When I slide into the bath this time, it frees a wordless, guttural groan from my throat. Long, loud, and underpinned by a growl from deep in my chest, I vent out my frustration and physical aches in one cathartic release. A tinge of Wind escapes, too; carving fleeting spirals of green light through the rising steam. My tongue sharpens under the magic flow, tasting wet air and a hint of my own scent.

  My tail goes limp in the water, the tension in my body melts away... something deep inside me demands I curl up on a hot rock and doze off, like a lizard basking in the sunlight. There's plenty of space for it, after all— this was built as a communal bathing space for bureaucrats back in Imperial times. Now, though, it’s just for me. Gods, is the communal space in the city still open? If not, I might just have to fix that.

  And as my growl trails off, I tilt my head up and stare at the ceiling. My hair pools against the ground, silvery strands clinging to my shoulders.

  “Thank you,” I manage, offering my gratitude and a stream of magic to the Manor. “Make it a little warmer?”

  The Manor reaches back in a rippling of floorboards and a shifting of stones. Duty, it murmurs, settling warmth over my shoulders. Pleasure.

  It’s certainly gotten a bit more active as I’ve poured magic into it... and more eccentric. That broom and dustpan pair still wander the Manor, even after I went and fixed up the frayed edges of the cleaning enchantments. Then there’s the Manor opening doors for Helena if she asks nicely, though I imagine that’s because she’s been fixing up all the curtains. Easily bribed, apparently.

  Eh. It keeps things interesting. With a shrug and a hiss, I pull myself back up to a sitting position and reach for a brush. Rivulets of water trace their paths across skin and scale, curving around muscle and escaping into the bath.

  My shoulders tingle, protesting the motion, reminding me of the monsters I'd thrown without proper posture. My chest twinges, happy to be free of binding but equally sore underneath.

  Time to get my scales clean of all this... green. Ugh. Brushing and scraping and pulling out cracked scales will take ages, won’t it? Best get to work. Even if I want to be a pile of mush, a loose collection of muscle and scale, I should...

  Mm. Maybe just a little bit of rexing first. Floating is nice.

  And, as time begins to blur: Guest at the bath’s door.

  The Manor’s whisper is accompanied by a gentle nudge, drawing my attention away from my cleaning. By the time I’ve pushed through the warm, delicious lethargy of the bath, I can hear the aforementioned guest knocking.

  Guest, though that could mean several people. Elizabeth, Winston, Harriet, Helena... Verity, now. I push curiosity back on the Manor: what guest? How do they look or feel?

  A pause. A faint impression of thought. Sun and Fire. Pale fabrics.

  Verity, then! Now, Sun doesn’t come as a surprise, a padin of the Sun Regent would no doubt be granted that, but Fire as well? Add in the natural Wind of all humans, and that’s three archetypes. Impressive— and a lot of work, if my own months-long efforts to work with Lightning were anything to go off. And that’d be ignoring the year I lost to Fire being ornery, and I’d rather ignore that.

  Never mind that it’s the one archetype I want, but can’t seem to get. Feh.

  I clear my throat, then speak. “If you’re looking for a private bath, you’ll have to wait, Verity.”

  “Hm,” Verity’s voice comes through the door, muffled but comprehensible, “Well, do you mind sharing?”

  Do I?

  Eh. I shrug, looking across the bath. It is supposed to be a communal space, isn't it? “I don't mind. Come on in.”

  “Given your gear is spread across the bench, I hope you don’t mind that my clothes are just tossed over a chair?” Verity's voice precedes her, as does the sound of bare feet against the stone floor. Her voice grows louder when she next speaks, “Wow! This is a really nice bath.”

  “Isn’t it?” I agree, not looking up from my brushing. My tail is curled up into my p, and I've made good progress on cleaning out the gunk and green stains. “The water is drawn and heated by the Manor itself, too.”

  “Even better.” I can practically hear her smiling.

  I listen as she pads across the bath, and take a moment to appreciate the padin as she crosses into my vision. Long, lean, and toned, she walks with practiced grace and complete confidence... and it's obvious that she's appreciating me back. Given that context, I watch a little longer; it's not every day I see another woman with broad shoulders and actual muscle.

  She slips into the water with a gentle spsh and long, guttural groan. “Ohh, Goddess. Yess.”

  “Hah. There's nothing like a good bath,” I agree as her groan tapers into a sigh.

  Rather than answer, Verity dips further into the water, sliding along the tiled floor until she's fully submerged. Speckled feathers and wavy bck hair drift along the surface, pushed around by ripples and bubbles.

  Maybe half a minute ter, Verity's arms come up and brace themselves on a seat. She pushes herself up to the surface in one motion, forearms and shoulders bulging with corded muscle. Water drips down her form, clinging to curves and rolling down her muscuture. It's fascinating how different the light looks, glinting off her warm brown skin rather than my paler tones.

  Now that I'm looking properly, hints of her Mageblood nature are id pin: beyond the feathers at the fringes of her hair, there's tufts on her elbows and just below her colrbone. Less than I'd expect for a padin with three types of magic, but plenty of Magebloods choose to look that way.

  “Bwah,” she says, helpfully, hair covering her face. “Any chance I could get some soap?”

  Leaning over the side, I grab a bar of soap and toss it to her. She catches it with one hand and entirely without looking.

  Cocking her head, she watches me with one eye. “Thanks. Do you mind conversation, by the way?”

  Setting my brush aside, I mull it over. Baths are good pces to think... so, what better time to have an honest conversation? I'll be working closely with this woman, no doubt.

  “Go ahead,” I nod eventually, gesturing at her with the tip of my tail. “I’m not always the best talker, though.”

  Verity smiles, forming a ther with the soap in her hands. Her visible eye dips down from mine, then flicks back up. “So we can admit we're both enjoying the view, right?”

  A chuckle bubbles its way out of my mouth. “There's a lot to appreciate. It's better than I expected bathing with a padin to go, really.”

  “I think your arms might be thicker than my calves, and that’s to say nothing of the rest of your muscles,” Verity smiles, lifting a leg to demonstrate. She's right. “And I don't know what I was expecting. Delver nobility are rare.”

  “Sitting around doesn't really suit me,” I shrug. Hopefully the heat on my cheeks is hard to see.

  “That much is quite obvious from how you look. Gd we're getting along,” Verity replies, smile widening. She turns to face me fully, only increasing her capacity to blind me. “No offense, but most of you are nigh intolerable.”

  I raise an eyebrow, then slide further into the water. “Delvers, or nobles?”

  “Nobles.” She rolls her eyes, and her smile softens. “I swear they train gruffness into every Delver, but that's manageable. But I can't stand watching nobility with their swarms of servants.”

  “A bit frivolous, isn't it?” I take a guess, raising an eyebrow. “I just have Benny, so I suppose I can understand that.”

  “Just? You own swathes of nd and a massive house that could hold dozens,” Verity huffs, and for a moment, the whites of her eyes flicker bck. “You’re throwing less coin away, sure, but having an Estate is wasteful by definition.”

  “Not holding back, are you?” I mutter wryly, pushing down on the heat building in my gut. Brutal honesty is something I respect, and... bah. What's mine is mine, but I can't say she's wrong.

  So I hum, put together some words, and push forward. “Honestly, I'd like to have this conversation again ter, when the city isn’t under threat. I'll also point out that you're making use of that wasteful bath.”

  Her eyes brighten, and her smile takes on a shape I haven't seen before— one that causes her eyes to crinkle. “Oh, well pyed. I'm being a hypocrite, aren't I? I look forward to that conversation, when things settle. For now, though...”

  Verity shifts, and I watch the ripples as they travel across the bath. They p against my chest gently, not even enough to spsh.

  "I hope you don't mind that I wandered around," Verity says quietly, and for a moment I'm struck by the sound of her voice. "But, well, there's a painting down the hall. It has some names under it."

  Ah. Rather than share my feelings, I drum them into the rim of the basin, one cw at a time. When did they switch from being fingers? "Go on."

  She's watching my cws now, not my face. "They called you Olivia in that, right? Because, Goddess, you've grown up quite nicely. I imagine you could throw that old wheelchair clear across the city."

  Ah, the st and best family portrait— a thought that leaves a bitter taste on my tongue. I chuckle, tail swirling through the water without ever breaching the surface. Do I really look that much like her, these days?

  "I was Markus, actually," I say softly, running my tongue over my pointed teeth.

  "Oh," Verity says, her focus dipping rather btantly toward my chest. "Huh. That's an even bigger change. Congratutions!”

  I raise an eyebrow, shifting and sitting up a bit more. The attention isn't unpleasant. “What would you have said otherwise?”

  “That Ivy suits you better,” Verity replies instantly, snapping her eyes back to my face. “That's still true, of course! I— well. Hm. I’m digging myself a hole, aren’t I?”

  I can see her already flushed cheeks darken from here. People get awkward around me being man-shaped as a child, almost without fail. Stumbling to respect, to process, or to not say something rude. I’ll admit, I always take some joy in it.

  So I let out a snort and wave her off. “Don’t worry about it, Verity.”

  “Then I won't,” Verity smiles in reply, running a hand through her hair. Speckled white and grey feathers flick up, freed from the tangles even as her own fingers get trapped. “Aaah... we should probably actually bathe now, shouldn't we?”

  “Probably,” I agree, and we pse into bathing— Verity seems to have a week's worth of travel to scrub, and my arms are still a little green. A handful of words are shared, here and there, but nothing of substance.

  Finally, though, it's time for us to go.

  “Would you like a hand with your hair?” I offer, slowly standing up. “I’ve got brushes and so on in the dressing area. And towels, so we can dry off first.”

  Verity winks. “Sounds efficient. Maybe we could do this again sometime?”

  My eyebrows shoot up, and I can feel my cheeks warming. She's forward, isn't she?

  “I wouldn't mind it,” I decide, shrugging, then hurry to crify: “Being joined for a bath, I mean.”

  Verity ughs, lifting up a lock of wavy bck hair. “The lovely dy in the mirror joins me every time, so I can't say I know. Anyways, I look forward to it— but for now, I really would appreciate a help with my hair, it's getting horrifically tangled today.”

  Our meeting room is a darker pce than I’d like. It’s the library, a pce made bright by sun and Helena’s near-constant presence on her days at home. The curtains are thrown wide still, allowing moonlight to mix with the bright light of fire crystal mps glimmering against wood-panelled wall and crammed bookshelves. My socks sink into the plush carpeting, the atmosphere should be pleasing, but—

  Verity has vanished, and the air is heavy enough to choke on. Winston is gone, too; instead, Padin Greyfeather and Lord Craumont have the room held in a noose-knot hold.

  Greyfeather's eyes gleam like an owl's in the mplight, her talons drum along the map table's edge. Even dressed down in that simple tunic and pants, she carries the weight of her armor. Her lips part, forming soundless words. My cousin speaks to her with a tiredness that makes my heart ache.

  Gods, it's gotten to Elizabeth and Harriet, too. Elizabeth is halfway between faces, pulled toward the dy liar facade. Harriet is dour and contemptive, but his expression is the lightest of those around me.

  I wear no masks, though. I am Ivy Crawford, and I'll remain myself. Even in the face of arming news— a combination of Winston and Greyfeather's observations.

  Winston thought we had years before the wards failed.

  Verity took one look behind the curtain, and Padin Greyfeather came out with hardened eyes. She asked her questions, Winston answered, and we came to an awful conclusion:

  Two months until the wards fail. Four, if we're lucky. The warm bath an hour ago feels like a distant memory, drowned in a cold shock of dread.

  Two months.

  If I can't— if we can't fix this—

  If my pride is what leads to my home falling apart—

  What about people like Charlie the baker? Or the children I’d seen running around the parks? I'll always survive, but how would less fortunate folk push through?

  “So let’s fix it.”

  My voice slices through the gloom, loud and hissing and growling. The excitement of a challenge churns within, barely held at bay by the grim circumstances. Still, all eyes turn to me, and I meet their gazes in turn.

  “There's a handful of Delves I can go deeper on without widening the wound. I’ll seal them, help you look for the culprits when I’m not Delving or recovering.” I gesture vaguely at the map. My tail clicks along the enchanted wood of a chair leg, coiling around it like a serpent. “So, what’s the deepest Delve wound?”

  Silence.

  “The worst wound goes well over two thousand marches deep, Ivy,” Winston replies finally, his voice unsteady. I feel a chill form in my gut. “It’s unnaturally deep for its age, and while it's healing, it's not healing fast enough.”

  His eyes won't meet mine. He turns, looking around the room.

  Over two grand marches. Cold dread burrows deeper at the thought— a depth beyond my rating. Aching joints, sore muscles, soul compression... I'll need to py it safer than I’ve pyed a Delve in years. But I know how to feel my limits.

  “I know you're rated for two grand marches, though. Padin Greyfeather, if my cousin were able to seal the deepest active yers of that Delve... perhaps a few weeks? Two months?”

  “Sounds good enough,” I cut in, barely letting Winston finish his sentence. I reach down into my mind and seize the seed of dread therein. “We'll make this work.”

  “Two grand marches? Impressive, Ivy.” Padin Greyfeather's eyes burn brightly, and she curls a lock of her hair around a finger. “Two months from this Delve alone, if she can manage to seal the deepest yers. Enough time to call on more padins. Lord Craumont, you'll need to hire another Delver regardless, and perhaps some Mages.”

  She takes a slow, steady breath. “But you'll have to go beyond that rating, Ivy. Are you sure?”

  I nod. Speaking aloud would involve lies I don't care to make.

  “Cost is no object, with so many lives on the line.” Winston inclines his head. “I’ll call upon any experts I know of and ensure a missive is sent to my liege lord.”

  Elizabeth lets out a sigh, looks at her gss of wine, and downs it in one go. She reaches for the bottle. “Gods. And this assumes our would-be city killers aren't going to dig another deep Delve. Ivy, dear, you've got your work cut out for you— and I'll have mine. More contacts, more questions... less scruples, though.”

  The doors to the meeting room sm open with a thunderous thud. I'm on my feet before my mind catches up, Verity looks to have leapt a full half-march into the air, Winston's got Water on his fingers, Harriet's taken three steps back— Elizabeth is holding two knives, though I'm not sure where she hid them.

  And in rushes Helena Harkness, with her pile of paper and a head of damp hair. “Sorry, sorry I'm te! I, um, the bath took longer than expected...”

  The room, as one, rexes. Harriet chuckles, leaving Helena to flush and scan the room with wild eyes. “Did I miss something important?”

  Elizabeth rolls her eyes, setting down her empty wine gss. “Yes, Helena, you've certainly missed a few things. But given our little conspiracy was starting to match Ivy's dour attitude, I daresay it was needed.”

  “I am not dour, Lizzie. I'm just trying to be serious, that's all.” I grumble, crossing my arms and dropping back into my seat. “Anyways. If Helena's here, let's bring her up to speed.”

  “Um, you're... welcome, I think?” Helena blinks, fidgeting in pce. “What's there to be so, um, dour about? Is everything okay?”

  Verity closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. After humming a few notes, she turns to face Helena. “We’re dancing close to the tracks, that's all. The wards are more damaged than Lord Craumont thought. Ivy is going to be undertaking an extremely deep Delve to give us more time.”

  “And the rest of us— if I may interject, Padin—” Winston speaks up, exchanging nods with Verity. “Must track down our culprits. As of yet, we haven't determined how they're opening these Delves and escaping without witnesses. Ivy wasn't able to determine the details from what little she saw.”

  “And that's to say nothing of where they're based, if anywhere,” Harriet adds in, leaning over the map table. He taps a finger in the Wildflower District. “We have guesses, but nothing concrete. Nobody seems to know... anything, really.”

  Helena's expression sours to a grimace, and she takes a shuddering breath. Something churns behind her eyes, a mix of fire and fear I've seen once before— when she'd demanded I take her into a Delve.

  “Alright, then. How can I help?” Her voice is crisp and clear, without a hint of hesitation. She's looking at me, now, not Winston or Verity.

  I narrow my eyes in return. She wants my approval? Why? It's not my call, and she's already involved. “Winston. What can Helena do for us?”

  The whole room exhales, except for Verity, whose confusion matches my frustration. And I know they're doing it, and they know I can hear them doing it, because almost everyone here is a Mageblood.

  “How well, would you say,” Elizabeth drawls, pouring herself another gss of wine, “Do you know the Wildflower District?”

  “And how well do they know you?” Harriet adds on, gncing up for a moment.

  Helena strides around the table and takes the open chair next to mine. “You want me to find Bitgarm?”

  Sharp as ever.

  “The former Restoration priest?” Verity confirms, looking to Winston. “If that's him, then yes. Do you think you can help with that?”

  “Of course!” Helena nods vigorously. “Um, I fix clothes and quilts for the people there almost every day. It’s my Service. They know me! It might be hard, though, and... um.”

  “You'll be perfect, then,” Verity chirps. Her smile is back, and while she has the room's attention, she sms her hands on the table. I'm not sure she notices how red that comment made Helena. “I’ll be joining you on occasion, the people around here seem to respect my Goddess. Besides that though, we've lots to do. Lord Craumont, What's our pn?”

  Winston opens his mouth, then closes it. His eyes trail to the window, to the darkening sky and the rising moon. A hand goes to a horn, and he strokes the base gently.

  “I think…” He says, his voice deepening. He stands up straight, squaring his shoulders and taking a deep breath. What now?

  “I think it’s dinner, actually?”

  A chuckle rips its way up my throat, and I barely manage to crush it into a soft hiss. What an atrocious use of a serious setup. Gods, I—

  The ugh tears its way out of me this time, dragging my dread with it. My tail wiggles behind me, and I feel the urge to cp Winnie on the shoulder.

  “Come on, that was funny,” I snort, taking a quivering breath. Verity's rolling her eyes, Lizzie is unimpressed, and it looks like Helena is choking on her own ugh. Winston looks unpleasantly smug.

  Harriet, at least, is indulging properly in a belly ugh. He's my favorite now.

  “I'll tell Benny it's time for dinner,” I manage, pulling myself out of my chair. My tail slips through the gap on one side of the chair, thumping to the floor next to my foot. “I could go for a good meal, myself.”

  And, I think, it'll help take my mind off the massive Delve in my near future. Over two grand marches deep? It’s hard to forget how I felt just approaching the two grand march milestone— triumphant, sure, but with blood on my tongue and my soul groaning under the pressure. I was pnning on trying for that next year, and with far less weight on my shoulders.

  If I'm not careful, it might just kill me.