A Halfling Slave POV
He saw the spore storm roll in and yelled, "GET DOWN!" still clutching his moldy bread.
He was an old slave. Sixty, by his best guess. You didn't reach that age in the camps without learning how to survive—who could be provoked, who couldn't, where not to look, when to shut up.
He threw himself flat, forehead in the dirt. Spores stung his skin, clung to his clothes. He didn't brush them off. You waited for the storm to pass. That was one of the first lessons.
He had the body of a high-level warrior and the eyes of a dead man. Forty-five years of fighting, and only his small stature had kept him alive.
He no longer remembered his name. He was 99 734 now. A number, nothing else. Whatever the ones before him had been called, they had already met the god of suffering.
The ground shuddered. People screamed prayers to the Mushroom Queen. The overseers screamed louder.
A half-drow supervisor came running through the storm, lashing out at anyone in reach with a steel whip.
"GET UP, YOU USELESS MUSHROOM FERTILIZERS! BACK TO WORK!"
99 734 got up. The Queen could rage all She wanted; the cart still had to move. He leaned into the harness and dragged it forward through the dust and spores.
Only later, hacking spores out of his lungs in a brief rest, did he dare to ask the most informed number what had happened. The human female marked 201 831 did not even look up from her work when she answered.
"A transcendent clergy of the Mushroom Queen was kidnapped."
A cold shiver ran down his spine.
He was illiterate, but he understood numbers, and what this meant for them. When a god's favourite went missing, someone had to pay the warning price. The Matrons would start with thousands of slaves. The supervisors would take the rest.
He went back to his post and kept pulling, watching siege machines rise in the hot, dry cave as moldy grain trundled past him, load after load. Ahead of him, the half-breeds were already gossiping.
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Veyn'dor POV
The cold light of the Matron chamber seemed even colder. If he had any choice, he wouldn't be here. The kidnapping of a transcendent priestess had nothing to do with him. However, as a male, he would have to pay a price higher than he wanted if he wished to keep his current privileges. His father's choice was more appealing than ever.
The squabble between the Matrons was still going. The spore storm had shown that the Mushroom Queen was very displeased with the whole city.
Matron Bael'sha d'Veyn was furiously knitting, her hurried rhythm showing her unease. Matron Drezzira Haet'Ra was furious; two acolytes from her house were missing. Matron Velun'rae Shor'Ith and Matron Ilyphyria Dezz'thal were silent.
"Two acolytes from my house and the headmistress of our academy, Ve'ris, are missing," Haet'Ra snapped. "This is not only an insult to our Queen, but also an insult to E'nathyr city!"
Matron Shor'Ith, sipping her mycelbrew calmly, said, "Two acolytes aside, we need to appease our Queen. Martial law until the culprit is found is my suggestion." She made no mention of Ve'ris.
"I agree with this approach," Matron Dezz'thal said. "I further suggest that we activate the space-blockade wards." She was fully aware that House d'Veyn was responsible for any and every ward in the city, and was trying to make House d'Veyn spend unnecessary resources.
Matron d'Veyn said, "I agree with the space blockade as well, but what concerns me most is that they could avert the gaze of our Queen and kidnap a transcendent-level priestess in a shrine devoted to our Queen."
Veyn'dor was fully aware they could blockade space for a hundred years and still be no poorer than before.
Dezz'thal's gaze slid to him. "Speaking of which," she said, "the city's defenses are your domain, are they not, Veyn'dor?"
The air tightened around his throat. "Yes, Matron."
"Our wards did not stir," Bael'sha added, her needles pausing mid-stitch. "A transcendent is stolen from a shrine and the master of defenses has… no warning."
There was only one correct answer. "It will not happen again," Veyn'dor said, keeping his eyes lowered. "I will reweave every line myself and find how they slipped past."
"Oh, it will not happen again," Shor'Ith murmured, taking another sip of mycelbrew. "If it does, we won't need you to explain anything."
A few of the Matrons smiled at that. None of them kindly.
Haet'Ra's handprint burned red on the stone.
"What about my acolytes and the headmistress?" she snarled. "You speak of blockades and laws while they are dragged who-knows-where by weeds and traitors!"
"For all we know," Shor'Ith said, setting her cup down, "they went willingly. Faith is a fragile thing. Some break under the slightest pressure."
Her tone was mild. The insult wasn't.
Haet'Ra half-rose from her seat. "Mind your tongue, Shor'Ith. My house does not breed cowards."
"Then perhaps," Dezz'thal said softly, "they were taken because someone lowered their guard. A shrine is only as strong as the hands that tend it."
Veyn'dor watched the barbs fly and kept his eyes on the floor. If Haet'Ra leaped over the table, he intended to be nowhere near the landing.
Bael'sha's needles clicked faster. "Enough," she said. "We are not street vendors brawling over rotten fungus. The Queen shook the city. The people are afraid. We cannot appear divided."
Shor'Ith folded her hands in her lap. "Then we should act," she replied. "Martial law, visible patrols, public sacrifices. We remind the city who serves the Queen and who does not."
"And whom," Dezz'thal added, "they should blame for this insult."
Silence fell for a heartbeat. It was the kind of silence that always made Veyn'dor's neck prickle: the one where someone was expected to speak, and that someone was usually him.
He cleared his throat very softly. "If I may, Matrons."
Four pairs of eyes turned toward him. He resisted the urge to flinch.
"The Orchid cult is already whispered as the culprit," he said. "They are convenient, visible, and hated. Whether they truly did this or not, the city will believe it. If we name them, we give the fear a shape. If we do not, rumours will grow teeth."
Bael'sha paused her knitting. "Go on," she said.
"We declare martial law," Veyn'dor continued, choosing each word as if it were a step on thin ice. "We blame the Orchid cult publicly. Internally, we investigate. We send hunters after them… and we watch those hunters closely."
"Hunters." Shor'Ith's gaze sharpened. "You mean Jacob."
Veyn'dor inclined his head, just enough to be respectful, not enough to seem eager. "He has already… interacted with them. The city views him as foreign and expendable. If he succeeds, we praise your wisdom in employing him. If he fails, we throw his corpse on the altar with the others and call it justice."
Dezz'thal's lips curved. "Practical."
Haet'Ra ground her teeth. "And if my acolytes are among these 'weeds' you intend to pull?"
"Then we will know," Bael'sha said. Her needles resumed their furious rhythm. "Better that than leaving them in the dark forever, yes?"
Haet'Ra glared, but she sat back down.
Bael'sha looked to each of them in turn. "Martial law?"
"I agree," Shor'Ith said.
Dezz'thal nodded. "With the blockade wards active."
Bael'sha inclined her head once. "So be it. The space wards will be raised, curfews enforced, sacrifices increased." She finally let the knitting drop to her lap. "We will feed the fear to the Orchid cult and starve every other rumour."
Her gaze slid back to Veyn'dor. "You will see to Jacob. Give him a leash and point him at our new enemy. Quietly."
Veyn'dor bowed, pulse hammering in his throat. "As you command, Matron."
"And Veyn'dor," Bael'sha added, almost as an afterthought, "if he decides he is cleverer than we are…"
Shor'Ith finished for her, voice mild as ever. "Make an example of him. The Queen enjoys examples."
The cold light seemed to sink deeper into his bones. He kept his face carefully blank.
"Yes, Matrons," he said.
Xalianthra POV
The spore storm made the Haet'Ra estate tremble.
Mushroom-lamps along the corridor flickered, caps clenching tight as if they could shut out the goddess's anger. Dust sifted from carved ceilings, blurring the family frescoes into gray smears. Somewhere above, a servant screamed a prayer; somewhere below, someone dropped a tray.
Xalianthra closed the door on all of it.
Her private shrine was narrow, tucked between two storerooms. No attendants, no incense girls, no gilded offerings—just a squat statue of the Mushroom Queen, a low stool, and a single bowl for candles. Once, she had half a temple as her domain. Now she got this broom closet with a goddess in it.
Fine. It made it easier to think.
She knelt. The stone floor was cold through her robes. Spores drifted down in a thin, pale veil from the cracked ceiling.
The storm rolled through her bones a heartbeat later. Under the blunt rage she felt them: two familiar threads.
One faint and soft, frayed almost to nothing.
Oryndra.
One sharp and twisted, tangled with something floral and wrong.
Vess'ri.
Of course.
Her mouth curved, not quite a smile.
"My fall, my silence, my house dragged down," she murmured. "And your names are at the edge of every omen."
Oryndra, who tried so hard to be good that she dissolved whenever someone shouted at her.
Vess'ri, who had come home from prayers smelling of orchids and questions, eyes too bright, words too sharp.
The spore storm pulsed again. The faint thread—Oryndra—snapped.
Xalianthra's fingers tightened on the edge of the offering bowl until her knuckles ached. The mushrooms dimmed, then slowly brightened. The Queen did not weep. Why would she?
"One," Xalianthra said quietly. "One failed offering was removed."
The other thread slipped sideways and vanished for a breath, like something ducking behind a pillar. When it returned, it was wrapped in that same cloying, floral static.
Vess'ri, hiding under another goddess's shadow.
Anger pricked behind Xalianthra's eyes, hot and clean. Not grief. Grief was for mothers who hadn't done the math.
Once, when she knelt, the air in shrines like this had thickened with presence. Warmth crawled up her spine, whispers filled her mouth. She had spoken judgments in the Queen's name and felt them land.
Now the statue was just stone. The silence sat heavy and indifferent.
Her voice stayed calm. She kept it that way on purpose. There was no point screaming at the stone.