Levan's notes say that being fey-touched means to disassociate. It's a fancy way of saying when the spirits control you, you don't remember what you did.

  The scythe slicing against the drunk's neck felt like slicing a ripe tomato, but it didn't squirt as much. The wolf's fangs against my gut was pain being drowned out by fear. Freeing Ophelia felt like breaking someone's music with louder notes. Rhyvesta's grip felt like a cool, but soothing salve.

  Adrian's soft, warm, wet lips atop of mine, at the back of the scratchy hay lofts when we were 11. Before I knew I was going to go to the Academy and become a city girl. His calloused hands caressed mine.

  I am not fey-touched.

  Those memories were mine, of one continuous Ashley. There were no breaks or pauses, everything was tracked.

  Yet, when I stared at the spidersilk veil in front of me, I was different. It was the darkest shade of black that ate in light. It was a gift from the sweetest mother who promised a future. The sun was falling, traversing the horizon to paint the sky umber. I had expected clouds and dark mist and fog.

  It was a typical spring night.

  For the first time since I found it, my hand went to my neck and unclasped the emerald amulet. The chain itself was made of sterling silver, and while silver itself did not rust, the alloys that comprised it had been coated in the copper-like material. The actual clasp was dirty with skin cells, rot, and rust.

  The emerald sparkled dully. I saw my reflection against the gem, before placing it down on my worktable. I placed it atop the Libre Sanitatas, and the Mortis Agrariae. I’d need to get a special box that I could lock for my valuables. Hopefully, Ophelia knew where I could find such a thing.

  The sun sank further into the horizon. Laertes and Wizex were in the distance, approaching my hovel. I opened the closet to find something new to wear, as my farm girl outfit, my blue dress, and the black cloth I wore were… well, the only thing I ever wore.

  I had 10 dresses, and 1 work clothes… but at the far left of the dress rack, I spotted it. A black bag hanging by its lonesome. The bag drank in whatever stray strands of light that would touch it, and even the peg and hooks it was hanging on melded with the shadows behind it.

  I lifted it. It was surprisingly light, that even my frail arms found no issue with hoisting it upwards. But the bag was thick and difficult, so I laid it atop my small wooden table.

  I peeled it open.

  Inside was another black dress, but this was grim.

  It wasn't made of velvet or silk like the ones Ophelia or Melissa favored. The fabric felt like smoke trapped in a weave—cool to the touch, fluid, and impossible to wrinkle. It was a Void-Black Robe cut into the silhouette of a ballgown.

  The bodice was structured like a corset but made of a hardened, leather-like material that looked suspiciously like cured, blackened skin. It held its shape with rigid boning that curved upward to frame the neck in a high, regal collar, reminiscent of a queen’s ruff but jagged, like broken shale.

  The sleeves were long and bell-shaped, starting tight at the shoulders and widening until they swallowed my hands completely. But the ends weren't hemmed; they dissolved into tatters of varying lengths that drifted in a non-existent breeze, mimicking the feathers of a crow’s wing or the shredded remains of a burial shroud.

  The skirt was the true centerpiece. It fell in heavy, pleated layers that didn't just brush the floor—they seemed to merge with the shadows. Along the hem, embroidered in a thread that shimmered with a sickly, iridescent green—the color of Iza-vya-kiris —were patterns of life cycles: a seed sprouting, a flower blooming, a fruit rotting, and a skull grinning.

  And there was a hood. It was attached to the collar, deep and cavernous, lined with that same spidersilk softness. When I pulled it up, it wouldn't just cover my head; it would cast my face in eternal shadow, turning me into the faceless icon I had seen on the fresco.

  All that was left was the veil. The smooth spidersilk was soft to my hands, and smelled of dirt and flowers. I raised it to my head and donned the veil, then pulled up the hood. I was expecting to see nothing, but everything was so clear to me.

  I flicked my wrist, and Levan’s Scythe appeared in my hands.

  KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!

  Though, it sounded more like banging. I turned my head, and approached the door. The robe had boots underneath, which were far more practical than heels. I opened the door to look at Laertes and Wizex.

  Laertes took a step back instinctively, his hand unsheathing that massive greatsword. Wizex pulled out two rust-coated daggers, sliding one reverse against his arm, and the other forward.

  This was a role I had to play, and to play it, it needed obedience and reverence. The words came to me as whispers to my ears.

  “Viy-kal-nata-lziya-marakiat Akar?”

  My voice projected with authority that was not my own, and as they left the veil of spidersilk, split into two tones. One was softer, kinder and gentler. The other was jagged, rough, and scraped against my ears.

  Laertes and Wizex’s muscles tensed, but they both looked at each other. “Down, you lug!” Wizex hissed, before bending a knee.

  Laertes, for all his fury, obliged. The massive form came down to a singular knee, and he too cowed his head.

  A part of me wanted to stop them. But I knew that wasn’t right. I approached the pair, and like my own Dark Mother, placed my gloved hands atop of their heads.

  “Orak… Rhyvest!”

  “Your wish is my command,” Wizex immediately stated, his knee driving off the dirt to stand.

  “I obey,” Laertes responded, his armoured fist smacked against the cold iron breastplate. He stood, and I inspected his armor.

  “Gaya-la-mart?”

  “Yes, Ash–” Laertes stopped. His face scrunched into pain and confusion, before quickly returning to neutral reverence. “Yes, Harvester.”

  He placed the bones in front of me, and my hand opened up.

  The cold chill of winter surrounded me, but as a [Harvester], a new effect came to be. Flowing white mist extruded from around me, as my Symphony affected the physical world. Wizex covered his face, yet still breathed deeply. He did not cough or belch out blood – it was not a miasma.

  The bones cracked and reshaped, but I stopped paying attention to it. The wolf bones became a carapace of ghost-steel, and the spine became a greatsword like no other. It glistened in the ethereal green light.

  Laertes immediately equipped it.

  Wizex’s face scrunched, but he bit his tongue. I looked down at him.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Ka-Vat.”

  “Jus’ askin’ –” Wizex too stopped, taking a breath. “Sweetest Daughter, would you be willing to equip your servant of flesh and blood too?”

  There was a wrongness when someone else called me that. Ma didn’t even call me her sweetest daughter, but Mother did. That dissonance was striking hearing it in the real world, but it was my title.

  I nodded at Wizex. He let out a breath, before gently punching Laertes' thigh. Laertes growled, but didn’t react outside of it.

  “Nsh-litya.”

  Wizex turned to Laertes. Bathed in my mist and fog, we walked off.

  The walk was long, passing the Lyrelle forest, down the Samaine river, and then towards Lyric Bay. No one said a word, though Wizex had taken to chewing a strand of grass. The rustling of many leaves and grass suggested to me that there was more following. However, the noise died down when Wizex whistled.

  The area my coterie arrived at was a small little fishing hut. A clothes line hung a distance away, drying out many different sizes of rag-sewn material. Wizex coughed, turning towards me.

  “Permission to speak, Har–”

  I placed my hand atop of his head. “Ka-Vat. Yanat.”

  Wizex shivered, but didn’t pull away. “My tribe is ready. Awaiting your command.”

  “Janaril-Kviy-Kamaterial. Nothras Vak ooshitra.”

  “New Name, Harvester?” Laertes asked.

  I did not respond, but just flicked my hand forward.

  A rolling bank of fog came with the motion, though I hadn’t casted a spell. The dark winds spread with the lack of sunlight, and the ocean waves grew restless.

  “AAAH!” A young voice shrieked from inside, causing Laertes and Wizex to duck. I did not budge. “The weather’s getting bad mom!”

  More chatter came from inside.

  10 figures were within the small hovel, crowded together like rats. An infestation. Each one required segments of food and medicine, and the only reason they continued to exist was through unnatural intervention of the Goddess of the Ocean. At least half their lives would have been claimed by sickness, but they sought to know better than the cycle.

  “Myta-Tan.”

  I stepped heavy, as my black boots pressed deeper into the dirt and trod down the sands. I raised my foot, and the rolling bank of fog replaced the dirt and sand. I left no footsteps.

  The same could not be said for Wizex, who had drawn his twin daggers again, but his feet and weight were too light for something imprinting – and Laertes, who, donned in armor, sank with every step.

  The ocean was inhospitable, but their fishing boat rocked, moored to their rickety docks. Their barrel of salted fish had fleas circling it.

  Ashley, the [Farm Girl], could recognize –

  It is one Ashley.

  The candor of their meal was poor. The boat, probably manned by the wife or older children, was their main form of sustenance. Their food was poor, their clothing was ragged, and they required the services of a [Cleric] to help.

  Rats.

  Conditions like this were what Excess caused. A field flooded with weeds.

  I enjoyed farming. Planting crops. Watering carrots. Removing weeds and infestations.

  “Sha-kita.”

  I pointed at the boat. Wizex and Laertes looked at each other, and Wizex nodded. He approached the rocking boat and pulled out a flask of Alchemical Fire. He poured the liquid atop and lit it.

  The lights from the hut brightened. “XAVIER! THERE’S A FIRE AT THE BOAT.”

  The hut came to life, sounds of footsteps and movement clashing with the gentle crackling of oil-flames and the lull of ocean waves.

  “Gentia-Kit.”

  Laertes grinned, and cracked his knuckles. He glanced at me before bowing his head. “Lethally?”

  I shook my head. Laertes did not pout this time, but approached the door. The door opened outwards, and a scrawny man stared at Laertes' bone armor and massive, muscular frame. He opened his mouth, but Laertes’ gauntlet covered his jaw and he pushed Xavier back in.

  “Genita-Goblin Markalia. Votre-di-nan Jenita-thriast.”

  Wizex nodded, before catching himself. “Yes, Harvester.” he repeated, before barking out words in Goblin. Semi-naked green things ran out with wooden spears, before all coming to a halt.

  “Reaaper!” a voice from the back gasped.

  “Harvester!” another voice shouted.

  The usual noisy sounds of goblins screeching and talking faded into quiet reverie. One of the front-leading goblins knelt down, lowering its head. Slowly the rest followed.

  I’d have to question this later, but right now?

  “Masiter-Un-Ath.”

  Wizex pursed his lips, before whistling. He shouted in goblin, and the crowd murmured in confusion. Slowly, they stood up.

  “Begging your pardon, Ha–”

  “Jakart.”

  Wizex immediately nodded, running inside the house. He exchanged muffled words with Laertes, and screaming followed.

  A short moment later, Laertes and Wizex walked outside. They both stared at me, and Laertes pushed Wizex forward.

  “Your will is done, Sweetest Daughter.”

  “Vyet! Rhyvest un Astra.”

  Wizex bowed deeply, which caused Laertes to follow suit. I started walking, and Wizex followed behind. Laertes opened the door for me, as I stepped inside.

  The inside was cramped, with bedrolls placed haphazardly around a hearthfire, and a wooden table with fish and peasant’s bread. Books, and dolls, and wooden toys laid strewn about. It reminded me of going to Adrian’s house, or Laura’s to play when I was younger. I had dolls too, but only one made of cornhair and loose sticks.

  I glanced at the roaring hearthflame, and then at Laertes. Laertes caught the message, walked over, and even though his body tensed with the instinctual fear of flames, shoved his boot into the blaze to stomp it out.

  I’d reward him later.

  I was purposely ignoring the 10 rats bound individually on the floor.

  No, that is disassociation. I am balancing the ledger.

  I was purposely ignoring the 10 humans bound individually on the floor. They were kicking and screaming a moment ago, but when I entered the room, it became dead silent.

  No weeping.

  No breathing.

  10 similar looking human faces and 20 eyes staring at me wide open.

  The mother and father were distinct. He had brown hair and a clean shaven face, even if his mouth was gagged with a white rag. The mother had black hair, a plump face, and sharp brown eyes.

  I wanted to glance over the children, but It wouldn’t do. Escaping my duty was ignoring the cycle. A weed is a weed, regardless of the age. Rats multiply.

  People multiply.

  Girl, 16, black hair like mom.

  Girl, 15, brown hair like dad.

  Boy, 15, red hair – recessive, according to Levan.

  Girl, 12, Black hair. Skinny.

  Boy, 10, Black Hair.

  Girl, 8, Red hair.

  Boy, 6, Brown hair.

  Girl, 4, black hair.

  There was no screaming, there was just silence. I looked over at the children, then at the parents. My hand raised, as I swept the parents from the eight. Laertes immediately moved forward, picking the two up. I pointed at the chair.

  I beckoned to the door, and Wizex went to close it. I nodded to him as well.

  I then approached the pair, who were forcibly kept seated.

  The parents stared at me, as I pulled the scythe up….

  And used the hooked edge to lower their gags. The woman immediately began to scream, and the man pursed his lips and spat at me.

  I did not recoil. Laertes' hand rose high to the sky. It began to come down with a crackling speed, aimed at the father’s head.

  CLANG!

  My reflexes were preternatural. My strength was frail, but... The flat of the scythe blade interrupted the open palm. I didn’t look up at Laertes.

  “Stand beside the other one, my dearest child.”

  Laertes' hand throbbed, and I could see black blood spill.

  “Yes, Harvester,” he responded.

  “...The Enemy herself," the wife muttered.

  I chuckled, but shook my head.

  “Good Afternoon. I am here to perform an Audit.”