Blood & Fur

Chapter Thirty-Five: Winland Funeral

The door to Ingrid’s apartment seemed taller than before. It loomed over me like the black gates of the House of Gloom, dark and silent.

I knew it was only a trick of my mind, an echo of my guilt. It still caused me to hesitate for a brief instant. A thousand conversations crossed my mind in the span of a second. I remembered the advice of my predecessors, Necahual’s words, and every other piece of information that could help me survive the battle ahead.

I gathered my breath and knocked.

I heard footsteps behind the door and a hand moving to open it. I half-expected to find myself staring at Ingrid’s glare, or Eztli’s cold, reproachful stare. A much more pleasant sight welcomed me.

“Oh, Iztac?” Nenetl stood on the other side of the threshold, her comforting smile immediately easing my soul. “I knew you would come.”

“Nenetl?” I replied with a surprised frown. “Why are you in Ingrid’s apartment?”

“I, uh…” Nenetl cleared her throat. “Ingrid’s mother is…” She winced before she could finish her sentence. “Of course you know that… I’m sorry, I shouldn’t…”

“You’re forgiven, Nenetl,” I interrupted her before she could bury herself in excuses again. I would take her clumsy kindness over false flattery anytime. “You came to comfort Ingrid?”

“I… I tried.” Nenetl joined her hands, her fingers fidgeting with tension. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t keep an emperor on the threshold like this…”

“You are one of my consorts. You’ve earned that privilege.” I stepped inside with one last order to the guards. “Stay outside. Ensure no one will interrupt us without my authorization.”

My masked jailers answered with utter silence.

“They scare me,” Nenetl whispered under her breath after closing the door. Did she fear that they would overhear her? “They smell wrong too…”

I raised an eyebrow. “Smell?”

“Everyone has a smell, but your guards have so many…” Nenetl shook her head. “I always think of a crowd when they approach.”

Interesting. Had awakening her wolf-totem improved Nenetl’s senses? I folded that information away in the back of my mind in case I could make use of it later. “And how do I smell?”

“Sweet,” she replied with a sheepish, adorable smile. “Like caramel.”

I wondered if Nenetl had started to learn spells. Her earnest gentleness always managed to soothe my soul better than any sorcery.

It became even more appreciated as we walked into grand chambers of polished marble and Lady Sigrun’s family chambers. The gemstone, seashell-shaped ceiling and knotwork decorations remained a marvel to behold. However, I immediately noticed a handful of worrying changes. Most shelves, once abundant with scrolls, jewelry, and potions, had been emptied. A handful of tapestries were missing from the walls as well.

I guessed what happened to them from the smell of smoke in the air. The sad, melancholic sound of a harp invited us to step onward.

A particular decoration had caught my eye the first time I visited Ingrid’s apartment: a miniature replica of the ship that brought her mother to Yohuachanca, sitting on a hand-carved table showcasing a map of the known world.

The table was still there, untouched and covered in a platter of chocolate sweets. The ship that once sailed on its sea of wood, meanwhile, ended its journey in the nearby hearth. Lady Sigrun’s daughters had stuffed its hold with the missing decorations and then set it on fire. I noticed Ingrid feeding scrolls to the flames with a blank face, her slim frame wrapped in black robes smoother than spider’s silk. Her younger sister Astrid played the harp beautifully, her eyes red from too many tears.

Other figures watched the pyre too. Eztli stood behind Ingrid like the shadow of death, the heart’s fires reflecting on her pale skin. Chikal sat at the painted table and studied its map. Her head perked up when she sensed me and Nenetl approaching.

All my consorts were here.

It surprised me. I knew Eztli spent the night trying to comfort Ingrid, and I could guess that Nenetl’s kind heart would encourage her to do the same, but Chikal? The amazon queen never struck me as the sentimental type. Why would she care for Ingrid’s well-being now of all times?

Our eyes briefly met, and she swiftly decided to enlighten me.

“Now you know,” Chikal said, her fingers tracing a line along the map, “how it feels to choose.”

I nodded in silent understanding. Chikal too had faced a cruel decision on who to save from the Nightlords’ grasp. The only difference was that she had to sacrifice a city rather than a single person’s life. I guessed I should consider myself lucky that the Jaguar Woman stopped at a handful of concubines.

“I hesitated,” I confessed.

“And you paid a great cost for it.” Chikal studied me for a few seconds, her gaze ever unreadable. “You will never forget it.”

No, I wouldn’t. It wasn’t a question, but a statement. I will never forget the cost of letting the Nightlords live.

Eztli greeted me with a blank look, and little Astrid with a glare sharper than obsidian daggers. My lack of surprise dulled its edge. I had expected that reaction. In spite of Necahual’s attempts to soften the blow, I did play a role in her mother’s death. As a child too young to properly understand the cruel world we lived in, I couldn’t fault her for blaming me.

Ingrid worried me more.

My orphaned consort briefly turned away from the fire to look at me. She looked slightly better than last night, the way a cleaned skeleton might prove less unsettling than a freshly killed corpse. Her pallid skin and sunken eyes belonged to the dead. She held onto life by a thread.

“My lord,” Ingrid said. I waited for more and received nothing.

A thousand words and a hundred flowery sentences crossed my mind. All sounded equally empty to me, so I did not speak.

My arms moved to embrace her.

I pulled Ingrid closer into a hug which she did not resist. She burst into tears the moment her head rested on my shoulders. Floodgates opened, and neither the presence of her fellow consorts nor her sister could hold back the flood.

I couldn’t tell how long I let her cry on my shoulder. Minutes? Hours? It felt like forever to me. I gently stroked her hair as her tears soaked my cotton robes. I thought she had shed them all last night. I was mistaken.

She is so thin, I suddenly realized. Eztli possessed the strength of a curse, and the late Sigrun an iron confidence little could break. Her daughter lacked it. She had managed to hide her weakness behind her training and carefully woven lies, only for the Nightlords’ malignant cruelty to dispel it all. She’s my age. So young and human.

Ingrid was no amazon queen, no Nahualli with hidden power, and no Nightkin cursed with immortality. She was no more than a witty young woman trapped in a gilded cage. She could only rely on her intelligence, beauty, and parentage; and none of them could give her the courage she desperately needed.

The harp song ended. I noticed Eztli leading little Astrid back to her room at the edge of my vision. Ingrid’s sister appeared ready to fight back until Eztli put a cold, firm hand on her shoulder, nipping all thoughts of rebellion in the bud. I admit it unsettled me; my oldest friend had retained some of her kindness, but the vampiric instincts were never too far behind. Meanwhile, Nenetl did her best to fade into the background, her back bent and her head pointing at the floor; as for Chikal, she focused on the burning ship, the flames’ light reflecting in her eyes.

All of them gave us a little space.

“Lady Eztli and her mother… they said you did not choose for mine to die,” Ingrid whispered softly, begging, no, pleading for the truth. “Is it true?”

My lips twisted into a scowl as I nodded sharply. “The Jaguar Woman overruled me.”

“I see…” Ingrid let go of the hug and studied my face for any hint of a lie. My sorrow and cold anger must seem genuine enough to her. “I shouldn’t say this in Lady Eztli’s presence, but… I’m glad to hear that.”

Ingrid had called Eztli by a deferential title twice now. I admit it surprised me. My oldest friend’s kindness must have dulled the edge of their rivalry. That, or Ingrid had realized that there was no point in continuing it now that her mother had died. The roles would have been reversed without the Nightlords’ cruelty.

“Mother must have disappointed them,” Ingrid whispered, more for her sake than mine. “Mother was a schemer… One of her plots must have displeased the goddesses.”

My grip on her back tightened on its own. I heard Ingrid gasp in surprise as my pulse quickened.

“You’re wrong,” I corrected her, my voice dripping with bitterness. “The Jaguar Woman wanted to teach us a lesson. Nothing more.”

“A… a lesson?” Ingrid’s hands tightened into fists. “But… why?”

“I asked questions.” In this place, that was a crime worthy of death. “You and your mother deemed that good service ought to be rewarded.”

Ingrid looked up at me with utter confusion, no, denial. She was the brightest of us and heard the Jaguar Woman’s words at her mother’s execution. She understood that Lady Sigrun died for nothing. That the Nightlords needed no reason to kill on a whim. She simply struggled to accept it.

It was human nature to seek meaning for pain and misery; we could predict and avoid what we could understand. To find causes for old tragedies helped us prepare for new ones. Hence we struggled to understand true evil: because it was purposeless.

“You seek a reasonable explanation for last night’s tragedy, Ingrid, and there is your mistake,” I told her as gently as I could. “Did you forget the Jaguar Woman’s warning? There was nothing reasonable about this ordeal. Our lives are at their mercy and there is no reward for service. They punish disloyalty, but good work buys no favor either.”

My words were harsh, but Ingrid listened to them nonetheless. Her lips strained in a mix of despair and anguish.

“She… she died for nothing.” I could see the last embers of Ingrid’s hope die. It was written on her face. “Is that what you are trying to tell me, my lord emperor? That she died for nothing?”

“I am sorry, Ingrid,” I apologized. “I wish I could lie and tell you your Mother brought this cruel fate upon herself. She did not. Senseless cruelty requires no explanation. It simply is.”

Ingrid let go of me, her hands moving to her shoulders as if to protect them from the cold. She looked down for a moment, mulling over my words, before glancing at Eztli. My oldest friend shook her head. She wouldn’t lie either.

“What do I do, my lord?” Ingrid asked me, her voice breaking in her throat. “What must I do? I… I am lost.”

I gathered my breath as I thought over my answer. I wished I possessed the wisdom she sought. The best I could give her was my earnest opinion.

Someone answered before I could.

“You live, Ingrid.” Chikal turned away from the fire to meet Ingrid’s gaze with eyes full of resolve. “If not for yourself, then for your sister. For your kin that will outlive you.”

Or for revenge, I almost added. I held back, however. Ingrid didn’t need to hear that. Not right now. Not until she had finished grieving her mother and recovered her composure.

“She’s right,” I said. Because she has been there too. “Astrid needs you.”

Ingrid pondered my and Chikal’s words before glancing at the harp her sister had been playing. She fell into thoughtful silence.

“Uh…” Nenetl awkwardly cleared her throat, before presenting a cake to Ingrid. “You should eat, Ingrid.”

Ingrid frowned at the offering. Mayhaps she briefly wondered if the gift was poisoned, before realizing that Nenetl was incapable of such cunning.

“I am not hungry,” she replied, somewhat courteously.

“Take it for warmth,” Nenetl explained shyly. “I eat chocolate when I’m sad. It helps… at least a bit.”

Ingrid stared at the cake with clear doubts, but accepted it anyway. She took a bite out of it much to Nenetl’s pleasure.

“Why burn this ship?” Chikal pointed at the fire. “It must have taken years for your mother to carve it.”

“Mother…” Ingrid gulped and suppressed a sob. “In Winland, nobles are burnt with their ships and belongings.”

My eyes wandered to the painted table. Since Lady Sigrun knew she would never see the sea again, she had crafted her own. A pity that the pyre that consumed her remains would not let her soul rest.

“I see,” Chikal commented without saying more.

“I followed Mother’s will to the letter,” Ingrid said, her hands joined in a silent prayer. “She prized her knowledge more than gold, and wanted it to perish with her.”

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

I wondered how many of those documents contained incriminating information or if they were little more than decoys. My eyes wandered to Lady Sigrun’s private altar. I recalled her last words and the hint they offered me. I made a note to check on the structure later.

“I… I will return to the council tomorrow, my lord,” Ingrid promised. “I will serve.”

“Are you certain, Ingrid?” Nenetl asked with clear concern.

“You should rest more,” Eztli said.

Ingrid denied them both. “I was born to serve,” she replied while staring at the fire. “This… this is harder.”

Work could be a burden and a distraction.

“You should go train, my lord,” Ingrid advised. “I am certain Chikal is eager to test your mettle.”

What a polite way to dismiss us. Chikal was the first to pick up on it and quickly moved to her feet.

“I shall await you in the courtyard,” she informed me before offering a slight bow to the burning ship and Ingrid both. Nenetl blushed slightly, before promising to come visit later. For once, Ingrid didn’t shoot down the idea immediately and merely thanked her fellow consort for her concern.

“I can stay if you wish me to,” I told Ingrid.

“My lord is very kind, but I must decline your proposal.” Ingrid smiled at me, and however thin and awkward it might be, it seemed sincere for once. “I have… affairs to settle. Mother’s affairs.”

She has more papers to burn, I realized. Documents she doesn’t want any of us to see.

Since Lady Sigrun’s spy network extended as far as the Sapa Empire, I suspected a few of the scrolls among her collection might give the red-eyed priests a fit if discovered. Lady Sigrun’s plans might have died with her, but Ingrid couldn’t take the risk they might be discovered. Knowledge of the First Emperor’s codex alone might spell a visit to the torture chambers.

“As you wish,” I replied with a slight nod. “My door remains open to you, should you require my company.”

“As is mine,” Eztli added with what could pass for noble grace.

“Thank you both.” Ingrid offered us a short reverence. “I shall be certain to return your kindness in due time.”

She didn’t owe us anything, but I wouldn’t spit on her support. The Jaguar Woman divided us to better control us. We would only survive the Scarlet Night by working together.

At least I can count on Eztli, I thought as she and I moved to the exit. I could tell she was giving me the cold shoulder for almost sacrificing Necahual, but she was mature enough to understand who was our true enemy. It warms my heart.

“Thank you for being there for her, Eztli,” I said from the bottom of my heart. “And for clarifying the situation. We don’t need more infighting.”

Eztli swiftly moved her arms around my neck, then approached closer to better whisper in my ear.

“I forgive you this time, Iztac, because you indulged Mother’s foolish wish.” Eztli glared at me, the crimson in her gaze redder than a puddle of fresh blood. “It won’t happen again. Do you understand me? It won’t happen again.”

I met her gaze without flinching. I couldn’t promise anything—the Nightlords followed their own whims—besides my best.

“I will take care of Necahual,” I promised softly, too low for the others to hear. “Yoloxochitl will lose interest in her soon.”

Eztli’s head tilted to the side as she studied me. It didn’t take her long to guess what I had in mind. She had suggested it the very night Yoloxochitl enslaved her mother. I couldn’t tell whether my resolve pleased or unnerved her.

“I should be there,” she finally suggested.

“Absolutely not,” I replied. “I understand you mean to comfort her, but believe me. It will only make it harder.”

Eztli looked away. “Because of what I have become?”

“Because it will humiliate her. We should at least spare her dignity by avoiding witnesses.” Let alone her own daughter. “The best way to keep her safe is to maintain distance and play along with Yoloxochitl’s madness.”

Her expression darkened with a touch of despair. “I won’t last long, Iztac,” Eztli warned me. “Her blood… the more she feeds it to me, the less I feel like myself. I sense her in my veins. In my soul.”

“Just a few more days,” I promised her. “You can hold on that long?”

Eztli bit her lip, then nodded slowly. She was strong and willful. I had to hope she wouldn’t fold until the fateful day.

The New Fire Ceremony would change everything, one way or another.

I spent the rest of the day going through the motions.

I trained with Chikal and other warriors, unloading the stress I’d accumulated one strike at a time. Hitting shields of wood with clubs suddenly felt appealing after a night of torture and a day of grief. I supposed that explained why soldiers liked to fight. Mindless violence was freeing in a way. It helped us feel strong in a world where we were born weak.

As I looked at my adversary, an amazon trainer I had pummeled to the ground with a flurry of blows, I recalled the sensation of my hands closing on Necahual’s throat. My foe’s nose was a fountain of blood, her shield a broken bundle of splintered wood. She looked up at me with the same brief flash of fear that crossed my mother-in-law’s eyes when she thought I wouldn’t stop until she choked to death. Part of me wanted to bash my trainer’s skull in whenever I recalled that night.

I sensed Chikal step behind me like a panther stalking its prey. I didn’t hear her approach—I never managed to detect her when she moved quietly—but I sensed her concern for her amazon sister.

“You have grown bolder, Lord Emperor,” Chikal said. I immediately took it as a backhanded reproach; she only ever called me Lord Emperor as a farce. “But a true warrior commands his anger, not the other way around.”

“You’ve never seen me angry yet, Chikal,” I replied coldly. My shadow talons stirred deep within my soul. It took much of my willpower to prevent them from lacerating the closest human within my reach. “Pray that you never do.”

Chikal didn’t fold. She knew very well that I hid my true skills from her. I wondered how much she suspected.

“If you wish to kill someone so ardently, pick a priest and make them pray,” she said. “That would please us both.”

I scoffed. “I will give it some thought.”

After training I decided to spend some time in the menagerie to relax a bit; the company of animals felt more preferable to that of men lately. I asked the zookeeper for advice on how to take care of my pets.

“Itzili is growing fast,” I told a zookeeper. My feathered tyrant had gained a few pounds since last we met. He was now larger than any dog. “Is that normal?”

“He is entering his growth phase early, Your Majesty,” my servant answered. “At some point in their life, feathered tyrants start growing at an astonishing rate of five pounds a day and then reach their adult size in four years' time.”

Five pounds a day? At this rate, Itzili would overshadow the tallest bears before the Night of the Scarlet Moon. He might become large enough for me to ride him.

Not large enough to break these walls though. I glanced at the palace’s fortifications. An adult feathered tyrant might be able to climb or break through them, if allowed to reach maturity. Not without help.

“His early growth is a good omen, Your Majesty,” the zookeeper said. “Itzili was offered to you on the first day of your reign. I take it as a sign your rule shall see our empire prosper.”

If only Itzili could bite off a priest’s hand for me. That would be a good omen.

After thanking the zookeeper for his insight, I received two turkeys to feed my pet with. Itzili greeted me with a small cry and squinting eyes. He smelled my clothes and turkeys, but instead of biting into one of them he glared at my silent guards with narrowed eyes. As an animal with senses far more developed than my own, they probably felt unnatural to him.

You resent this cage of ours too, don’t you? I petted Itzili on the back of his head. A mane of white feathers slowly grew on it, and from his bellowing cries he appreciated the gesture. I might have a way to help break its walls.

I glanced at the turkeys in my hands. I’d heard that feathered tyrants never turned down a meal, though they preferred to hunt live prey. A special spice might make this meal more appealing.

I quietly bit my hand until my teeth drew blood while cloaking myself in a Veil. Burning droplets fell onto the carcass, my fluids merging with those of the dead turkey. The smell aroused Itzili, who glanced at my closing wound with barely disguised hunger. It understood biting the hand that fed him would not end well, but the urge to kill coursed through his veins.

“Dream of devouring them all,” I whispered as I offered my pet his seasoned meal. This time he bit into the dead turkey with abandon. “One day, you might see it come true.”

How much of my blood would Itzili require before we could form a bond? I would keep providing it to him with each meal until then. Once I fully understood how the link worked, I would repeat the process with Tetzon, the margay cat. His size and agility would serve me well as a Ridden host.

Moreover, I wondered what effect my blood would have on an animal. Vampire blood transferred a sliver of the curse to the priests and allowed Yoloxochitl to cultivate predatory plants. Would those feeding on my flesh inherit some of my borrowed divine power too? How would it change them? And most importantly, would their blood become poisonous for vampires too?

I was dying to find out.

After my menagerie visit, I spent my short nap alone in my bed, visiting Tlazohtzin under the guise of Inkarri. As I expected, he took his dismissal as confirmation that his brother would inherit everything. My trick had dispelled whatever doubts he still had over our enterprise.

“I have gathered all the Tumi and Sapa artifacts I could find, oh divine messenger,” he told me, kneeling in prostration. “Dozens of them.”

“Have your agents bury them across Smoke Mountain,” I ordered. “If the gods find your offerings pleasing, your fate might still be averted.”

I was almost sincere in my promise. If by some miracle the counter-ritual managed to kill all of the Nightlords and if I survived it, I would gladly rescind my decision. I very much doubted either of us would be so lucky.

Moreover, I intended to fix the scale of fate in my favor… and his misfortune.

“Now, I shall bless you on your task, brave soul.” I grabbed a feather from my plumage. “A blessing, yes…”

The Veil I surrounded myself with made me appear like a bird of radiant gold to Tlazohtzin, but my Gaze prevented me from lying to myself. The feather in my talon was blacker than a starless night. It promised no miracle, no secret wealth delivered from the heavens. I was an owl of darkness rising from the Underworld.

I was an omen of death.

Unfortunately, that was the only gift I could offer. I would bless the Nightlords with it in time, but for me to fulfill that goal I would need to make sacrifices.

I regretted what I was about to do. Tlazohtzin was no red-eyed priest or nightkin apologist. He was an innocent man who had the misfortune of being in the right place at the right time. I had indirectly killed many like him when I declared war on the Sapa Empire and when I first denied the Jaguar Woman; but this time I wielded the knife that would cause his doom. I regretted my choice, but I had promised myself never to hesitate again.

I would bear that burden.

My Veil delivered sweet words to Tlazohtzin even as my mouth whispered crueler truths to my feather.

“I bless your soul with heavenly luck, so that you may fulfill your duty with pride.”

I curse you to a short life of deceit, the truth of your actions forever unknown to you.

“I bless your breath with the power of truth, so that you may expose your brother’s treachery for all to see.”

I curse you to whisper lies into the eyes of red-eyed fools, so that they mistake you for a foreign enemy.

“I bless your body with a long life, so that you may prove yourself worthy of your father’s inheritance and a greater one to your children.”

I curse you to die a swift death in the service of a greater cause, your blood spared from the vampire kiss, for it is the one gift I may offer you.

I hoped I had another choice available to me. Alas, I couldn’t risk the Nightlords discovering my treachery. I placed my well-disguised feather inside Tlazohtzin’s shadow and poisoned his destiny.

“We shall not meet again until the New Fire Ceremony concludes,” I warned him. “Should the gods smile on you, I shall return swiftly. May the Gods-in-Spirit take mercy on you.”

I left Tlazohtzin’s altar room without waiting for an answer. I did not want to see his pleased face after he swallowed my lie. It would only worsen my guilt.

All the better to bury my remorse with work. The die was already cast.

All I had to do was to travel to Smoke Mountain itself and cast my Haunt spell over it. The trip being too long for a brief nap, I flew back to the palace.

I did not return to my room immediately. Instead, I shifted through the walls until I reached Ingrid’s bedroom. My invisible spirit slipped inside the main hall and landed on its altar.

Let us see what you hid from the bats, Sigrun. I put my head through the wood and stone, my eyes emerging on the other side. As I suspected, the altar covered a secret compartment at its base; one roughly three feet in diameter and just as deep.

Women often asked to be buried with their jewels, but Lady Sigrun was too wise for such vanity. She buried a treasure not of gold and silver, but of paper and ink. Piles of scrolls were neatly folded in small clay containers to protect them from humidity and insects. My eyes darted on a wealth of maps, letters, and other documents.

The Emperor’s codex was nowhere to be seen among them.

Disappointing, but not unexpected. It would have been madness for Sigrun to keep such an important manuscript in her room. In all likelihood, she merely recorded the place she hid it among her legacy.

I swiftly materialized a talon and examined the document at the top of the pile in the hopes it would provide a hint. Instead, I looked at a map of Yohuachanca, the Sapa Empire, and a landmass to the east beyond the Boiling Sea. This drawing included indications of the wind and water currents running from one land to another. A good sailor could easily use this information to travel from Yohuachanca to Winland and beyond.

Either a part of Sigrun never lost hope to return home one day or she entrusted this dream to her descendants. I wondered if the Nightlords possessed a copy of their own. Considering how Yohuachanca’s hunger for blood demanded constant conquest, they probably intended to invade Winland in future centuries.

Part of me hoped to visit these distant lands one day, after I’d killed the Nightlords of course.

I folded the map aside and quickly checked the next document, then the one after, and the one after that one. My blood would have turned to ice if I still wore my body. All of these papers showed a similar issue that truly compromised my plans.

Sigrun’s trove of scrolls was exclusively written in Winland’s runic alphabet.

I couldn’t read any of them.

I beat myself for not considering it sooner. Of course Sigrun would record all sensitive information in a tongue only her family could understand. She informed me of the cache’s location knowing full well I wouldn’t be able to decode it without her daughters’ cooperation. Worse, I couldn’t smuggle these objects outside to decipher them at my own pace elsewhere. Unlike my unsubstantial Tonalli, these scrolls couldn’t phase through walls.

No matter how I approached the problem, I couldn’t think of a way to exploit these documents without bringing Ingrid into the loop. I would need to either convince her to teach me her native tongue—and somehow master it in a few months on top of all my other obligations—or inform her of the cache.

Sigrun binds my hand even in death. I would have bet my hand that she anticipated my reaction when she hinted at the cache’s existence. Wherever you are, I hope you have the last laugh.

With little else to do, my spirit flew away from the cache and quickly checked on Ingrid and her sister. I found the latter sleeping in her bed and cradling her cushions. As for Ingrid, she was drafting letters in her mother’s office with the sharp focus of a young woman desperately burying her sorrow in work. A look over her shoulder confirmed to me that she was drafting a challenge to the Sapa Emperor claimants, just as I asked her to before her mother’s death.

We weren’t so different, she and I. We would rather both swim headfirst into our toil rather than dwell on the past.

The sight saddened me to my core. I could not bring back Lady Sigrun from the dead, but I could ensure her daughters would survive the Scarlet Moon. I would do my best to watch over them.

With darkness falling upon the realm, I returned to my body for another night of horrors. This time I spent it in silence. I said nothing when the guards and Eztli came to escort me to the temple. Our footsteps filled the silence as we walked among the living dead. Vampires great and small greeted us with what could pass for religious deference… with one exception.

The Jaguar Woman welcomed me with a thin smile on her lips.

Her smug, satisfied look sickened me to my core. She thought she had cowed me, the wicked witch. She thought she had tamed me. Broken me. I hated myself for playing along with this farce.

Victory excuses everything, I kept telling myself as I climbed the mountain of ash. One day. One day.

I buried my anger and fury under a mask of resignation, then proceeded to feed the sulfur flame. I had sated it with flesh last night. I spent this one feeding it scrolls of paper marked with thousands of names. Whether those belonged to the year’s dead or their living relatives, I couldn’t know. The burning abyss ate away at them all the same.

The depthless hunger within this malevolent fire had consumed so many lives. It would eat me and Eztli too if we dared to touch it. The whole world wouldn’t be enough to satisfy its ravenous appetite. The thought of this sulfur flame shining in the sky frightened me to my core.

Yet, that fear couldn’t open my Tomb. The end of the world and the onset of an age of vampires wouldn’t let me fuel that spell.

What is it that I fear? I wondered. What did I run from? If not death, what? To become a skull buried in a pile of them for all eternity? Is that my Tomb? Imprisonment? Eternal suffering? Deathlessness?

I had spoken all of these words when trying to cast the Tomb. None worked. My true fear transcended them all.

What frightened me? What was I running away from? What was I fighting with all my strength to avoid? I thought back to the moments that brought me the most dread in my life.

The Night of the Scarlet Moon, when my name came up.

Guatemoc’s death and Eztli’s transformation.

The sight of Yoloxochitl eating people in her true form.

And finally, Lady Sigrun’s cruel death.

I had pressed a weapon against my own heart, faced King Mictlantecuhtli—a god mightier than all four Nightlords combined—and survived the House of Gloom. Yet none of these events crushed my spirit the way the others had. Why?

The solution came to me in a flash of insight.

I had chosen to face these trials, and prevailed.

In all other cases, I had been powerless to affect the outcome.

I sought strength so fervently because I was afraid of being powerless. Of being trapped, my will crushed, my mind manipulated, my body broken, unable to stand, unable to fight. I pursued the power I’d lacked all of my life: the power to challenge a fate forced upon me at birth.

I craved what I feared most: control.

“Powerlessness,” I whispered.

I heard an echo in the very depths of my soul, the slight screech of a greased door opening.

I had uncovered the key to my Tomb.

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