A sparse cloud of dust still hung in the air around her father's still body. A nurse had been dusting the room's meagre surfaces when she entered, but quickly retreated. Now the place felt distinctly like the many rooms in her former house that never saw use—her mother's chief among them.

A stale memory. Crestana's metaphor for her dying feelings had crossed over into reality. The dust smothered them further, like snow on a smouldering flame. At least there was still that much left; else she would have never set foot in the hospital again.

Maskless, stripped down to a hospital gown and completely unconscious; she wasn't even sure if she'd be able to discern him from a stranger without the nametag.

Where had the hate gone? More importantly, where had her guilt?

It had taken a friend's near-death experience to realise that nothing of the sort remained. No hate or guilt seemed enough to bring her crawling back to the fight. All she could think about was how to drag Iris out of it. An insensitive thought; it was Iris's decision, and a hard one too.

The tree still stood in the city. Districts in its direct shadow had only degraded further over the years. The monument to her sins still hung its branches over her head, but as the days went by, shamelessly, she'd adapted to it. Gotten used to it. Forgotten about it.

For guilt. For revenge. For penance. Mrs Hardridge had warned against championing such motivations, but Crestana could have never guessed at the time it was because she might forget. Not forgive. Just forget.

Forgetting was easier. Forgetting made her happier. Forgetting meant that she could move on. If she had heeded Mrs Hardridge's advice back then, maybe that could have been the end of the story.

Step back over the borderline, to where she could let the guilt wash away and leave behind a clean slate. Start over as somebody new, with no burden of a past life left to haunt her.

But that wasn't the right answer. It wasn't guilt and hate that kept bringing her back to that attic every break period, nor did it have anything to do with her frequenting the Great Library. That was something else, and that something else would still be there had she chosen to walk away.

Crestana probably had her answer already. Somehow, she just couldn't admit it just yet. Something about it terrified her.

She'd leave again that night, having not said a word to her father. Perhaps next time, she'd be able to inscribe something on his gravestone—a footnote to remember him by.

Iris's movements still dragged the next day, not by injury but shock. The journey to the edge of the city was a blur, broken by momentary flashes where her eyes fluttered open, only to close again. Brief images of her mother's shoulder, the concern on her face as she gazed out the window, the steps she took from one tram stop to another.

And by the time they were at the edge of the city, her state had improved little, but she rubbed her bleary eyes and found the rough contours of her father's broad shoulders before her.

Muffled words back and forth. Her ears worked, but her brain couldn't translate the garble between her parents.

They were quiet, though. No venom, no spite. At least they'd got it out of their system already. Now it was just a handover, all the words that they couldn't say to each other, the undertone.

Elliot got closer and hugged her. Iris didn't know if she felt relief, or some animalistic part of her was just reacting to the comfort, but she embraced him all the same.

"I'll be back by the evening," he said, before she felt her feet leave the ground. Elliot carried her to a car and placed her in the front seat. Soon, the engine chugged, and Iris watched the red head of hair fade further into the distance.

Next, it was grass plains. Waves of green kept the car afloat as the diesel engine churned through fuel, and the suspension rocked her back into a lull. Faint chatter, but it wasn't Elliot. Muffled further, scratchy, coming from a radio.

After a while of nothing but the same, the engine stopped, and silence—true silence broken only by the wind—enveloped her. There, after hours of sleep, she finally found the will to wake up.

Elliot was still beside her, parked in the driver's seat as the car overlooked a gently sloping hill. She turned the same direction and found Excala waiting for her, framed between the blue ocean and green plains, no bigger than a dinner plate in her view.

Elliot looked like he wanted to enjoy the view, but the weight of his thoughts stopped him. They sat together in silence, trying to admire the same view.

"Do you sometimes…forget who you are when we go to your grandparents' house?"

Iris hesitated, trying to figure out if the question was literal or figurative.

"Yeah," she said, once she decided on the latter. "Sometimes I forget I have magic."

Elliot nodded. "Sometimes I forget I can do much more than fly crop dusters. I like it."

Hawks screeched overhead, their cries rolling down the mountainside, chasing the setting sun.

"Sometimes I think about what we could've done if…if I realised, at the moment I laid eyes on you, how much I'd love you."

He was lost somewhere far in an alternate timeline, eyes glazed over, reflecting the sun's rays. She wasn't with him in that moment—a hypothetical Iris was.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

"I'd have dropped my career then and there. I'd have moved back home, I don't know, explained it to my parents somehow. And…we'd live there. All three of us. And we'd, uh…make sure nobody found out who you were, so you could live…however you wanted to."

She saw the hypothetical Iris perhaps better than he did. An Iris who desperately wanted to find out who she really was, who resented her parents for making her suppress her true self. It was a meagre life, made in a small town with different friends and a fake self. Only in hindsight could she ever enjoy a life like that.

"Nobody lives how they want to," Iris said. "Crestana was rich; and she wasn't a Witch either, but…and Alis didn't choose to become a soldier."

Poor people who could never be wealthier, rich who could never be satisfied. Everyone had their lot in life, and perhaps it was time to realise what was hers.

"I know what happens to people like me and Mum. I'm lucky. I have a bed, I have food…I have parents."

"Those aren't things you should have to risk your life for—"

"But they are," Iris said, trying to keep her brave face as she drew Elliot back to reality, to her, to the version of her the world—indifferent as it was—had sculpted. "And now I pay for them. That's the deal you and Mum made when you found me. So we stick to it."

Elliot smiled, now back in the real world again for better or for worse.

"You're a good girl, Iris. Almost wish you;d ask for more."

"I don't want to be shot," she snapped. It ran their conversation aground. Elliot, shocked back into lucidity, re-shouldered the weight of the world. She didn't mean it that way, truly. There was just no other way to say it.

"I wish I could have everything I ever wanted. I wish I didn't have to pay for all that you gave me with my life and hurt other people over and over again. But…but it's—"

Elliot pulled her into his arms, giving her the decency of hiding her building tears. But she didn't stop; she couldn't afford to leave anything unsaid.

"I have to suffer. But you…you and Mum made it worth it. You and Mum gave me a reason to. If you argue forever—"

"I know, darling. I'm sorry."

"You have to make up, or I'll never forgive you."

"I will. Believe it or not, I can't live without her. And, you know, after a while she'll get sick of eating out."

Iris stifled a laugh through her runny nose, but that only made her cry harder and grasp at his sleeves.

"Don't leave again."

"I was never gone."

"Shut up."

"Okay."

Elliot heeded her warning, but the car didn't. Installed next to the radio was an Aether line receiver, demanding Elliot's attention with grating beeps. Elliot answered, speaking into the radio's transmitter.

"This is Tactical Director Elliot Maxwell commandeering GSO personal transport number one-one-four-two."

"This is Lieutenant-General Marie Elvera. Of all the people I thought would slack on Aether line protocols, you were at the top of my list."

"A very generous assessment of me," he said, still holding onto Iris. She didn't have the strength to say anything, although the receiver was close enough to capture her breathing. "Listen, did uh…Evalyn say—"

"Yes, she did, but I convinced her to lease Iris out a while longer. Both of you seem to be forgetting that I haven't seen her yet."

"That's true. Sorry."

"Bring her to me when you're done over there. Is Iris with you now?"

"Yes, but—"

"I know. But so you're not left too far out of the loop, Alis sent us another batch of decoded messages. One of them was an address."

More substantial than a street name, at least.

"I've had to order Evalyn to stay put while I send out a recon team. Neither of you is allowed to worry about this. Rest for now and never mind the situation; you've got bigger things to worry about."

Tackson's entrance this time held nothing of their arrogance that it usually did. Without their composure, much less their cadre of secretaries, they were unrecognisable. Their suit buttons were mismatched, and their opening words were far from rehearsed, a verbal bludgeon rather than a smallsword.

"I see Special Operations needed their petty victory at all costs."

"Good to know we at least agree on how to describe each other," Marie said, looking up from daily duties.

"Gunshots under rush hour Excala? How brazen can you get before you're satisfied?"

Marie's immediate question was where the leak had come from, but there was no point in asking an aggravated Tackson. She'd overplayed her hand, perhaps, but it wasn't without reason.

"Take a seat for now," she said. "We need to have a proper discussion."

"Because that'll solve all our problems!"

"Yes. You know what? They just might."

"Where did you get this intel from? Why weren't we informed?"

"Tackson—"

"Who gave you clearance to operate? Because no less than the damn Crown will satisfy me!"

"You know our mandate," Marie warned. "Every order comes stamped with the antlers."

"And maybe that's the entire problem! Maybe we have a rogue royal guard who Excala should have left behind five hundred years ago!"

Marie calmed herself, recalling proper conduct to quell the moment before her understaff could take over. Right now, it was damage control.

"Our intelligence identified the whistleblower and acquired a list of communications. We then translated it."

"What code?"

"Treyatasian. It corroborates your story."

Tackson held their tongue but paced the length of her desk repeatedly.

"And one of those communications pointed you to Druim Street and the catacomb network."

"One of our agents was injured. We hit a landmine—that's for certain."

"Boy do I hope it was worth it," Tackson snarled. "A foot out of line and you would've been answering to a lot more than me."

"I am not answering to you," Marie said. "You give us reason to doubt your conduct in the case, we will doubt it. We know you ignored this case when an informant of yours presented it to you; what merit does the GFP still hold regarding this case?"

Tackson's shoulders sank; the fire suddenly extinguished.

"There seem to have been grave missteps in the joint conduct of this case." What he meant by that sentence, Marie wasn't entirely sure. What came next was as clear as day, yet still unbelievable.

"The GFP can no longer find a path of cooperation with the GSO in this matter."

"Excuse me? That kind of decision is way beyond your pay grade—"

"This decision comes from the director himself! My job was simply delivering the news. The fact I listened to you at all is a miracle you should be grateful for."

A brief interlude followed, measures of disbelief felt on both sides of Marie's desk.

"Good day to you," Tackson said before exiting, trading places with one of Marie's understaff, who cleared the path for Tackson's hasty retreat.

"I take it things didn't go well, ma'am."

"Mhm. Go on. Make my day worse."

"As you wish. Report back on the investigation into that address. It did indeed exist—an apartment flat in the city's eastern reaches. Thoroughly purged; not much in the way of personal effects or documentation was left. Just piles of ash."

"Do we know who owns the address?"

"Bankson Private Security was leasing it out to a tenant."

"Isn't that the security company manning the Convention?"

"Yes ma'am. We asked if we could know the tenant's identity, but they requested a warrant be issued first before they disclose any private information."

"A warrant to a case we aren't officially a part of," Marie sighed, digging her face into her hands. "Okay…notify the GFP about the development. We can't afford to be petty now."

"Yes, ma'am."

Marie couldn't afford to risk leaving the case to the federal police alone; as far as she was concerned, the only guarantee available to her was herself. Even if that meant going over the court's head and making a case straight to the crown; even if it meant being the very thing Tackson accused her of.

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