a bolt through Vivienne’s hide. She was rubbing her arms, fidgeting, her sharp features drawn into a scowl that was more nerves than aggression.

It was good to see something other than that look of hopelessness her sister had worn mere bells ago.

“Dunno. Viv is probably going to run around a bit so they can’t track her. When she gets here, we will probably leave.”

As if to punctuate that thought, something dark and massive dropped from the branches above, landing just a few paces away. The impact kicked up a flurry of leaves and dirt, and the moment the goblins saw what it was—a monstrous spider, bristling with thick, black limbs and five gleaming eyes—panic erupted. Screeches and yelps filled the air as they scrambled back, some tripping over themselves in sheer terror.

Kivvy, however, remained rooted in place, even as her heart pounded from the sudden fright. "Viv, stop scaring them!" she barked, her voice cutting through the chaos. "They're terrified enough as it is!"

The spider twitched, then melted into shadow, limbs folding inward, body shifting until, in the blink of an eye, Vivienne stood in its place—short, curvy, and every bit as imposing as the monster she had just been. Her five black eyes scanned the group, unreadable as always.

"Renzia and Liora should be around here somewhere," Vivienne said, brushing dust off her arms. "Carry on east. I'll catch up."

Kivvy nodded, rolling her shoulders to shake off the lingering tension. "Alright, Viv." Then she turned to her sisters, hands on her hips. "Off we go! Let's get out of this awful empire!"

There were no arguments. None of them would even consider it. They were too used to punishment for speaking out, too used to expecting a boot to the ribs or a lash across the back for hesitation. That was something Kivvy intended to beat out of them. Not literally, of course—gods knew they’d had enough of that. No, she would teach them the joys of griping, of groaning about the cold, of rolling their eyes at hard labor and questioning everything. A good, proper goblin should complain about everything, her old mentor had once said. She was going to make sure her sisters learned that art.

Vivienne dashed off into the forest, and the group started moving eastward. The woods were eerily quiet, but at least they were no longer within the city's reach. The heavy feeling of shackles—real and imagined—had begun to lift, but there were still plenty of problems ahead.

Food, for one.

They hadn’t exactly had the luxury of stocking up before the escape. Some had managed to grab a bit of dried meat or stale bread, but that wouldn’t last long. They would need to hunt. That was another problem—none of them really knew how to do that. Kivvy had watched Rava skin a kill before, had seen the way she expertly stripped the hide and portioned out the meat, but doing it herself? Different story entirely.

She would figure it out. They all would.

“How long until we reach the steppes?” Ortasia asked, her voice level, though Kivvy could hear the weariness behind it. Ortasia was easily twice her age, and while she wasn’t frail, she had the exhausted air of someone who had spent too many years fighting to survive.

Kivvy thought about it for a moment, glancing up at the stars barely visible through the canopy. “…Dunno. About three weeks?”

That got a collective groan from the group, and Kivvy smirked. Good. That was the kind of spirit she wanted to see.

They pressed on through the darkened forest, their pace steady but cautious. The cold bit at their exposed skin, but none of them dared complain—not yet. Complaining was for safer moments, for when they could afford to breathe. Right now, every step forward was another step away from the empire, from the chains that had bound them.

Kivvy kept her ears sharp, her eyes flicking between the shadows between the trees. They wouldn’t be stopping anytime soon. Too risky. A fire would make them a beacon in the dark, a signal to anything—or anyone—out here. Maybe once the sun was up, when smoke wouldn’t stand out like a flare against the night. She had managed to scrounge together a few tools before they fled, enough to get a fire started when the time came.

She raised a hand. The group behind her stopped instantly, years of ingrained obedience overriding any instinct to question.

She heard something.

Footsteps.

Slow, deliberate, growing closer. Not the crashing, careless movements of some wild beast, but something—someone—who knew how to move through the woods. Someone who knew they were here.

Her fingers curled into a fist, signaling her sisters to stay low. She turned her head just enough to glance at Ortasia, whose fingers were already wrapped tightly around her scrapgun.

The footsteps drew nearer.

Kivvy gritted her teeth, crouching slightly, ready to bolt or fight, whichever came first. If they were caught now—

A silhouette emerged from the trees, tall and draped in a tattered cloak, the hood pulled low over their face. Kivvy's stomach twisted into knots, her heart hammering. Then the figure lifted their chin, and the faint moonlight caught familiar golden hair, sharp, angular features.

Caelum.

Kivvy’s heart was still racing from the brief burst of panic.

“I was about to shoot you!” she hissed, her voice louder than she meant it to be. “Why didn’t you announce yourself?”

Caelum arched a brow. “Aren’t we trying to be quiet?”

Kivvy scowled. “Shut up.” She exhaled sharply, glancing back at her sisters, who were still tense, eyes darting between the two of them. None of them had relaxed yet. None of them had any reason to trust him. Neither did she, past the fact he apparently helped Vivienne. She turned back to him, expression hard. “We’re going east. You coming with us, golden boy?”

The insult didn’t seem to bother him, though he did let out a short sigh. “My name is Caelum,” he corrected, though his tone was more tired than offended. “And yes. I have people waiting for me in Serkoth.”

“Know how to hunt?”

“I know a bit, but I’m by no means experienced.” 

“Kivvy shrugged. “Good enough.”

The young mistress was so light. So very, very, very light.

Her weight felt wrong in Renzia’s arms. She should have been heavier. She should have struggled, bit, kicked, screamed. But she had done none of those things.

Because she was broken.

Because Renzia had failed.

She misinterpreted the order. She waited. Waited too long. Waited while the young mistress withered. She had thought—yes, she had thought—that it was not yet time. That if the young mistress died, then she would intervene. That would have been the right time to act. Not before. Never before.

But what if she had miscalculated? What if the young mistress had died, and this thing in her arms was just what was left?

No no no no no—

Renzia rocked slightly, clutching Liora tighter against her chest, feeling every too-sharp bone beneath the girl’s skin. She had tried to open the cage. She had used every tool, every trick, every bit of cleverness she could muster, but the lock had laughed at her. A cruel, unbreakable thing. None of her tools had worked. None.

She was a bad doll.

A good doll would have thought of a way out. A good doll would have picked the lock, ripped the door from its hinges, carved a path to freedom with her own hands. A good doll would have done as she was told.

But she was a bad doll.

A bad doll.

BAD BAD BAD BAD BAD BAD BAD BAD BAD—

The words pounded against the walls of her skull, her fingers twitching where they gripped Liora’s thin frame. She wanted to dig her nails in, carve the word into herself, make it visible.

Then she could be fixed. Then she could be remade, sanded down, the cracks painted over—But there was no fixing a broken doll.

Her joints creaked as she rocked back and forth, staring at nothing, at everything, at the pale, limp figure in her arms. The young mistress had not spoken. Had not moved. Had not reacted at all.

Liora was like an empty frame. A canvas abandoned by its painter.

Had she done this? Had she waited too long? Had she let the young mistress die?

No no no no no no no—

She pressed her forehead to the top of Liora’s head, a strangled sound grinding out of her gem. Her voice was splintered wood, cracking apart.

“Tell me. Tell me you are al-ive. Tell me I did not fa-il you.”

Nothing.

Silence.

BAD BAD BAD BAD BAD BAD BAD BAD BAD—

Renzia squeezed tighter, curling her fingers into the thin fabric of the young mistress’s clothes, feeling the frailness of her. Hollow bones. Hollow breath. Hollow girl.

She was too still.

Her porcelain-knuckle fingers traced their way to Liora’s wrist, pressing in hard, harder, too hard, searching for something—anything—a pulse, warmth, the whisper of movement beneath skin.

Nothing.

Or maybe she wasn’t searching at all. Maybe she was testing. Testing the weight. Testing the fragility. Testing how easily the young mistress might break.

What have I done? What have I done? What have I done?

She rocked faster, the whirring in her joints rising to a faint, maddening hum, her breath scraping like sandpaper through her throat. The flesh-mouthed would call it panic. Renzia did not panic. Dolls did not panic.

Then why was she shaking?

“Te-ll me. Te-ll me I did not bre-ak you.”

Nothing.

She twisted slightly, tilting Liora’s face toward her own. Empty eyes stared through her, distant and dull, as if the girl were gazing out at something far, far away. Looking beyond her.

Renzia’s fingers twitched.

“Lo-ok at me.”

Nothing.

The doll’s voice dropped to a rasp.

“Lo-ok at me.”

Nothing.

She pressed her claws against Liora’s jaw, forcing it closed, forcing her head to tilt just slightly

forward. It gave no resistance. Too pliant. Too soft. Too limp.She shook her slightly.

Nothing.

Liora’s head lolled backward, the motion careless, unconscious, as though she were a doll. A lifeless thing in her hands.

The sight of it was wrong. Wrong.

Something in Renzia screeched.

A fractured, grinding noise ripped out of her gem as her arms tensed, clutching Liora tighter, too tight, hands trembling against fragile cold. She leaned in, her faceless horror pressing close, nearly nose to nose with the empty, dull gaze that refused to see her.

“LO-OK AT ME!”

Silence.

No spark. No flicker of recognition.

Nothing.

Her claws flexed.

She could make the young mistress look at her. She could force her eyes open, pry apart her lips, carve words into her skin if she had to.

Dolls had no fear of breaking things.

But the young mistress is not a thing, a voice whispered.

Renzia froze.

The words did not come from her.

It was a ghost of a voice. An echo of something old, something soft, something long since buried.

She looked down at Liora again, staring at the barely-there rise and fall of her chest. The slowness of it. The shallow, too-light breath.

Not dead.

Not dead.

But barely there.

Her hands shook. Her chest rattled.

A bad doll would have killed her, torn into her, shaken her until she was nothing but scraps of flesh and broken bones and—

She was a bad doll.

Her limbs went slack, and for the first time in what felt like hours, the tension in her frame eased—if only slightly.

Slowly, she gathered Liora back into her arms, curling over her, cradling her like something fragile. She pressed her faceless head to the girl’s shoulder, listening. Not to her words—she had none. Not to her thoughts—they were locked away. But to the faint, shuddering movements of her body, the only sign that she was still there.

Liora was alive.

And Renzia was still here.

Still here.

Still a bad doll.