"The Vlachy," Cleo read aloud, "blend the faith of men with the breath of older things — fire, wind, the song of the soil. They name saints who were never canonized, and gods who forgot their own names. They tie ribbons and hair to trees to remember the dead."
Lasicus tilted his head. "You're reading mortal anthropology again."
"Not mortal — ancestral," she corrected softly. "This is the world Mila and Ari fled to. Its customs are Vlach-born. Look."
She traced her finger along the text; the words shimmered, rippling into moving images — a flicker of firelight, women circling a tree hung with ribbons, bread laid out for unseen guests.
"They honor the mulo, the dead who linger, unjudged. They light candles for them, believing the mortal veil is a thread, not a wall. Fascinating, isn't it? They believe in something they've never seen before. Can't imagine Tripolitans worshipping us if they weren't certain we existed."
"Cleo," Lasicus' tone sharpened, crimson bleeding into the blue of his eyes. "Volmira and Rosum were appointed by the Assigner to bring Mila home. It's their sphere now."
Cleo closed the text with a rustle of leaves. "Volmira is too cautious and Rosum too detached. If we don't step in, there will be war. Do you really want that? With you fighting against the twins, they won't last ten seconds."
Las suppressed a painful whine. "And you would meddle?"
She smiled faintly, ignoring the question. "The Vlach believe fire keeps the lineage alive. On Hunat, they still keep the ancestral hearths burning — the same flame their foremothers lit under the Carpathian sky. Tell me, Las — what do you feel when you hear that?"
He hesitated. The scent of burning wood filled the air. Cleo decorated her rooms with as many flowers and tree branches as Vectra would allow, her hearth burning low but bright. Las came here often to keep a lid on his power. Especially during the diamond storm that upset his equilibrium.
"Nostalgia," he murmured finally. "And dread."
The goddess touched the living text again. The ink flared — visions unfolded: women washing skirts apart from blouses, musicians weaving joy and sorrow in the same tune, children braiding hair into tree branches under a full moon.
"Marime," Cleo breathed. "Their purity laws shape the moral current of their world. It's not superstition — it's balance. Even their taboos grow flowers."
Lasicus' expression softened, though the violet in his aura pulsed uncertainly. "You admire them."
"They remember what we've forgotten. That the sacred isn't above the profane — it's inside it."
He sighed, tracing condensation on his goblet. "If you intervene, the Assigner will not be pleased."
"When has the Assigner ever been pleased?" Cleo smiled, and the vines in her temple trembled as though they were laughing.
"Besides," she added, "if the sirens once gifted Tenebris to a god, perhaps the Vlach were the first to teach a goddess how to listen."
Lasicus ran a hand through his silver hair, light rippling across his skin like the tide of some uncontainable emotion.
"Cleo …"
"Yes," she replied dryly, " I hear you. But Mira and Ros are scholars, not fighters."
"They are capable."
"They are bureaucrats, Las. Mila and Ari are made of thunder. Volmira would catalogue their rebellion until it fossilized. Rosum would philosophize until it drowned. They will not bring them back. If I know Mila, she will sway them both and our city will remain vulnerable to her rage."
The goddess stepped closer, her scent of crushed mint and myrrh weaving through the ozone. "We cannot descend to Valorian without Tenebris. The storms will flay us apart before we breach Valorian's stratosphere. But the sword could part it."
He looked at her — truly looked — and felt his restraint begin to fracture. Her pupils reflected whole constellations. Every word she spoke resonated with the pulse that tethered him to sanity.
His lovely Cleo, the breaker of status quo, had far more in common with Milada the Rebel than she'd care to admit.
"You want to steal from the Assigner."
"Borrow," she said with a mischievous tilt of her head. "And you think Tenebris will obey you?"
"No. It will obey you."
"Cleo…" His voice cracked. The storm wailed louder, light flashing across their faces. Her hand found his, warm and firm, grounding him in a body that often felt too full of others' griefs.
"Las," she whispered, "you once told me you'd rather drown in truth than live in silence. Was that a lie?"
The god of emotions exhaled, a tremor rippling through his aura — crimson, indigo, and pale gold in chaotic succession. He could feel the turmoil of the world beating against his chest: every plea, every sorrow, every memory of love and loss. Without Cleo, it would consume him. She was the only one who stilled the storm inside.
He closed his eyes and reached outward — not through words, but through feeling.
Somewhere beyond the temple walls, far across the upper reaches of Tripolis, Vectra, warden of their city, stopped mid-command. Her breath hitched; a rush of impossible certainty flooded her mind — retrieve the blade. She didn't question the thought. She couldn't. It felt like faith itself.
In Cleo's temple, Lasicus' hands shook. His eyes burned with guilt. "She'll bring it," he said hoarsely. "But this—this isn't clean."
Cleo leaned in, touching her forehead to his. "Neither is love."
Outside, the diamond storm screamed louder, but within Cleo's greenhouse, every leaf seemed to listen. Somewhere in the distance, Tenebris stirred — humming faintly beneath the roar of the heavens.
***
The descent burned.
Cleo felt the weight of every drop — oceans stacked atop oceans, pressing down as if to keep heaven from intruding. The skies over Valorian glowed turquoise and gold, thunder rolling like a heartbeat. When her feet touched the shallows, the water recoiled, parting just enough to reveal black sand beneath.
They almost landed in water, had it not been for Tenebris to steer them true.
"So this is what Mila fled to," she murmured. "How pedestrian."
Lasicus landed beside her, his robes clinging wetly to his frame, his aura dimmed to a wan lavender. Around them, the Second Sea stretched endlessly, its waves not clear but veined with color — opal hues, silver threads, and streaks of violet that moved like veins under skin.
Between Las' fingers, Tenebris hummed, straining to obey the commands of someone who wasn't his true master. The weapon had taken on yet another shape: a ribbon of liquid glass, coiling and tightening like a serpent. Every so often, it shimmered into something else — a dagger, a coral fan, a single black feather. Cleo watched it change with quiet reverence.
"It doesn't hold still," Las whispered. "I don't know if my commands will work, Cleo."
He looked at her, troubled. "You believe the sirens will answer?"
"Tenebris was their song before it was anyone's blade. If we play the right note—"
Las plunged the weapon into the water.
The sea screamed.
The waves convulsed, turning glassy, then opaque. The horizon rippled like fabric. For a heartbeat, Cleo saw shapes — enormous, shifting, luminescent — eyes without faces, hair like jellyfish tendrils. The memory of sirens stirred beneath the surface, but it was no summons. It was a refusal.
The ocean stilled. Silence fell, heavy as mourning.
"They're gone," Lasicus murmured. "They won't answer you."
And then they heard it: a cough. Wet, human, profane.
A figure stumbled from the surf — dripping, staggering, muttering half a prayer, half a curse. A man, mortal and sodden, his hair clinging to his face, clutching an empty wineskin.
"Name of the—" he hiccuped, then blinked up at the gods glowing in the dusk. "You're not from the docks, are you?"
Lasicus stared. "Cleo… who is this?"
"I… don't know."
"You summoned him."
The man belched, wiped his mouth, and grinned with crooked sincerity.
He patted the waves affectionately, as if greeting an old friend. Lasicus's hand tightened on Tenebris. For a moment, she could swear the weapon was listening — its surface rippling like skin reacting to touch. Then it changed again: the glass ribbon curling into a chalice, then a mirror, then back into a blade that hummed low and sad.
"Who … are you?" Cleo asked.
"I'm Nestor, who are you?"
Cleo met his eyes and saw, beneath the absurdity, the unmistakable flicker of something ancient. The sea foam coiled around his ankles like worshippers.
"I'm Cleopatra and this is my brother Lasicus. We're guardians of the weapon Tenebris, the sacred sword of our father."
Nestor took another drink from the empty skin. "And how can I help you, Cleopatra and Lasicus?"
Cleo stepped forward. "You can tell me how you heard the song of the Vein Singer."