Fluid filled vials rattled each time Sigil rolled her palm. Staring down at the sorry collection, her tongue wiggled a loose tooth, the knitting bones of her jaw painful.

Each capped vessel was self-contained, frozen by an unseen power source, and could prove to be ultimately useless—or much more dangerous to the Brotherhood than even the worm, Tiburon, intended. But which one?

Seven cycles Sovereign claimed she'd endured without his liquid contribution. Seven cycles from the time he'd left her on the water planet until she'd asked Karhl to deliver her to Irdesi Prime.

Seven was a grand improvement over those first days on Pax—days when one cycle had sent her on a mindless rampage.

But this was Lord Commander Tiberon's sperm, potentially less potent.

Furthermore, he wanted her to use it. He wanted it badly.

As he'd claimed, the sack at her shoulder held a great deal of money—enough, to see Sigil through for months in the capital.

None of that mattered.

Because he'd also told her Jerla was awake.

Sigil was many things—most of them bad—but when her mind was unconsumed, she was not unintelligent. She'd been designed to be brilliant, possessing neural pathways eons of evolutions beyond that of a human. But even the most foolish Convert could see Tiburon wanted the Imperial Consort to run amok. And from what she'd sensed inside him, the Lord Commander believed strongly in what he hoped to inspire in a newly acquired volatile resource.

Calculating, having dealt with him in the past, Sigil assumed nothing and questioned everything. Whatever he was up to was not some artless conspiracy—not when it felt as if centuries were folded into Tiburon's doings.

He, unlike his Brothers, was rooted in intention she could not grasp—like what he'd done to Dr. Saniel on Condor. There was a patience in the man, an ancient, crawling endurance, unhurried to render its goal. But Sigil had seen what happened when Tiburon found his moment. What he'd done to the doctor was beyond even her vicious moments of weakness.

He'd tormented that horrid woman, killed her slowly enough the doctor's nerves appreciated optimal suffering.

Weary of the taste of blood in her mouth, Sigil reached two fingers between her lips. The loose tooth was not going to mend; a new one would have to be grown. Pinching it, she yanked. A squishy hole gaped in her gums. Sigil held up her fingers, the bloody incisor jagged and uninspiring.

Tiburon had hurt her, intentionally inflicted damage with each swing after she'd bit him... so unlike Sovereign. The emperor was always cautious when they'd tangled. He conquered, he didn't crush. He never broke one of her bones or rent flesh.

But Tiburon... both of them took pleasure in giving the other physical pain. They had fought like cats—scraping and biting—until each grew bored, slinking away to their respective corners to lick bloody wounds. She had enjoyed it. He had enjoyed it—his bliss broadcasted so violently, Sigil had laughed at the familiarity of such raw sensation.

It had been... fun.

He echoed her insides. Had she ripped him open and crawled through his guts, it would have been her own entrails poked, yanked, and savored.

Whether or not Tiburon understood the effect his actions had on her mattered little. What did matter were facts.

Fact One: The Lord Commander had claimed there were no ships, no way off the planet. Sigil believed him. But after a century of escape, she knew one thing to be true above all others. There was always a way out.

Fact Two: Even if she ran, there was nothing but the promise that madness would return no matter how far she fled. Secondly, without Que, what she'd do once possessed by that madness would be terrible.

Fact Three: Que was dead. He wasn't coming back. Ever.

Que was dead. He was dead. He was dead and she was alive. That was not going to change. The money in her sack would not change it. The vials in her grip would not change it. Rampaging through the Convert's capital would do nothing to alter what had come to pass.

Every urge she ached to satisfy would ultimately prove pointless.

Killing puny, little humans who had been chemically mutilated by the Brotherhood seemed... redundant. She could break even the strongest Convert specimen with a flick of the wrist. She could hunt them, play with them, they could even serve as her food.

But how strange Converts were.

Her history with humans had been... uncomfortable. Memory of her long-dead handlers, of the outlaws who'd shot her ship from the sky, a cold reminder that—as a collective—the species was very dangerous. Humans had designed Condor and enabled Dr. Saniel to experiment on sentient beings. Humans had wielded dominion over Project Cataclysm against their own kind. Humans had tortured a little girl so she might be a better killer.

Sovereign believed them dangerous—so much so, he had conquered every last feral he could reach, firm in the notion they posed a threat to her. Now, this new breed was his weapon.

They sang at the sky when day became night. They baked bread.

Sigil had walked amongst them, watched their dealings, seen them meet in droves anticipating a glimpse of the Imperial Consort. They seemed content with their lot in life.

Of course, this was only the example of one tightly controlled population. Outlying worlds, newly conquered soil, would echo differently.

Or did Conversion wear the same face, only the environment changed?

Sigil didn't know.

Looking at the bloody tooth, at the dirty fingers pinching it, she frowned and tossed the thing away. The vials jingled again, the noise they made similar to the chimes in Karhl's hair.

The thought stilled her hand. The image of tightly veiled pain in his eyes when she'd told him to leave her alone, the echo of disappointment inside him—itching memory came with that sound. The Lord Commander had retreated; he'd stood waiting, guarding the gate into her rooms.

To keep others out, or keep her in?

In a sparse room set aside for those making pilgrimage, Sigil sighed.

Too long she'd been chaff blown about by the Brotherhood's wind—this way and that way, up and down—she'd been flung, stretched, and damaged. It was exhausting. But Sigil didn't have to be so pathetic. She need not be Sigil or Quinn. She didn't need the vials or Tiburon's money. There was no reason to languish so fools might paint her white and Heralds might seduce with stories and play.

***

Sovereign stood ridged, glaring upon a population packed before the Adherent's Cathedral. They'd begun to plead up at the viaduct where palace met basilica, calling out for Sigil as if their cry might coax the elusive female to appear.

“Report.” The coldness of the order warned further disappointment was not an option.

“I have been unable to find her, Sovereign.”

Stormy eyes left the frenzied crowd to burn upon the Brother who disappointed him most. The emperor said nothing.

Even Arden was unable to conceal the darkness that threatened his expression. “She is in the city, I am certain of it. It is only a matter of time...”

Tiburon stood nearby, chewing on a hard roll as he watched the exchange.

Sovereign shot his displeasure towards his scarred councilor. “Show him.”

There was no movement between the men, but an image projected in their midst. The Herald focused his sole attention on the figure sweeping a floor.

Arden hated all he saw. “...Our female stands in rags performing menial labor.”

Lord Commander Tiburon grinned. “Is that all you see? Open your eyes, schemer. Sigil is engaging with a human. She talks to this one. She asks questions. Returns daily and remains longer.”

“Daily?” As if he were emperor, Arden hissed, “How is it you possess such information yet Sigil is not in our presence?”

Tiburon made no answer, his silence condescension enough.

The Herald's hands tightened until knuckles popped, the golden one undone. “Karhl will not support this! You will not have your way!”

Tiburon's smirk became a sneer.

“She smiles.” Sovereign's voice cut through the Brothers' squabble. “Right there,” he froze the image, “Sigil is smiling.”

It was a shy thing displayed by that flickering hologram, the smallest offering of curved lips, like the creature emoting was unsure how to do it.

As if his joke ended, Lord Commander Tiburon lost all pretense. Grave, he addressed Arden. “A new companion for her has been found. You are no longer required, Herald, and are to be reassigned immediately.”

“YOU CANNOT DO THIS!”

“He can, with my sanction.” The emperor barely contained his vast anger under a grim mask. “Three days and you have failed to find her. Yet over those three days one human has had the profound influence on my Sigil, you failed to inspire. Your enthusiasm is noteworthy, but your results lackluster. Be grateful you live and may see her from time to time.”

Arden shook in his rage, muscles flexed, jaw ticking. Golden eyes full of hate flashed towards the Lord Commander. “Tiburon doesn't love her. He can't!”

Sovereign had heard enough. “You are dismissed, Arden.”

The Herald marched off, stiff and awkward at the order, what had once been Sovereign's favorite Brother swallowed into the dark of the palace. Only the emperor and the Lord Commander remained. As if there had been no unpleasantness, Sovereign reached out to touch the projection of the woman he pined for, his fingers distorting her image. “There is no commendation earned in your actions, Tiburon... I find your practices hardly above Arden's. Continue on this path and I will be forced to act against you.”

“The empire would fall.”

“You, of all of us, understand the concept that you are replaceable.” Sovereign turned his back on the deadly soldier. “Remember that. And remember that I love her.”

Sanctimonious, Tiburon purred, “No, you don't.”

***

Days watching and it was the same. The children, they ran through the streets—fearless. They played outside, unmonitored, loud. Sigil could not help but stare. Her eyes tracing a girl kicking a ball, Sigil spoke to the baker working at the table behind her. “I like it here. You're quiet.”

Light laughter came with no comment.

As Sigil was always asking questions and demanding answers, silence never lasted long in the bakery.

Turning to the Convert, Sigil tapped her fingertip against her skull and explained. “You misunderstand. You're quiet here.” Her attention went back to the street. “Everyone else makes so much noise. Always something, something they want: hunger, greed, sadness, lust, guilt, thirst, pain—each something pointless in a place like this—a place where you have everything. But then there's you. You're... quiet.”

“And that is why you come here each day?”

“Yes,” trying to invoke human politeness, Sigil added the baker's name, a name she'd purposefully asked for so the human might recognize she held interest, “Elba.”

Elba nodded at the nonsense and wisely remained silent.

Sigil slipped towards the bench, she formulated. “I want you to take me to the Adherents Cathedral. If you will do so, I will help you sell your bread in the square this evening.” The offer was a generous one... considering.

The baker stopped fiddling with her dough. She wiped her hands on the sackcloth at her waist. “This is not an evening for selling bread in the square. Condor is visible. Few will gather past the fracturing. It's a night for reflection and seclusion.”

Too late to stop her hiss, Sigil lost a touch of control. “And what is Condor to you?”

The baker's answer was immediate, memorized, “A remnant of pain, of loss, even Conversion cannot wash away.”

Adjusting her hood, Sigil looked for the words required to get her way. “Am I to say please?”

“You are frustrated.” Elba took a seat at Sigil's side. “Yet I didn't say no. I only claimed it was not a good night to sell bread.”

“So you will escort me to the cathedral? You will tell me, in your words, not in Adherents' preaching, why it matters.”

The woman nodded, her dark skin slightly greyed by a day's dusting of flour.

“Can we go now?”

***

Few mustered on terraces, streets, or public areas, just as the baker warned. That was as much a blessing as a curse. The change in atmosphere altered the climate. The typical crispness sat instead like cold sweat on the skin; fabric clung.

The weather was obvious to shivering Elba, Sigil unaffected as they stood near enough the cathedral to view the gates. It struck from the mountain, like a broken bone jutting through flesh. Unlike the other earth shaded buildings on Irdesi, unlike even the mountainside palace, the cathedral was white. The Adherents Cathedral stood as focal point of the capital, with its turrets and blazing colorlessness.

Sigil had seen it from afar. She knew it was markedly different, but approaching such a monolith in person was uncanny.

Banked on either side of the Adherents' seat of power stood two figures, each stone warden facing the other. Like warring kings, on the left rose Tiburon, formidable and frowning in his armor—to the right Karhl, his statue far less welcoming. Almost as tall as the pale edifice itself, they acted sentinel, dwarfing all brave enough to pass between the Empire's titans.

Considering the population's disquiet with Condor's rising, a great many Citizens and Pilgrims alike lingered on the sprawling steps that reached down to every level. The closer Sigil approached, the more she found the minds around her took in that building in the opposite sentiment.

Standing on white steps brought them comfort, gave them succor.

In the Cathedral's shadow there was a tone to what she sensed: love—the real kind.

The kind Jerla's mother never had for him.

Sigil glanced at the profile of the guide projecting such a feeling. Elba smiled in the way that made her face pleasing.

Unsure what her companion found so splendid, Sigil sought clarification. “Tell me of the gates.”

“Lord Commander Tiburon spearheaded the campaign against my world, killed our royals himself. He delivered me, offered purpose and compassion. Across from him stands the figure of Lord Commander Karhl. He does not exist to forgive. He exists to cleanse the soul. Worlds under his thumb shall be swept barren, ready for devoted Converts to populate.”

Sigil frowned. “That is common sentiment... admiration for those who ruined worlds?”

“Should it be different?”

Was that why Karhl had been brought to Pax? To cleanse it? Was the white-haired warrior who'd tried so hard all those years ago to be gentle with her only waiting to hand her off and kill all the lifeforms Sigil had slaughtered in her rage? “Karhl was amongst those sent to my home.” There would be some reaction at her words, Sigil was sure of it. “I had heard rumor of him, terrible things. Seeing him again, was unsettling.”

A thick brow rose. “Again?”

“I first saw him when I was only a child.”

Elba's oval chin pointed to the cathedral gates. “Perhaps that is why you were chosen for pilgrimage?”

And that was another thing Sigil had come to learn from the baker. Not all pilgrims chose to walk the path seeking absolution and power; some were chosen by governing Adherents. Imperial law—the compulsion of Conversion—made the honor one that could not be willingly refused.

Elba saw Sigil hesitate, took her hand and guided her up the steps. Together they passed high ranked Imperial retainers, elite soldiers, the lowest pilgrim... no less than three Brothers. “Successful pilgrimage will raise your rank. If you exceed expectation, you may even be allowed to make your home here... We could talk more often.”

The doors, though tall, let in very little sun. Scant light sliced in, illuminating a single stone figure and forcing the eye right to it. Atop a pedestal stood a little girl holding a basin in fragile hands, her slow dripping tears caught to pool within the platter.

It was Sigil.

Seeing the stone figure hollowed out her breath, it stopped her feet. That statue was a lie. Never. Never in her childhood had Sigil been so undamaged. Yet the rendered girl showed no obvious broken bones, no weekly disfigurement. The sad face was carved to be unbruised, even pretty.

“The Imperial Consort as a child.” Elba dipped her fingertip into the basin, as did others who passed by. A single captured drop of fluid, the baker swallowed.

Sigil mimicked the action. She dipped her finger and set it between her lips.

It did not taste of tears. It did not taste of water.

Seeing the stony reaction on the face of her guest, Elba explained, “The serum of Conversion. Her gift to us, so all humanity might be joined and transformed.”

Looking at that bowl, at more and more fingers dipping in with each body that passed into the cathedral, Sigil whispered. “I had a doll once, something worn... old.”

“My mother carved my toys,” Elba spoke, the memory of a woman who was most likely murdered by the empire remembered with no bitterness, no fuel for revenge, only fond feeling.

It bothered Sigil for a human to speak as if they shared a special memory, to lack wrath for the dead. “No, woman, you see... I had the doll for less than a cycle.” Unable to peel her eyes from the stone girl, Sigil reached out to touch the lie. The statue was warm, the ripples of its carved rags seemingly soft, unlike her chilling voice. “When they took it, they sawed off my hands. I had to kill the woman who gave me the gift with my teeth. She screamed a great deal, though mostly from what was done to her before I was thrown into the room. That's the only time I recall childhood weeping that was not inspired by an involuntary reaction to torture.” And that had to have been why Sovereign had thought to mention the painful moment on Pax. “I could not have held your shiny basin, and my tears were not an offering for you.”

Elba heard Sigil's growled litany, looking both alarmed and bellicose. The woman prepared to take a step back, to summon Adherents who could correct the problem or remove the female who just might bear the corruption of an Unsalvageable.

Elba's escape was immediately prevented when an iron grip on her arm yanked her nearer. A grimy hood blocked the view of her face, but not the firm set of Sigil's lips as she warned, “You are not to leave. We have not yet finished.”

The quiet inside Elba was quiet no more.

As if pulling an errant child, Sigil dragged the captive baker forward. More white stone marked the ground, a backdrop for slithering mosaics—some in muted colors, others in stark reds—branching as if those who understood what they saw could grasp the proper paths. Through the pious, past countless statues depicting men—men Sigil recognized as Sovereign's Brothers—they traveled deeper into the vast sanctuary. Wood smoke, incense, a sound similar to the soothing hum shared when the sky of Irdesi Prime fractured, grew thick and changed the air.

It affected Sigil. She altered her grip, choosing instead to pinion Elba with an arm around her shoulders, not sure if she herself sought the human’s support. Converts, human-Adherents shuffled about in their caps and robes, they soliloquized on the empire and the greatness it inspired in the hearts of mere men and women. They chanted. Where the floors' mosaic was widest, the trunk of the proverbial tree—a pool, small but seemingly serene, lapped. Most who entered gathered there. When pilgrims were offered their chance to kneel and drink—to take clear, pretty poison into their mouths—many fell and died in moments. Few—very few—lasted long enough to be collected so they might attain Higher Conversion under the watchful eye of the Adherents.

That's why pilgrims came to Irdesi. It wasn't to see monuments—not unless the sight of such tributes was to inspire strength in their time of trial—it was to offer themselves so they might rise above the low rank all common Converts seemed reborn to. Or be conveniently disposed of.

Mosaics branched. Sigil chose the path the led furthest into the massive chamber.

Another carved fixture of Karhl, another of Tiburon, one for each of the empire's five admirals, all possessing either a cup a bowl, or an upturned, open mouth. Inside the hollows still fluid waited so pilgrims might collect a portion and drink.

Sigil beheld three soldiers swallow the liquid dripping from Tiburon's open jaw. Sigil watched three pilgrims die.

This was how the elites—the hybrids—were chosen.

Sigil looked down at Elba. “I see no basin for Sovereign, only his Brothers.”

What had been warm chocolate eyes seemed pitch in such low light. Glassy and committed, they stared up at her captor, as if Elba suspected something that could not be true.

The baker swallowed and nodded. “Every male statue in this temple depicts a Convert who survived Sovereign's serum. It is so small a number, that we understand to swallow one so powerful is sure death. One must be invited to drink of it. No soul has been granted the opportunity in over a century.”

So that was how the seemingly immortal Brotherhood was explained and accepted. It was clever, even brought the tiniest tick to the corner of Sigil's mouth. “And what made Sovereign so powerful?”

Elba was breathless. “The Imperial Consort blessed him long ago.”

Sigil could not help but mock the idea. “Then why is she not Empress?”

The question precipitated a programed response. “Our Emperor was born to hold the position in service to her. Her place is not at the head of government; it would distract from her greater purpose—enriching our hearts and unifying our species.”

“By crying into a basin?”

“...we all carry a piece of her inside us. She... salvaged us from the mire.”

Enough religious babble. Sigil had a purpose. “You have not noticed, baker, but many of the men carved in stone, their living likeness’ have arrived.” She held the mystified woman nearer, Sigil's lips going to Elba's ear. “Behind me Karhl, behind you Tiburon. Sovereign stands in the middle of that patch of dark. He is watching us right now.”

Elba was shaking. “You never use their proper titles when speaking their sacred names.”

Ignoring the woman's muttering, Sigil gripped Elba's wrist. “I need you to bear witness. You are not to leave my side.” Sigil entwined their fingers, her whisper edging on desperate, “You are not to speak. Be quiet... calm for me... and you will have my gratitude. When this is over, for one evening, I will help you sell your bread.”

At Sigil's harshly whispered words, Elba nodded.

The sound of Karhl's hair preceded his approach from her back, Sigil analyzing Tiburon’s advance from the opposite direction. Both the giant and scarred one stopped at a reasonable distance, only observing, yet armed and armored.

Shoulder to shoulder with her guest, Sigil poured her attention upon the third male, voice colorless. “The baker is not to be meddled with.”

Ignoring the human at her side, Sovereign's fingers caught Sigil's hood, pulling it back so icy eyes were no longer shielded from his view.

“Beloved.” The calm, steady voice expressed no anger, no frustration. “Why would I harm a Devout? She has been nothing but exemplary in her behavior.”

It was not the time to argue the semantics between the words meddled with and harmed. Sigil had more pressing matters to address. “I knew you would come if I entered this place.” In that flickering light the planes of his face, the edge of Sovereign's cheeks, seemed carved like the stone men surrounding them. “I thought we might engage in a new experience and... talk.”

One corner of Sovereign's mouth rose. He seemed entranced, emotions content. “I enjoy talking with you.”

He spoke so gently, she sighed. “I do not want to live in your palace. I cannot... it's too loud. There is too much.”

“It wasn't premeditated, not for all your threats. It wasn't your fault.” Sovereign's whisper came urgent. “You know I know that.”

“I am unhappy there, Sovereign.” And she looked vulnerable in that moment, openly admitting weakness.

The emperor seemed surprised at her words, at the melancholy creasing on her brow. He reached to cup her cheek, encouraged when she did not flinch or draw away as she usually did. “No one keeps you in your rooms, beloved. You could have left at any time.”

“Don't they? Would I be free to wander alone if I wished? No, there is always a handler, protocol. You have recreated the conditions of Condor.”

Pain lanced Sovereign whisper, a look of longing mirroring the internal burn of those words. “Please... you cannot mean that.”

Sigil's brows fell, her eyes pleaded. “Understand that I know this is forever. On a ship, how far would I get before all this progress came undone? What would happen without a guardian willing to do whatever was necessary to subdue what I became? Am I to enslave one of you—someone easy to overwhelm physically and turn into him what you would make me—a kept thing used to satiate urges? How long, how far could I run?” Her grip left the fingers of the baker, Sigil fisting the fabric of Sovereign's sleeve. “The knowledge is prison enough. I can't leave you. This is my life.”

“You're saying you would not run?”

“I want a ship. I’ll want to see the empire.” Sigil closed her eyes, and rubbed her lips together. “And when I do, it is Tiburon who must escort me.”

“What?” The question was sharp.

Sigil glanced briefly at the Lord Commander, his smirk pinching the metal scar. “I have not read so far in Arden's journals. But Tiburon has cornered me more than once, hurt me where you won't.” Icy eyes went back to Sovereign. “What's inside him, eats him—both of us poisoned by the same drive. But that is not my point. My point is this. I give you my word that I will stay. Find a Kilactarin empath to confirm my honesty, if you must.”

“Sigil, beloved, this must stop.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Sovereign did not seem so sure. Fingering her hair, closing in on his female, he pressed warm lips to her furrowed forehead.

Allowing him the intimacy, Sigil whispered, “I slept for so long, worlds are beyond my memory. I know nothing of the universe now... I hardly understand the empire. These few days outside have relieved much of my unease. Only reading of your history irritates me. I cannot help it.”

“And you've been bored.” Sovereign pulled away just far enough to see her eyes flame can you blame me? It seemed Sovereign was not so indifferent to her request. “Then let us negotiate. Send off your Convert and we will continue to talk, like you wished.”

Sigil turned her head, felt Sovereign breathe in the scent of her hair, and looked to the nonplused baker witnessing an exchange that would change the empire forever. “I thank you for the bread.” There was a moment's hesitation before Sigil added, “You're unusual, worthy of the holy ground you love. Having walked it, I'm not sure if it's worthy of you.”

Elba did not move, the baker looking to Sovereign as if the conversation was one she could not fully comprehend. Addressing Sigil, the woman seemed unsure, “Imperial Consort, do you wish me to stay?”

She couldn't help it, Sigil smiled. “You may call me Quinn.”

Tiburon was the one to move—almost too fast for human eyes to follow—to snag the arm of the Convert and whisk her towards the door.

“Quinn?” Sovereign asked, cheeks hollowed as if the name tasted bitter.

“In the city I will be Quinn. In your palace I will be Sigil.” How else was she supposed to walk amongst the population? “I will keep the residence near the bakery.”

By his emotions, by his expression, such a thought was inconsiderable. “Those pilgrim’s dwellings, beloved, are not intended for extended use.”

Of course he’d known where she’d been.

“In this compromise, my lodgings and my life outside the palace walls are mine to live.” Her throat grew hot, Sigil looking for words than might be sung as eloquently as Arden might sing. “If you will give this to me, half my time I will be a willing Imperial Consort, Sovereign. I will appear to the people, attend court...”

He thought to catch her another way. “What of Jerla?”

The boy's name lessened her tension. “Children need stability. The palace will offer what I fail to supply. When I am there, I will see him. He is not to know how I spend my days outside.”

Sovereign had so much more to gain from this than she did. They both knew that. It did not mean he liked it. “I can't trust you, Sigil. We must be honest with each other.”

“Do not make me desperate.” And there it was, her violence flashing deep in those chilly eyes. “Next time I might kill you.”

“I'm going to give you what you want.”

Sigil released her breath.

Sovereign had more to say. “But, for now, there will be no ship—no Tiburon to escort you through the stars. When the day comes, that will be my honor.”

The scarred Lord Commander was still far across the room, standing at the Cathedral's gate. Sigil found herself staring at him. “Fine.”

Sovereign drew her face to his, made her meet his eyes, and drove home a very important point. “Be cautious with Tiburon, beloved.”

“We're the same thing, you know that. Dr. Saniel made us the same.”

The emperor was not going to elucidate, only warn. “She made him something else.”