Someone shook Mahala awake. The night had veiled over the sky, the boy long gone. She didn’t even remember falling asleep. A gaunt man with sickly pale skin crouched over her.

“Gooduh ebening,” he said, his accent distinct.

Shiran.

“Please could I–” he began.

Mahala scrambled away from him, accidentally kicking him in the process. Her hands were still chained behind her back.

“Érk pyiaek oh. I’m a doctor, milady. I am here to examine your wyrm,” he sighed. He sat up, rubbing his arm.

“Shirans can’t be doctors,” Mahala blurted.

“Not anymore,” he said blankly. “Not here, nor in Shi for me.”

Mahala studied the doctor. Shiran men were hulking, brutish beasts. The man before her was of average height, with twig limbs and a deathly pallor. Even his lips were dry and chapped. She would’ve assumed he was the one stuck in a cave for days on end.

“Please, milady. You are the first forktongue I have met that has not been consumed by their wyrm. You may be the first step in finding how to cure this plague,” said the doctor.

He tried to inch closer but Mahala kicked off again. The doctor’s face kept an impassive mask, but it broke for just a second. Hurt? Desperation? Mahala couldn’t tell.

“What can I do to have you trust me?” he asked.

Mahala thought for a moment. “My chains.”

“I do not have keys. I can gain access to it once I prove you will not be a danger to yourself or others.”

“How will you do that?”

“By your actions. You will need to act compliant to lower their guard.”

“Who are you selling me to?”

The doctor paused. His face twitched again. “You must understand, whatever I tell you, you mustn’t tell anyone else.”

“Who are you selling me to?” Mahala demanded.

“To Shi. Perhaps even the Queen herself if they could manage.”

Mahala’s shoulders relaxed a little. He answered frankly so far. She’d noted he said ‘they’ and not ‘we.’ “Who are these people? The man I spoke to?”

“The Yarth family. They’re thieves, smugglers, cutthroats. This mountain is their territory,” the doctor replied. His eyes distractedly dropped to her wyrm. “The man you spoke to – he was roh, heavy-built, glasses, yes? That is Nevermind Yarth, their leader.”

Shirans are skilled liars, I shouldn’t trust them… but he told me the same thing the boy did, even gave me names. 

The doctor’s gaze felt clinical, not lustful, but it did not make it any less comfortable.

I don’t have many other options.

So, she shuffled closer to him.

“I am Mahala Pesh. What is your name?” she said with as much propriety as possible in her dishevelled state.

The doctor offered a polite bow. “I am Péuutké Tohpit. Nangingoom jan kye ohl. The Yarths call me Hacksaw, please feel free to do the same.”

Mahala allowed the doctor to proceed with his examination. His fingers traced the veins of the wyrm, stopped by each of the nails embedded through them. His touch was delicate, but stung nevertheless. He hummed a few times and muttered to himself in Shiran. 

She stopped herself from asking about the boy. She did not want to squander her only other contact in the village.

So she decided on, “Will you help me get out of here?”

“I cannot make promises. The Yarths are cunning devils, and keep me under watch.”

“Then call the police.”

Hacksaw raised an eyebrow. “You want me to call the police?”

“If you haven’t done anything wrong, there’s nothing to worry about.”

“Even if I wanted to, I am under watch.”

Mahala grinded her teeth. “Then what can you do for me?”

“I can convince Nevermind Yarth to move you to my clinic. That my nails are enough to keep the wyrm at bay.”

Mahala jerked away from him. “Did you nail these on me?”

“Yes,” he said without missing a beat. “The men were going to kill you, milady. I convinced Nevermind not to. All forktongues’ life starts and ends at their wyrm. At my suggestion to only wound yours, you resumed your human form. The nails are insurance your wyrm will not recover enough to attempt another escape.”

“And the chains? The muzzle?” she snarled.

“Not my idea. The Yarths didn’t want you biting or scratching. They were also certain you’d try to take it off on your own.”

“Get out.”

“But I didn’t—”

“Get out!” Mahala tried to bare her teeth, she hoped they were still sharp. She wanted the fire back in her blood, the wyrm to warm her hate, but it feebled against the nails.

Hacksaw placed a hand on her shoulder. “Stop. You’re going to tire yourself out. Please remember you would be dead without me — first in the caves, and then yesterday. Think this through, milady.”

A part of her agreed with him. The rest of her only saw red. How dare he talk down to her like a child. Why should she be grateful for him hammering nails into her chest?

“GET OUT!” she screamed.

White hot heat seared through her chest. The wyrm tensed, its frenzied veins lashed out inside her. The metal pins were heating up.

Hacksaw snatched his hand back as if burned. He scrambled for the door.

It wasn’t good enough.

Mahala chased after him. She tried to headbutt him, but the chains yanked her back. She fell onto her back. Her arms and shoulder ached from the violent pull.

She instantly regretted her actions. 

“Milady?” Hacksaw peered from behind the safety of the bars, his face unreadable.

“I’m sorry…” she whispered. “I don’t know what came over me. I swear this isn’t me.”

She couldn’t look him in the eye. Not when she showed herself to be so pathetic, ugly, disgusting, utterly mad, and infected with a curse.

I’m a child of— 

“I understand, milady. Degradation of mood is a common plague symptom,” he said. “It’s a miracle you have even maintained your sense of self this long.”

Mahala lifted her head.

That’s right. It’s not my fault. It’s the wyrm that’s making me think horrible things. I am the Lady of Pomolin.

She allowed Hacksaw to return to her cell and complete his examination. He checked the status of the wyrm and the nails – even after her outburst, no further changes occurred to it so far.

He left, assuring her he would speak with Nevermind and loosen the security measures placed on her. He refused to make any promises but did agree to return with a new dress.

She glanced up at the night sky through her tiny window, Nothos’ moon nowhere in sight.

“Not even over the Golden Sea is beyond Nothos’ reach,” she recited. 

She curled up in front of the stars.

She heard fireworks whistling faraway.

“You’ll catch a cold, my lady.” Luck draped her coat over her shoulders, his hands lingered for just a second.

She wanted to cry again. She buried her face into the ground and tried to shrug off the warmth.

“You’re not real,” she sobbed. “The real you stabbed me.”

“Forgive me, my lady.”

“How can I? I chose you, even after knowing you were a defect! I-I-I saved you! And this is how you repay me?!”

“Is that why you chose me, my lady?”

Mahala froze. She caught Luck staring at her sometimes. It shouldn’t be odd as everyone would stare at her wherever she went. Many times, Luck lingered on the cusp of saying something to her – or asking her a question. She hated that Adelei was right.

All the homunculi had asked her at least once — why defective (un)Lucky? 

She would smile and say, “He’s not defective.”

“Our Lady of Pomolin is a bleeding heart,” they would respond.

He was defective.

He froze.

He was no soldier, no magus, no Tibalt Kinderum.

“Is that how you saw me, my lady?” Luck spat.

She heard the flick of his switchsword. He swung the blade over his head.

Grating metal snapped her awake. 

“Remember me, Lady?”

The bars to her cage were thrown open, still humming.

Heavy feet staggered into the cage, veiled in darkness. A colossal dark shape swarmed in. Nevermind Yarth? Her eyes adjusted quickly – noting the intruder to be slimmer, toned with sinewy muscles, carrying the stench of alcohol.

A few steps closer and his face came into view, wrapped in heavy gauze. He tugged at it, revealing swollen sutures holding his jaw together. The stitching revealed a pattern of claw marks that tore out his right eye and split his eyebrow in half.

He lumbered forward, nearly tripping over his own feet.

“You’re hurt,” Mahala said.

“And pretty,” he snarled, running a finger along his stitches. “Courtesy of the Lady.”

Wail.

“I’m sorry,” she said, quieter.

“You will be.”

A half-empty bottle slipped out of his hands, clattering on the ground. In its place, was a long knife.

Mahala’s blood screamed. She scrambled back against the wall. Her wyrm flinched underneath the iron nails.

“I’m sorry!” she wailed.

“That sure makes this hurt so much fuckin’ less.” He lunged for Mahala and she shrieked. She tried kicking him away but he far outweighed Hacksaw, only getting a knee to her temple for her efforts. 

Mahala hit the ground with blurred vision and a hammering skull. The heavy weight of Wail crushed her. Her heart accelerated, feeling him straddling her; the knife steady against her muzzle. 

“Ya really are as pretty as the pictures,” he mumbled, his breath thick and stale. The serrated edge tickled her cheek, drawing a bead of blood. “Reckon you’re spoiled for choice with the lads. If your daddy would let ya.”

Mahala trembled, her breaths rattling through the muzzle. “Please…” she began. Each word stung, but it was better than...

“Pretty face, pretty money, pretty life. Spoiled little princess like you never seen a real bad day,” he snapped. The blade prodded through the mesh of her muzzle, barely licking her nose. “How ‘bout a taste of my bad day?”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you, I swear!” she stammered. “Please forgive me. Nothos forgive me.”

“You reckon that to be a fair retribution in Nothos’ eye-for-an-eye?” he sneered. The blade stabbed hard through the mesh. It nicked her lip. “Ya owe me half a face, Lady. Maybe then, you’ll know what you’re really apologisin’ for.”

“W-Wait! Wai–!”

Wail didn’t wait.

The knife tore through her cheek. When she screamed, her tongue sliced against the blade, killing her scream with the pain of Wail gouging through her soft tissue. 

Mahala begged the wyrm to take the pain away. It didn’t, like a defective thing.

Her feet kicked and slammed against the ground, but Wail wouldn’t budge. Her fingers clawed against the ground until her nails ripped off.

Why does everyone keep hurting me?

Her eyes stung with tears and blood. 

Then it stopped, Wail dragged off of her.

“That’s enough, Wail.”

“Fucking hell it is!”

“She’s food for the vipers, not for your fuckery.”

She didn’t dare move, her tongue and teeth feeling as if they were out of the gaping maw of her cheek.

She could hear Wail curse as he was thrown against the bars.

A thick cloth pressed against her wound, forcing her to wince.

Her eyeballs rolled around in their sockets. It stopped momentarily, meeting Nevermind Yarth’s glinting spectacles, his hands roughly holding hers. She whimpered, leaning into the touch, even as it stung. 

It took her a few moments longer to realise he was only inspecting her nails. He unclasped the muzzle so he could check her teeth. Then his eyes dropped to her wyrm.

His “Hmm,” killed any hope of pity, much less comfort.

He then left her on the ground, her hands still chained behind her back, a bleeding hole in her face. 

It would have been better if he just killed her instead.