4. Bones to Pick

By Kimberly Hamilton

Part 1 — The Osteomancer

It is a Sunday morning in Massina. There is a chill in the air. Winter’s last gasp.

Like every morning, we Sisters Vatroslava begin our day enduring the pulsing heat of the furnace chamber at the Ministry of Bone. We examine the bones of the fallen Champions, seared of their flesh overnight. Whether bad skills or bad luck sealed these Champions’ fates in the Colosseum yesterday, it does not matter. They all end up in the fire.

Our names do not matter, but mine is Marleenken. My younger sister is Itahisa. Those in Massina know us only as the Osteomancer and the Bonesmith.

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Itahisa brings cold kafberry brew for us each morning; she brews it herself because of course she does. She is the most self-sufficient blind person I know, the only blind person I know. Itahisa lost her sight in a dreadful forging accident at a tender age, shards of bone splintering her delicate doe eyes. One would think such a trauma would deter her from becoming the Bonesmith but not my little sister; it only made her respect her craft all the more. She makes weapons by touch.

I hate her kafberry brew. There is no point in telling her. It is not as if she will see me not drinking it.

I watch Itahisa run her delicate calloused fingertips over each bone, assessing every bump of a Karkadon tusk or crevice of an Il’gra femur. Beads of sweat chase each other down her forehead only to be captured by the humble cloth band she wears to cover the mottled sockets where her lovely eyes once were. She is too skinny. She will never know she is beautiful.

I do a cursory scan of today’s meager bounty. Not much to look at. I spot a crooked Aos hand, having been relieved of its thumb and pinkie, in battle no doubt. I look to where my Sumonot, Chienne, sits at my feet, with the alert poise of a pet hoping to be dropped some morsel. I am never without my Chienne. She excitedly yips as I dangle my bony gift before errantly dropping it beside her. I understand that kind of hopeful anticipation. I am rather feeling it today as well…

“I heard that Nepote might be stopping by today,” I tell Itahisa. She continues tracing the contours of a Grondal rib as if I have not spoken at all.

“Oh?”

Did I just detect boredom? It is certainly not the reaction one would expect after revealing that the Emperor’s nephew could be gracing the Ministry of Bone. It is not a place frequented by prestigious royalty. But I suppose Itahisa has never cared much about that sort of thing. One of Chienne’s horns scrapes my armored leg as she boisterously rounds my feet, the bony Aos hand dangling from her jaw, thick with slobber.

“Find anything special to take today?” Itahisa asks. Bless her heart, my precious sister… Same question every day.

“No, I…”

It is then that I spy a collection of Sadaari fangs just beyond Itahisa’s reach. They are not just any fangs. They are exceptionally long and smooth and sharp, almost gleaming in the flickering of the furnace. We saw a plethora of Sadaari fangs following the Festival of the Harvest Moon when scores of the former Imperial Maestro Myvonigan’s Sadaari Champions perished, but there have been none for quite some time, none ever like these. Itahisa would want to furnish a modest weapon from these fangs, but they are meant for more… a gift for Nepote, perhaps?

“No, I am done here,” I say as I nimbly tuck away the exquisite Sadaari fangs. “I shall see you tonight.”

“Have a good day, Marlee,” says Itahisa. Same farewell every day. Even with her skinny arms overloaded with bones, Itahisa exits as elegantly as if she could see the way. I wait until she leaves before I dump the cold kafberry brew among the hot embers just to hear the hiss.

“Let’s go, Chienne.”

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The moment we arrive back to my shop, Chienne flings aside what remains of the Aos hand. “Too skinny,” she snarls.

“Itahisa? I know. Too skinny.”

“No. Aos bones are too skinny.”

“So all of that prancing around with your bony prize was for show? Itahisa cannot see you.”

“Itahisa sees more than you know, fool.”

“Behave, Chienne. Let us not forget who is obligated to whom, my djinn.”

“Let us not forget who needs whom more.” Chienne’s mocking tone is punctuated by the ordinary as she arches a hind leg to vigorously scratch behind her ear. It is during moments like these when it is easy to forget she is a dangerously powerful djinn, inhabiting the unassuming form of a common Sumonot. What I never can forget is how I acquired her.

Chienne stops scratching and flops onto one of the ornate rugs. I try to keep my cavernous shop inviting, with rugs and draperies, candlelight and assorted eccentricities. The soft touches help visitors to overlook the dark and dangerous things that happen here.

“Itahisa knows you took those Sadaari fangs,” Chienne says, lolling onto her back.

“How? My sister has no magical abilities.”

“Neither do you, not without me. Itahisa doesn’t need magic to know you’re a liar. You lie too easily. Why lie? What if she didn’t even want the fangs?”

“I guess we shall never know.” I spread my exquisite Sadaari fangs across the table. What shall you be? A mystical weapon? Enchanted armor? Nothing Itahisa makes can ever compare.

“I’m hungry,” Chienne snaps. Whether it is food or drink, my attention, or even my wares, my djinn’s thirst can only be slaked with more, more, more… She grows more temperamental with each passing year. It has been this way since I was a child.

“You just ate, Chienne. I need to work.”

“There was nothing on that bone.”

Suddenly the idea comes to me: “A gorget. I shall craft a fanged gorget. Neck armor with a bite!”

“I want it.”

“What? No, not this piece. It deserves a royal audience. A Champion shall wear it.”

“You’re making a fancy collar and I want it.”

“Come near, Chienne.” I draw my magic from my djinn, which is why I must appease her. But what she imbues in me is a volatile power beyond my control. Such is the nature of demonic magic. My wares cannot be entirely trusted, yet it is widely known that their potency is worth the cost and risk. Those who seek me out are of superior intellect, tolerant of the unpredictable nature of my dark art. If you are wily and daring, sly and shameless… If you know, as I do, that nothing matters more in Massina than winning, you will find your way to the Osteomancer.

I set to work as Chienne snores at my feet, a grating viscous sound that drones from creatures cursed with the snout of a French bulldog. But the hours fly when I am in this glorious space where skill and magic merge. It does not matter that my skill and magic do not come from within me any more than it matters if skill or luck failed the Champion from whom I craft my wares.

Finally, hours later, forged by fire and imbued with terrifying magic, my work is done. The gorget is spectacular and dangerous. I am momentarily and uncharacteristically humbled as I realize it is my best work. If the Emperor’s nephew is to grace my shop today, this is exactly what I would want him to know I am capable of.

Chienne awakens with a syrupy snort. “Look,” I tell her. “It is a masterpiece.”

“Is it mine?” she asks.

“No, Chienne. I told you, no.”

“I’m hungry,” she grumbles. “I want to go for a walk.”

I often wonder if my djinn had taken some other form, fused with some other being, if her demands would have manifested in common chores so beneath the stature of a celebrated Osteomancer like myself.

“I’m hungry,” she snarls again.

“Later,” I tell Chienne. “I do not want to miss Nepote if he is to visit the shop.”

I turn my back on her to tidy my workspace and for once my djinn is mercifully silent.

Too silent. Something is not right.

I flood with dread as I spin around. Chienne has hopped upon the table beside the enchanted gorget. She crouches low and intensely stares at it, the familiar stance of an animal lying in wait. She is poised to attack. She has destroyed my work before, with banal annoyances… gnawing the handle of an enchanted axe, squatting to urinate on my workspace… But I am frightened by the look in her eyes, unlike any I have seen before.

“No, Chienne,” I say. “No.”

Not unlike a blast of heat from the furnace, a wave of dark energy emanates from my djinn through Chienne’s gaze. The gorget explodes into a million shards of metal and bone.

I instinctively shield my eyes.

“You little bitch!” I shout.

“How original,” sighs Chienne.

I want to kick her across the room. I know that I will not. But the rage fills me until it is all I see. It is a blinding rage. “How dare you! You are duty-bound to me! I own you!”

Chienne bares her teeth. “And I provide. I am your skill. I am your magic. And who are you? You are Marleenken, a jealous nobody who traded her sister’s eyes to a demon in exchange for me.”

All these years and this is the first my djinn has said my secret aloud. It is a moment when the air should be knocked out of me, when I should be flooded with anguish and regret. That is not what happens.

I know what I did to Itahisa. I would do it again.

Chienne is suddenly vanished, now across the room, curled on the rug, absentmindedly chewing on one of her talons. How did she get over there?

I sense a presence behind me. Nepote?

I turn to see it is Maestro Dawn. She is a diminutive woman, in stature and reputation. She is neither new nor established here; she has been in Massina just long enough to become forgettable. Maestro Dawn has no business here. She is known for her lacking Champions, her shallow pockets, and her bartering… information is her currency. I do not know how long I am staring at her thinking all of these thoughts to eclipse what I should really be thinking:

How much has Maestro Dawn overheard?

“I’m looking for the Bonesmith,” says Maestro Dawn. Her expression is slack, unreadable. She either does not or pretends not to notice the remnants of the fanged gorget littering my shop.

I direct Maestro Dawn to Itahisa’s workshop and she leaves. But my stomach churns. I have not breathed freely since the day of Itahisa’s “accident.” My fear is like those bony Aos fingers, loosely wrapped around my throat, threatening to squeeze. If I were to be found out as a fraud, if Maestro Dawn heard my secret, if Itahisa learns of it, I will be forever ruined in Massina.

Chienne snorts, “Stop being so paranoid.” She has read my thoughts. My every day is colored by paranoia; right now it is a darker shade. I could take action or I could take the gamble…

I always take the gamble.

I did not always hate my sister, just so that we are clear. It only began when I realized her gifts would eclipse my ambition.

The demon first came to me in dreams on my thirteenth birthday, an imaginative manifestation of precocious resentment… until I realized the demon was not in my dreams but in my room. Its proposition was tempting: a djinn committed to me, the promise of the skill and magic required to become an acclaimed Osteomancer, a legend in Massina… in exchange for Itahisa’s sight. I could say it was a difficult choice but all I saw was a win. No longer would I need to compete with my sister’s burgeoning talents. A blind Bonesmith? No such thing! The demon did not tell me it would happen the way that it did. I did not see “the accident” but I remember her screams.

The demon never came to me again but I still hear the screams. It is ironic that Itahisa only got better at her craft after losing her vision. I wonder if the screams I am still hearing are my own.

I begin sweeping up the shards of my beloved work. If the Emperor’s nephew comes by, he cannot see this mess. Chienne is oblivious, sprawled on the rug, sleeping like an angel rather than the demon spawn she truly is. We are forever each other’s captive.

I know I am too anxious to get any more work done today. I will be watching the clock.

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Each day that begins at the furnace ends under the stars at the Butcher’s pigpen. He has spent his day dismembering today’s fallen Champions for parts and harvesting their Essence. The leftovers are fed to his pigs out back, which is where Itahisa and I meet to collect what remains. We bring the bones back to the furnace, gummy with flesh, so that the fire can reveal their true value in the morning. For as long as there have been Champions, this is the endless loop through which the Osteomancer and Bonesmith cycle.

I am cautious as Chienne and I arrive at the pigpen. Itahisa has already begun to sort through the carnage. Her thick leather gloves, caked with blood and chunks of flesh, look cartoonish on her spindly arms. Chienne trots into the pen as if our fates are not bound, the pigs parting to make way. Just as a pack of domestic dogs will spot a wolf among them, the pigs can sense that Chienne is not a Sumonot, that she is “other.” The Butcher sells the plumpest of these pigs back to the arena for meals. The gladiators do not know they eat of the pigs that ate of their friends.

“How was your day?” asks Itahisa, just as she always does. A good sign.

“Business as usual,” I lie. Chienne is right; my lies come as fluidly as truth. “Nepote never came by,” I add. At least that much is true.

“He didn’t come by my workshop either,” Itahisa says.

“And how was your day?” I ask her.

I hear how preposterous I sound, and I can tell Itahisa is caught off guard. It is likely because I never ask Itahisa how her days are, because I do not care.

“Fine, thank you,” she answers. “Busy.”

If I press, Itahisa shall know something is amiss, so we work in ordinary silence. I begin to sense that Itahisa knows nothing of what Maestro Dawn overheard or perhaps never heard.

It is then that I spot him from our location outside: Nepote, approaching the entrance to the Ministry of Bone. Of course he would come in the night, when he is least likely to run into commoners!

“I shall have to go, I… feel unwell.” It is not as if Itahisa will follow my gaze because she cannot.

“I can finish here. Good night, Marlee.”

“I shall see you tomorrow,” I say as I keep my eyes trained on Nepote. I toss off my gloves and stride back inside the Ministry of Bone. The bony fingers around my neck loosen, my secret safe.

I am confident that my sister is, in every way, still in the dark.

Part 2 — The Bonesmith

It’s Sunday morning in Massina. The sun’s warmth cuts through the brisk air. Spring’s here.

Each day starts the same for us Vatroslava sisters. We meet at the furnace in the Ministry of Bone to sift through the skeletal remains of the Champions who were killed in yesterday’s matches. Freed of flesh, these bones are ready for their second life. That’s where my sister and I come in. Bones are our business.

I’m Itahisa. My older sister is Marleenken. I call her Marlee. But everyone in Massina knows us only as the Bonesmith and the Osteomancer.

-

I like being the first to the furnace. Bones have fascinated me since I was a child. Little or long, splintered or knobby, cracked or crooked or creviced. The way hundreds of bones can connect and harmoniously slide over one another to create fluid movement is its own special magic.

I trail my fingers over the warm embers, lingering on Seris vertebrae, Sadaari fangs, Whisperer kneecaps, the shattered clavicle of a Darulk, each bone on its own for the first time. What’s the last thing these bones did as part of a whole? Were they running, desperately trying to escape? Were they crouched as the death blow came? Were they splayed as they went hurtling across the Colosseum? Essence powers a Champion but bones are the foundation. Bones tell a story.

I hear the rattle of my sister’s armor and the labored huff-huff of her panting Sumonot long before they enter. I brush the ash from my hands and wordlessly hold out a mug of the cold kafberry brew I’ve made for us. I make it too strong on purpose. I’ve got a sensitive nose and the bitter scent helps to mask the thick cloying stink of charred thighs and thumbs. Marlee takes the mug. It’s our daily silent greeting.

Marlee and I aren’t close because Marlee is a bitch. I know it’s a heinous word with no equivalent. That’s why I would only ever use it for my sister. I don’t hate her, though. Hating someone expends fiery energy much better spent on my craft.

I plunge my hands into the ashes, retrieving a sizable Grondal rib. I could fashion a hell of a scimitar out of this and I know exactly for whom I’d make it. I can hear Marlee’s claw-like fingernails scrrrraping through embers. She’s found something, too. Chienne — that’s her Sumonot — raspily yaps as a clatter of bones (finger bones, maybe?) hits the floor.

“I heard that Nepote might be stopping by today,” Marlee says. Her voice has always been deceptively dulcet.

“Oh?” I try to sound disinterested so that we can just work and not talk, but even I know that the Emperor’s nephew visiting the Ministry of Bone is a big deal. I wish Marlee would go away; I’m distracted by the drip-drip-drip sound of Chienne’s drool splashing against the stone floor.

“Find anything special to take today?” I ask Marlee. I’d stop short of calling it a catchphrase but we both know it’s what I say to signal that I’m ready to leave.

“No, I…”

I feel Marlee’s pause in a visceral way. I hear her breath. I smell Chienne’s. Something’s up.

“No, I am done here. I shall see you tonight,” says Marlee.

She’ll see me tonight. I’ll see her never. I’ve been blind since age ten.

“Have a good day, Marlee,” I say as I scoop up all of my bones and take my leave. I can’t wait to go to my workshop and get started.

I’m far from the exit when I hear the “Sssssssss” of cold liquid meeting hot ash. My sister has dumped my cold kafberry brew again. Bitch.

-

My workshop is humble and functional and warmed by the two modest forges I use when crafting my wares. It’s only ever as clean as it needs to be for me to do my work. My clients have always made the wise choice not to question the look of the place.

“I’m blind” isn’t the first thing I tell people about myself but it’s the first thing they notice because I wear a blindfold. I’m glad I can’t see what’s left of where my eyes once were, and I wouldn’t want anyone else to have to see it either. And so, I walk the streets of Massina looking like I’ve lost my way while playing “Pin the Tail on the Papiro.” Sometimes it makes little kids laugh — not cruelly, they just don’t understand. Their parents are quick to correct them. I’m locally well-known and respected; having a blind Bonesmith is a novelty of which Massina is proud.

I sort today’s bones by touch, some for custom weapons and armor, some for more common pieces, and others for clients with home forges; they come to me for guidance, blueprints, materials… I love my craft, I’m always willing to teach.

I select the impressive Grondal rib and set to work. Sharp smells, loud sounds, strong flavors, intense textures… my heightened senses can overwhelm me out on the streets of Massina. But in the sanctuary of my workshop, my senses both guide and protect me as I use my tools to file and shape and solder. The dusty graininess of bone shavings, tangy odor of melting metal, methodic clang, clang, clang of my hammer striking iron, the heft of that very hammer in my hand… These are my simplest joys.

What I craft is modest and predictable, but what separates it from the work of an Osteomancer is that it can be trusted. When you want wares of great quality that are crafted to perform as intended in Colosseum battle, you visit the Bonesmith. Some will ask outright, how a blind person could be a bonesmith. Some will just watch me work. They’ll see that I have help in hulking assistants who do the literal heavy lifting of steel and stone slabs. But the dangerous craftsmanship… that’s all me.

I have a natural gift for this trade, inherited from my mother, who inherited it from hers. The Vatroslava women have been Bonesmiths in Massina for generations. That’s how Marlee and I got started so young, though I can’t say she took to the work like I did. We had our own little home forge on the stone terrace in the yard where I’d learn from my mother. Watching her work was my favorite thing to do until the day my world went dark.

It’s hours later before I’m satisfied with the Grondal rib turned giant scimitar. I can taste the salt of my sweat as I find the vial of Essence I’ve had for safe keeping. It was collected from Krashkuz, a Seris killed in a Colosseum reenactment of the famed Battle of the Harbor. Themed matches are always crowd favorites, with their high production values and clever nods to history. I wave the Essence over the blade, infusing it with the fallen Champion’s uniqueness. It’s in this way that Champions who will never ascend can be repurposed for battle.

Someone enters tentatively just as I’m finishing up. “Hello, Bonesmith. It is Maestro Dawn.” Her voice is quieter than usual. She’s troubled. It’s not something I can see, obviously, but I feel the energy in the room has shifted.

“Good timing, Maestro. I’ve done it,” I announce. “I made a weapon, imbued with Krashkuz’s Essence, for your new Champion. You said she’s a Vitra?”

The maestro replies, “Yes, her name is Disna. She’s faster than Krashkuz but not as clever.”

“I thought you told me Krashkuz wasn’t very clever.”

“Yes,” she sighs.

There’s a jingle of coins, not many. I imagine Dawn is picking through them, already knowing it won’t cover the weapon’s cost but wanting me to hear her make the effort. I’d already told her, this one was on me… You can say what you want about Maestro Dawn’s money troubles but when a merchant new to the Market Bazaar tried to give me the wrong change recently, it was Dawn who called him out for trying to swindle me.

“That’s the Bonesmith, cretin,” she chided, from behind me in line. The cretin naturally thought she was joking, then panicked when he discovered she was not.

Of course things like that have happened to me before. My instincts have sharpened to the point that I can often intuitively detect the cowardice required to dupe the sightless. For instance, I’m sure Marlee pocketed a few bones this morning that she didn’t want me to know about, heaven only knows why not. Still, I can’t offer free wares every time someone helps me out. I did it in this case because Dawn didn’t shame the merchant for taking advantage of a “blind person” as most would; she shamed him for taking advantage of the Bonesmith. Her respect for my calling, my craft, the vital service I provide to Massina, is what inspired my respect for her in turn.

Dawn finally speaks, uneasily, hesitantly… “I have information for you, Bonesmith.”

“Maestro Dawn,” I reassure her, “you don’t have to trade information. You did me a great kindness at the market. The scimitar is yours.”

“Thank you, but I won’t be able to rest until I tell you what I overheard at your sister’s shop.”

Little that goes on at my sister’s shop interests me, but I’ll hear her out. “Go on,” I say.

“I wasn’t near enough to hear it all clearly,” shares Dawn, “but there was an argument. The Osteomancer was accused of… blinding you.”

My blood chills. “No,” I say quickly, reflexively.

“It is true,” says the maestro.

“No, I was blinded in a forging accident as a child.” The chill crawls up my arms and legs despite the sweltering heat in the room.

“I believe that was the implication, Bonesmith, that your sister… that she is responsible for it.”

“You’re mistaken,” I tell her. I fight to keep my voice even. “My sister wasn’t even there.”

Maestro Dawn persists, “But wait, there was more to the accusation… Perhaps a demon was involved? I couldn’t make out all of the words…”

“You’re mistaken,” I repeat, more firmly. “Who would dare confront the Osteomancer with such ridiculous accusations?”

Dawn admits, “When I entered there was no one in the shop but the Osteomancer.”

“You see?” I tell her. “You were hearing strange nothings. That’s not uncommon in places where dark magic is practiced.”

I can’t see Maestro Dawn nodding but I suspect that she is. “I didn’t mean to offend you, Bonesmith.”

“You haven’t,” I assure her. “You might have offended my sister, though, had you told her. She’s already subjected to enough judgment and scrutiny due to the mysterious nature of her work.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Dawn swears, “I won’t speak of it to you or her or anyone ever again.”

“Good idea. Some might think you mad.” I laugh too loudly. Maestro Dawn’s nervous laughter joins mine.

“May I still…?” she begins. She’s motioning to the weapon, I’m sure.

“Yes, take the scimitar!” I encourage. “It will serve your Champion well.”

“Thank you, Bonesmith,” says Maestro Dawn. She leaves with the haste of embarrassment. I lock the door when she exits. It’s only then that I feel my hands have been trembling.

It will be time to rejoin my sister soon.

I sit and I wait.

-

I’m first to the Butcher’s pigpen just as I was first to the furnace. Sorting through the day’s carnage to haul back to the furnace is my least favorite part of the job but it has to get done. It doesn’t ever surprise me when Marlee is late to join me for this work. It’s an especially bloody mess tonight. My thick gloves engulf my arms past the elbow; my hands no longer tremble.

It’s some time before a familiar cacophony of pig grunts announces Marlee and Chienne’s arrival. Even with the horrific stench of rotting flesh and pig shit, I can smell something else: fear. I suspect Marlee has spent her afternoon in paranoid terror, wondering how much Maestro Dawn overheard at her shop and how much of it Dawn may have told me.

“How was your day?” I ask my sister. I always ask.

“Business as usual,” says Marlee, “Nepote never came by.”

“He didn’t come by my workshop either,” I share.

“And how was your day?” my sister asks. She never asks.

“Fine, thank you. Busy,” is all I reply.

There’s palpable tension but only for a moment. Then my sister and I, side by side, in our usual silence, resume our work sorting severed tails, bloodied torsos, and other assorted oozing appendages. We work just long enough for Marlee to stop sweating, for her breathing to slow, for her to believe that she’s made it through another day with her secret safe.

“I shall have to go, I… feel unwell,” says Marlee. Shall. Unwell. She’s spoken in this grand, affected way since she was a teenager, I’ve never understood it. But she’s said this too suddenly. Since my silence allayed her earlier fears, something new must have her attention.

“I can finish here,” I assure her. “Good night, Marlee.”

“I shall see you tomorrow,” she says distractedly, already exiting with haste.

Yeah, she’ll see me tomorrow.

Bitch.

I know my sister blinded me.

I’ve known it for a long time.

Chienne has stayed behind. I can feel the wag of her stubby little tail hitting my leg. Thwack, thwack, thwack…

I also know Chienne is no ordinary Sumonot.

“Naughty girl,” I gently scold her. “I had to convince Maestro Dawn she didn’t hear what only you could’ve said.”

“I warned Marleenken I was hungry,” snorts Chienne. This isn’t the first time Marlee’s djinn has lost its temper when Marlee doesn’t meet its needs.

I have no memory of my forging accident or the first few days after. But my first memory after, my first sightless memory, was the shiver of sensation that went through me running my little fingers through the soft fine fur of a tiny Sumonot puppy. Even then I knew there was something strange about “Chienne.” My mother told me that Marlee found Chienne in the garden on the night of my accident. Mom didn’t believe in coincidences; she swore the odd little stray had arrived to cheer and soothe me. But Marlee wouldn’t share her pet. I had never paid much attention to my sister, but that’s when I began to realize she was mean.

I give Chienne a sympathetic scratch behind the ears, her fur still as soft and fine as when she was a pup. “Marlee has never taken very good care of you, has she?”

“But you always take care of me, friend,” says Chienne.

It’s true. I’ve become rather fond of this little beast who is both my sister’s magic and her menace. Marlee has no idea that I know what Chienne is, or that we talk like this.

“Still, you gave me a scare this time,” I say, as I pick through a pile of chunky Karkadon legs the Butcher has severed at the knee. “What happened today with the maestro can’t happen again. If anyone is going to destroy my sister, it’s going to be me, you know.”

“I know,” purrs Chienne. I imagine her houndly face is curling into a sort of grotesque frothy grin.

After the accident, as Marlee and I grew, so did the chasm between us. Soon our interactions were limited to jostling for time at the forge in the yard. Losing my sight didn’t mean losing my gift. I found a way to practice my craft. As for Marlee, the first time I ever heard the term Osteomancer was when my mother and grandmother were whispering of my sister’s very new and sudden propensity for the dark arts…

It wasn’t until much later that I learned my only sister traded my vision to a demon in exchange for a djinn whom she is absolutely talentless without.

It turns out a djinn will tell you a lot… if now and then you throw it a bone.

I choose the lower leg of a Karkadon I can feel had a particularly meaty and bloody calf. I toss it to Chienne and hear her dive for it hungrily.

I haven’t sought revenge against my sister because I can’t think of a greater punishment for Marlee than her own pathetic existence in Massina: the endless cycle of paranoia and posturing, fraudulently toiling in a craft she chose for the glory rather than the love of it, carrying the burden of a secret that can destroy her, and, worst of all… the fresh hell of having to wake up every single day and work alongside me, with her perfectly functional eyes watching me thrive, successful and confident and content.

I can hear Chienne ardently slurping and tearing her way through the Karkadon’s calf, the slobbery shell of a Sumonot in such contrast to the dangerous djinn within. Sumonots are funny little creatures. Tenacious, territorial… They say you can’t so much as put two Sumonots into a circle on a table without one trying to shove the other out. If one day I should change my mind about Marlee, if one day I should take the power I wield over my sister without her knowing it, and use the truth to crush everything she holds dear, it sure as hell won’t be Maestro Dawn or anyone else who gets to strike the final blow.

I will be the one who shoves my sister out.