Mother of Midnight

Chapter 241 – In That Who Dreams

Almost everything had been going perfectly for High Priest Kaelen as of late.

The High Council, in their infinite wisdom—and, more importantly, obedience—had agreed without hesitation to the holy war. As they should. It was not merely political necessity or strategic gain that demanded it. No, this was a divine command, handed down directly from the Metalfather himself. Praxus had spoken, and Kaelen had been His vessel. To deny the war would have been heresy.

And what a war it had become.

During the sacred march, their forces had been graced with the opportunity to enlighten a dryad grove—once a nest of ignorant spirit-worship and stagnant traditions. The trees had burned cleanly, the soil now blessed with steel and ash. Those dryads who survived the initial bombardment had either converted under the blessed pressure of fire or were reduced to mulch beneath the treads of their war machines. It had been a joyous occasion. A sanctification of wild land.

Drakthar, the martial stronghold of the northern clans, had fallen with what Kaelen considered acceptable losses: a third of the army, lost to fierce defenders and treacherous terrain. But considering the notorious reputation of the Drakthari warriors, it was almost a miracle how efficiently the city had been taken. Praxus’ hand had guided them. The cleansing of the fortress marked a turning point—the largest and most disciplined resistance the clans could offer had been broken.

Now, the Sovereignty’s forces could press onward. Spring warmed the land and opened the roads, making travel to Serkoth easier than ever. That was the next great hurdle. Serkoth, home to ancient military traditions and a deep, stubborn pride. But pride was brittle when crushed beneath faith and zealous legions.

Kaelen's newest army would not be one of mere mortals. No, his future legion was already forming—flesh and machine, bound together in blessed synthesis. Grafted steel, reinforced sinew, thoughts unified through the Choir of Gears. These soldiers would not question. They would not fear. They would not disobey.

They would march.

And Kaelen would march with them, out from Aegis and through Greyreach Pass, sweeping into Serkoth like the voice of divinity itself.

But… not everything had gone to plan.

Entheris—one of Praxus’ chosen Champions—had disappeared during the siege of Drakthar. A traitor cloaked in divine authority, spreading dissent beneath the guise of obedience. Kaelen had been tasked, personally, with ensuring Entheris' death. The Champion had grown too independent, too curious. His faith had faltered, and his mind had begun to question the doctrines that should have anchored him.

Kaelen had orchestrated the perfect moment. Amidst the chaos of battle, Entheris had been isolated, surrounded, his exit routes closed. The rites were in place, the detonations timed. Kaelen had been certain—certain—that the boy would die.

And yet… he vanished.

No corpse. No trail. No blood. No whisper on the winds of divine communion. Just gone.

Kaelen had prayed—no, demanded—answers. He offered sacrifice, cast molten iron into the sacred runes, and bled himself in the dark hours. He quieted his thoughts, emptied his soul, and awaited the voice of the Metalfather.

And Praxus had spoken.

He is not dead.

That was all. No details. No direction. Just that damning fact.

Kaelen’s fingers curled into fists, metal rings on his gauntlets screeching with pressure. If Praxus Himself could not locate one of His own fallen Champions, then either Entheris had found protection in powers beyond Kaelen’s understanding… or something even more dangerous had taken an interest in the boy.

Either way, it was a failure.

And Kaelen did not tolerate failure.

Still, before his followers, he wore his mask of serenity. His sermons rang with the same fervor. The forge remained hot, the hymns loud, the steel faithful. His new army—of fused flesh and sanctified iron—would march toward Serkoth and grind resistance into dust.

But beneath the hymns and hollow certainty, a crack had formed. Thin. Silent. The kind that widened with time.

He would find Entheris.

And when he did, he would not fail again.

Vivienne was feeling… off.

It was difficult to describe. Not pain, not nausea, not fatigue—just a wrongness, subtle and persistent. She pressed a hand to her stomach, fingers splaying across the soft curve of her belly, and frowned. Bloated. Uncomfortably so. That, too, was strange. Her body didn’t do sick. Not here. Not since her arrival. Not with what she was.

She shifted on the chaise, tail curling around one leg, the tip flicking irritably. Her skin prickled in odd places. The air felt heavier than usual. Like the pressure before a storm.

“Would you like another cup of tea, Mistress?” asked Mera, voice careful.

Vivienne glanced over. The young servant stood precisely as she always did—hands folded, head slightly bowed, posture perfect. But the aether curling off her was always the most interesting part. Constant fear, threaded into every breath she took. Not panicked fear, but ambient and deep-rooted. A low simmer. Vivienne found it… comforting. Like background music in a pleasant room.

She tilted her head. “I wish for chocolate,” she said absently, one clawed finger tapping her lip.

“Choco… late?” Mera repeated, uncertain. Her ears twitched faintly, betraying her confusion. “I—I’m not familiar with that, Mistress.”

Vivienne sighed. “A confection from my home. Sweet. Smooth. Dark. It melts in the mouth and coats the tongue in joy.” Her black eyes narrowed slightly. “Is it not a thing here?”

“I—I wouldn’t know, Mistress,” Mera stammered, flinching at the tone, even though it hadn’t sharpened. “I’m sorry.”

Vivienne waved a lazy hand through the air, dismissing the apology. “No need to apologize for ignorance. I don’t keep you around to know what you can’t possibly know.”

Mera dipped her head again, visibly relieved.

Vivienne leaned back, letting her head rest against the cushioned edge of the chaise. Her tail coiled more tightly. That bloated feeling hadn’t gone away. If anything, it had worsened. She narrowed her eyes, lips pursing.

Something was… shifting. Not wrong. Not exactly. But unfamiliar.

She wasn’t afraid. Of course not.

But she didn’t like surprises.

That was a lie.

She adored surprises—when she was the one delivering them. The glint of confusion in a rival’s eyes, the breathless pause before a revelation landed, the satisfying click of a plan falling into place just as someone realized they’d underestimated her. Yes, those surprises were delicious.

It was being on the receiving end that she loathed.

Perhaps it was a leftover instinct from her previous life. One of many things she hadn’t entirely shed. She was so eager to distance herself from that version of her—a woman bound by structure, anxiety, expectations, fear. A woman who let the world press its shape into her rather than carving her own place within it.

A strange thing to think, really, considering how much pining she’d done during her first six months in this world. She had clung to memories like a starving dog with a bone. Smells, tastes, colors—she’d hunted them with desperation, trying to recreate tiny fragments of familiarity.

But the truth was, she wasn’t that woman anymore.

Not fully.

Vivienne and the person she used to be were like reflections in opposing mirrors—distantly aligned, but inherently distinct. They shared a spine. Some echoes in thought and taste. But the woman seated now—clawed fingers curled around a porcelain cup, tail twitching, eyes like molten black glass—she was something else entirely.

Something new. Something more.

And in this new world, why wouldn’t she be?

Magic coursed through the air like breath. The rules were different here. She wasn’t just allowed to be more—she was expected to. Here, she fit. Not as an aberration, but as a natural consequence of the world’s own wild logic.

Mera, dutiful as ever, poured another cup of tea with both hands, careful not to spill a drop. Vivienne accepted it with a slight nod, sipping from the delicate rim.

The fruity scent curled up into her nose. Berries and flowers. Sweet, subtle, clean.

She still loved fruit teas. That much hadn’t changed.

Though it was different now.

Drinking it was like quenching a thirst she didn’t really have. A comfort without weight. Pleasant, yes, but ultimately hollow. Like bathing in warmth that never quite reached the bone.

Still, she savored the taste. Familiarity wasn’t always necessary for need. Sometimes it was enough to hold onto the things that reminded her she had changed.

And the things that hadn’t.

There was a soft, rhythmic knock at the chamber door—measured, not urgent. Vivienne glanced toward it, then gave Mera a casual nod. The maid curtsied quickly and crossed the marble floor, her steps near silent, and pulled the door open.

Renzia stood there, framed in the golden light of the hallway. The mannequin was ever immaculate in her presentation, featureless face tilted just slightly forward, and in her arms she cradled the small, pale form of Liora.

Vivienne’s eyes lit up instantly. Her expression softened, her posture shifted, and the vague discomfort from earlier evaporated.

“Hello, mijita!” she cooed, voice sweet as spun sugar. “How is my precious girl doing?”

Renzia entered, gliding across the room like a shadow on water. She halted a few paces in, silent as ever. Liora fidgeted in her arms, tugging insistently at the high collar of Renzia’s uniform. The mannequin inclined her head. Without a word, she bent low, and Liora whispered something into where Renzia’s ear would be, if she had one.

Then, slowly, deliberately, Renzia knelt and set the girl down.

On her feet.

Vivienne froze. Her five eyes widened. She didn’t even breathe.

Liora was standing.

Her little legs trembled, knees knocking gently against each other, but she held steady for a moment… and then—one unsteady footstep. Then another. Her arms were slightly outstretched like a fledgling bird, but she was walking. Wobbling. Waddling, more like it. But moving forward on her own.

Toward Vivienne.

The teacup slipped from Vivienne’s fingers without her even realizing it. Porcelain clinked on porcelain as it hit the saucer, then both toppled onto her lap. Scalding-hot tea splashed onto the fine silk of her dress and soaked through instantly.

She didn’t notice.

Her eyes were locked on Liora, lips parted slightly, expression caught between awe and disbelief. Her hands hovered just above her knees, claws twitching.

“Mi corazón…” she whispered, voice cracking. Her breath hitched. “You’re— You’re walking.”

The girl beamed, her face lit up like morning.

“I walked for you,” she declared proudly, voice thin but determined. “I wanted to surprise you.”

And she had. Oh, gods—Akhenna—she had.

Vivienne’s heart felt too big for her chest. Too sharp, too full. She let out a breath like a laugh, like a sob, and reached forward just as Liora stumbled into her arms. She scooped the girl up and cradled her against her soaked dress, not caring at all about the spreading stain or mess she was making. Her arms trembled as she held Liora close, brushing her cheek against soft hair.

“You’re a marvel,” she murmured, voice thick with emotion. “A perfect little miracle.”

And for a moment, Vivienne forgot entirely that she was anything but a mother.

His eyes snapped open in the dead of night.

A gasp tore from his throat. Breath ragged. Sweat clung to his skin like oil, soaking the linen at his brow and chest. His heart pounded like a war drum, thrumming against his ribs, desperate to escape the cage of his body.

Torin’s dreams were never like this.

They whispered, normally. Soft impressions, gentle tides of possibility. A nudge here, a hint there. Never sharp. Never screaming.

Sometimes they told him where the best bread would be baked come winter’s eve.

Sometimes they showed his siblings—Rava standing over a broken blade, Elrin laughing in the rain, Narek swamped in legislative work. Successes. Failures. Moments.

And sometimes—more and more these days—they showed the war. The slow devouring of the clanlands by steel and zealotry. But even then, the visions were symbols. Clouds in the shape of banners. A wolf’s howl echoing through dead trees. Always vague. Always waiting for hindsight to lend them meaning.

Not this one.

Not tonight.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, feet slipping against the cold stone floor as he stood too quickly. The room spun, vision trailing a fraction behind his movements. His breath caught in his throat, but he pushed through it.

He had to paint.

He had to.

While the dream was still burning behind his eyes. While the images still pulsed in his blood. Before they faded, as they always did—slipping away like smoke when morning dared to break the spell.

He stumbled toward his supplies, shoving aside folded linens, dirty clothes, yesterday’s half-eaten fruit. The biggest canvas he had—there. Not a portrait. No, that wouldn’t hold it. A landscape. Wide and tall. It needed space.

His hands shook as he arranged the colors, wet the palette, prepped the brushes. But once he held them—wood and bristle in his hands—he stilled. Just enough.

No sketch. He never sketched his visions. Sketching was for planning. For thinking. There was no thinking in prophecy. Just feeling. Just pouring.

Torin began to paint.

It would not be beautiful. It shouldn’t be. There was nothing beautiful about what he saw. But it would be true.

In the coming weeks, when nobles came sniffing around for art to hang in their studies or parlors, they would ignore this piece. Too wild, too dark, too full of motion and shadow and shapes that didn't quite belong. They would call it a waste of pigment. The meandering of a coward too soft for war.

Torin had heard that before.

He was the largest of Korriva’s children—until Rava came back different. Changed. Heavy with something unspoken.

And yet he was the one they called gentle. Useless.

Because he would not fight.

Could not kill.

Not with these hands—hands that had held every sibling as babes. Hands that shaped visions of what could be.

He had seen what war brought. In fire and bone. In dreams.

He wanted no part in it.

But tonight, he would give it form.

Not to change it. Not to stop it.

Only to remember.

The first third came to life beneath his hands in long, sweeping strokes—grays, blacks, and sickly silvers bleeding into the canvas.

At its heart: the moon. Pale, bloated, hanging low in a poisoned sky. But it was no moon Torin knew. Its light was cold, not serene, and it cast no warmth—only elongated shadows over a desolate, cracked wasteland below.

And blotting out part of that dead light…

A thing.

Wings stretched wide like shrouds of night, body half-formed, half-swallowed by the void. Shadow clung to its skin like lovers, whispering hungers. Its shape was wrong, contorted—head like a lizard, but not one. 

And yet it flew.

It existed.

First of its kind.

Or the last of something forgotten.

A cataclysm given flesh.

He didn’t paint it clearly—he couldn’t. It hurt to look at even in memory. His brush trembled when it neared the creature’s outline, but he managed to suggest enough. Just enough to make it feel real. Just enough to make someone wonder.

Then his focus shifted.

The middle third.

He reached for reds and oranges, rust-browns, and iron-blacks—blood and ash and scorched metal. This part was chaos.

The war.

Not battles, but a tide. A writhing, endless clash of bodies and blades, of spells and screams. Thousands upon thousands. Lekine and human, side by side or tearing each other apart—he couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter. None of them would leave unchanged.

Great weapons stood in the background—towers that moved, machines on spider legs, men twisted into hulking abominations of steel and will.

And in their midst… shapes. Not soldiers. Not beasts.

Things.

Creatures born from command, from blood-oaths and arcane cruelty. They had no eyes. No mouths. Only limbs and motion and loyalty to something unseen.

Torin’s breath came faster. His brush darted, slashed, swept. He had to finish. He had to finish.

Before dawn.

Before the vision left him.

Before clarity turned to fog.

And then—

The final third.

His hand hovered.

He didn’t want to. But he did. He had to.

Here, the colors turned sick. Blacker than black. Reds so deep they were nearly purple. Yellows like infection.

A great, yawning plain. A landscape of ruin.

Blood pooled like lakes across the earth, reflecting a sky torn open. The horizon was teeth. Faces. Eyes. Thousands of them, screaming in silence. A night of a thousand faces, feasting upon the world itself.

Nothing was spared.

Temples—shattered. Statues of gods, broken and weeping rust.

Cities—flattened, devoured, only bones and ash where they once stood.

The land itself looked hollowed, like something had chewed through its soul. Trees wilted in place. Rivers ran dry—or red.

And above it all, in the farthest corner of the canvas—barely visible—a single figure stood. Small. Alone. Wings of crystal outstretched. Singing, or screaming. Light and shadow burst from it in equal measure.

Torin’s hand slipped. He caught himself on the edge of the easel, breathing hard, heart thunderous.

He had finished.

He stared at what he had made.

And quietly, he wept.