I woke the next morning tired and bleary-eyed, groaning at the weight sitting on my chest. I blinked, and after shoving my hair from my face, I met the coppery gaze of the calico Druid. Realizing I was awake, his tail thumped against my middle and his paw rose to rap my nose as if in reprimand. 

Reprimand? Why on earth would a cat reprimand me? My groggy mind was unwilling to wake. After being stitched and bandaged within an inch of my life the night prior, I was in no mood to face the living world. I tried to roll over and ignore the Druid, but Lionel persisted until I sat up and seriously considered chucking the cat out the door by the scruff of his neck.

I didn't. My better judgement won out, and I scratched beneath his chin as I sighed. "Where've you been, hmm?" The Druid had been mostly absent the past few days, his presence and silent companionship oddly missed. I had wondered if he'd finally gotten bored of following me about, but I guessed I was mistaken.

Lionel purred, enjoying the attention, then leapt off the bed to let me get ready.

As was typical, the parlor was empty when I entered it after showering, dressing, and gathering my construct books. The candles were dark and the window sealed to the encroaching winter outside. I sighed, but didn't waste the energy to fret over Darius's absence. I wondered if he ever slept.

I went out in search of a quiet room where I could read and think without interruption. Lionel followed at my heels, running into my ankles whenever I paused to consider the way. He gave an indignant yowl when I left the main stairwell and pointed downstairs with a very un-feline gesture.

"What?" I asked, adjusting my grip on my primers. "Are you hungry?"

Lionel bobbed his head, prancing about in a small circle with ecstatic meows.

"I'm not fooled by the cute-kitty routine," I warned him, though I did abandon the side hall so I could head downstairs. "I'm well-aware you're capable of getting your own food from Mattie. Don't think you're turning me into your errand girl." 

His backtalk consisted of a few yowls and grumpy purrs, but Lionel appeared happy to be getting his way. We descended to the foyer, but I took a circumventive route to the kitchens, avoiding the dining room and any familiar faces who may be inside eating their breakfast. I hadn't fully recovered from my run-in with Balthier the day prior. I didn't know what I was going to say to Anzel when I saw him, but I was troubled.

We entered the slim corridor branching away from the main foyer and I knocked upon the kitchen door. It took a minute, but Mattie finally popped it open, appearing red-faced and harangued from the kitchen's interior. Lionel squeezed between her legs, giving the aging witch a fright.

"Sorry," I said with a simper. "He's hungry, I guess." 

"Och, you lout!" Mattie scolded the Druid as she waved me off. "Don't you worry, Sara. I'll take care of the beastie."

"Are you sure?" I asked, trying to peer around the door to see what mischief Lionel was getting into. "If you're busy, I could always—."

"No, no!" Mattie said. "I'll see to it. Out, out you get!"

The door snapped shut an inch before my nose. Grimacing, I decided there was nothing for it, and turned my attention to my plans for the day.

I was almost back in the foyer when someone came out of the dining room as if they'd been waiting for my appearance.

"Sara."

Anzel stood at the entrance, his body held stiffly without his characteristic grace. In the brighter lights of the foyer, it was possible to note the faint blush of purple left by bruises beneath his chin. The rest of his neck was covered in the fabric of a turtleneck, another uncharacteristic choice for the Vytian. His hair was unbound, framing his peaky face in a dark, satin curtain.

I froze, unsure of how I should react. "Yes?"

He stepped nearer, and I noticed he held something in his hands. It was an ether infusion and, judging by the color, it was most likely one of the infusions I'd been receiving from the Vytians every morning for several weeks now. 

"I, ah—." He paused, swept a hand across his mouth in silent contemplation, then tried again. "Are you alright? After...after yesterday?" 

My teeth ground together as I stiffened. "You saw what happened?" 

"Heard would be more accurate. Elias and I heard." He fiddled with the ether infusion, realized he was doing so, then held it out for me to take. "I'm sorry." 

I lowered my gaze, hating his contrition, hating that I felt appeased by that weak apology when—in the long run—it meant nothing. I had many questions I wanted to ask both Anzel and Elias about who I was, how Elias knew my family, where my ancestors were from—but it didn't matter. It wasn't needed. 

Perhaps I was only upset, but the experience at the ward had reiterated what truly mattered in my limited time. It wasn't learning about other worlds, dining with werewolves, or indulging in friendships with people like Anzel and Elias. I needed to learn magic, needed to learn how to save Darius's life.

Nothing else mattered. Not with Envy always so near. Not with my death looming so large and imminent.

"You told me once that Vytians aren't afraid of the Sins." I snorted and flipped my hair over my shoulder. "I guess that was a lie."

Something near anger flared in his eyes when my statement struck a nerve. He stepped closer again, his footstep resounding with a heavier thud. "Do you fear fire? No. And yet, you won't stand in the path of the wildfire, will you? Don't spit on me because I did what was logical to protect all of us. My presence would have only aggravated the situation."

"I'm not spitting on you," I said, holding the books against my chest as I refused to look into his eyes. "I'm not."

He came forward again with softer motions, arm fully extended. "Take this," he urged as the ether infusion glowed between us with pure, white light. "If you don't wish to speak with me now, I understand. I did what was best, not what was brave, not what was righteous. Be disappointed in me if you must, but please take this."

My hands tightened until I could feel the harsh thrum of my blood pulsating through my cramped joints. "I don't need it," I said, being deliberately cold. "I've somewhere I need to be. I'll talk to you later."

His body tensed as if to stop me, so I hurried out of his reach and started down the narrow hall.

"Sara!" he called—but he didn't follow. Anzel must have known me well enough to know it would be unwise to push me in this matter.

"Just leave me alone, Anzel!" I shouted as I stormed on. Quieter, I added, "It'll be better for you if you just leave me alone."

I didn't know where this hall led. In all my meanderings throughout the manor, this was one of the passages I had specifically avoided, as I disliked how it was even narrower than most of the other corridors. I walked, and my chest felt tighter and tighter as the walls seemed to creep steadily closer and the ceiling dropped lowered.

I was so intent on scuttling forward, I almost didn't notice the pictures. 

The wall to my right was covered in frames for as far as I could see. They weren't the glum landscapes or masterful—if aesthetically off-putting—Gothic revival paintings that crowded the foyer. These were portraits done with soft oils and joined by hundreds upon hundreds of photographs. The faces contained within the thick frames were familiar.

The Sins were portrayed in various styles in various locales across the world. I didn't recognize all of the faces I saw, especially as the photographs faded and gave way to the Old World portraits, so I guessed some of these Sins had passed on. Many of the images were candid, even the paintings, catching various moments in the lives of the Sins. 

My stride slowed as I studied the images in the yellow light of the gas lamps. One of the portraits was done of Amoroth and Peroth, both dressed as regally as a duke and duchess. As far as I knew, they could have been actual nobility. Glimmering diamonds spilled into the valley of her throat, and he was equally suave with his cravat and embroidered waistcoat. The smile Peroth directed at Amoroth was...fond.

One aged photograph was of a wall covered in hieroglyphics, presumably taken in Egypt somewhere. The main figure within the hieroglyphics was a man with a bird's head, the sun riding his crown.

"Ra," I muttered as I plumbed my memory for the names of the Egyptian pantheon. Tapping my finger gently upon the frame's glass, I tried to follow the story's flow and failed miserable. I lingered on another figure with the head of a strange creature I couldn't name. "And you're...Seth."

The next photo was of another section of Egyptian carvings. The figure with the jackal's head was easy to recognize. "Anubis," I said, lowering my gaze to the next glyph. It was of a serpent encircling Anubis, and though the two myths were eons and worlds apart, I was instantly reminded of Ragnarök.

"And you're....Apep."

I passed more pictures and portraits. I lingered at an early photograph so yellowed with age it would undoubtedly crumble to dust if exposed to the air. There were several men gathered before an English palace, most of them unknown to me. The photo had been taken professionally, and those posing weren't doing so in a perfunctory fashion. Peroth stood at the front, dressed in a black frock coat with a notched vest underneath. There was a cane in his hand and against his chest he held a rigid top hat. He nor none of the others smiled.

Darius stood behind him to the right. His stately, angular face was unmistakable, as was the grim set of his jaw and the heavy slant of his brow. He wore a long frock coat like Peroth, plus a linen shirt with a high turnover collar and a necktie. I could barely discern the fob of a watch dangling from the front pocket of his sternly pressed vest, and his legs were clad in dark breeches and a pair of fitted boots as if he were about to hop on the back of a horse for the royal hunt. He had muttonchops, as was the style back then, but I couldn't stop my laughter.

The next photo silenced my amusement. It was of Darius and myself.

It'd been taken during our first dinner at the manor, though I wasn't sure how or by whom the photo had been snapped. In the midst of the confusion, in the hustle and crush of bodies crowding the table, Darius and I sat side by side with our meals before us on the table.

My face was slightly scrunched, which was normal whenever I was deep in thought. I decided it wasn't a particularly attractive face and exhaled with annoyance. My brow was quirked, my lips parted as I narrowed my eyes at what I now believed had been Berour. I had been trying to figure out what he was.

The Sin of Pride leaned into my side, the stands of my hair trailing loosely through his fingers as he spoke into my ear. I recalled the way his breath had crashed upon my skin in a wave of prickling warmth. His body was turned to mine, his head tipped in such a way to keep his mouth at my ear and his gaze upon my face. I couldn't remember when I had last seen his eyes so vividly scarlet.

I backed up until I hit the opposing wall. The thump created by my small body registered only in the quivering of the nearest amber lamp. I slid upon the flat expanse until I sat on the musty carpet, staring upward at the simple photo of a Sin and his host.

It was naught but a moment in the creature's infinite life, stolen and kept in glass.

I knew Darius was immortal, that they were all immortal, but it was humbling to have such a visual example of their perpetuity presented to me. Though his image wasn't as prevalent as Peroth's, Darius was scattered throughout these photographs and paintings. Each was an instant in the creature's life plucked from time and preserved here. On and on through the flow of years the photos enumerated the life of a timeless creature. One hundred years ago, two hundred, three hundred—a thousand. He was in cave drawings and carved into the foundations of civilizations that had fallen to dust centuries ago.

The Sin of Pride had lived beyond the knowledge of history, had existed and breathed in every moment of our world's life.

So had Peroth. So had Balthier.

I felt inconsequential and small, a hill in the shadow of a great mountain. What was I if not another instant of Darius's life to be caught and kept in glass? Fleeting. Ephemeral. I was a mote of dust caught in a sunbeam, somehow managing to capture his gaze before I, too, would continue on into the dark out of sight.

The urge to cry was more than I could bear, but I refused the tears so desperately wanting to break free of my lashes. I hated being so frustrated and pained by my damnable side wound, and the burden of the task I had to undertake was a crushing weight. Darius was set on a course of destruction, bound to a deadly fate he refused to sough off onto someone else.

I had to save his life—but what could I do? The hill in the mountain's shadow, the wayward speck of dust. Here I sat, arms embraced upon books brimming with words I didn't understand and symbols beyond my comprehension, my mind filled with a thousand different bits of information that refused to fit together.

I had to concentrate. I had to try, but in the face of such interminability, what was I to do against a creature like Balthier when neither Darius nor Peroth could defeat him?

What was a dying girl to do?

Hopelessness crested and I began to drown in despair. Desperate and angry, I furiously wiped my eye and demanded of nothing, "What am I supposed to do?"

I expected only taunting silence, but as my voice echoed, Crow's End answered.

Behind me, where the wall had been solid and paneled in mahogany wainscoting, a simple door appeared. It popped open with a screech of untended hinges and I tumbled into the new room before I knew what was happening. The door snapped shut once I was inside.

The throbbing echo of a great heartbeat pressed upon my ears as I righted myself, grunting at the pain lancing through my ribs. The watery light of a thousand cyan fireflies filled the demure expanse, illuminating the crenulated bark of the walls and the ceiling of writhing branches.

I sprawled upon the floor, and yet the tremulous silver leaf upon its black bough were just within my reach.

The manor had answered my frantic cry with another vision.

"Not this again," I whispered, knowing I had no other choice but to accept the manor's unwanted gift. Its presence loomed in this place, its breath tangible against my face as my heart slowed to match its steady, somnolent rhythm.

My arm moved without my consent. My hand stretched, and my fingers brushed the luminous leaf's proffered face.

Power raged through my veins and seized control. A sound like the beating of a thousand feathered wings erupted in my thoughts.

I fell to the blackness of the waiting vision.

* * *