16. The Polychrome
The Polychrome
Dearest Sona,
My old friend, I have no greater wish than for you to live without regrets.
So, at the risk of becoming a stranger to you once more, I must recommend the blood.
I do not believe in fate, as you know. But if I did, I would tell you that you discovered this healing phenomenon so that one day, by Lunara’s grace, you might use it to save your brother.
Nevermind the revolutionary advances the blood might lead to in Asilian medicine.
For Perri, this is the only way forward.
Sister—this is surely best for your brother. But cleric—cleric of Lunara—this is your calling: to bring our people closer to Lunara’s vision of health and prosperity.
Eagerly, I will await your decision.
P.S. In the event of your brother’s demise, I request blood and tissue samples. Preferably within the first 24 hours. I have proactively included post-mortem specimen collection materials in this parcel.
With Love,
Aria
A familiar bubbly shock tickled Flora’s feet.
That night, she awoke wading in the sands of Emyre, with the morning sun dancing across the shallows.
She saw her moccasins, still waiting for her at the edge of the water.
Stepping out, she crouched down and, one by one, put them onto her dripping feet. With a sigh, she looked up.
Flora’s heart stopped.
Unblinking, it stared from behind the magnolia tree at the water’s edge.
Its head was tilted downward and motionless, its horrifyingly large form wrapped around the tree’s trunk.
With its mouth closed and teeth hidden, the creature remained unmoving, and so did she.
Slowly, as she stood up straight, its large eyes followed.
For a fluttered beat, Flora forgot to breathe.
It could see her.
“Nope, not today,” Flora said, seeing as keeping quiet would do her no good. She flicked a glance at the water, just half a step away. “Run along, sir.”
The scythe’s pupils quivered, dilating and narrowing in a strange rhythm as it fixed on her. But, it didn’t move.
“I don’t have any spare change,” Flora continued on, “and I probably taste like microplastics.” With a shooing motion, she begged, “Go away, please.”
Instead, the creature took a cautious step closer.
“HEY BEAR!” Flora hollered, flailing her arms. “BEAR! HEY BEAR!”
The scythe blinked, reeling slightly. It looked over its shoulder, as though it, too, were concerned about the presence of a bear, then slowly glanced back at her.
They stared at each other for another long moment.
“Worth a shot,” Flora muttered. She unlatched the bag at her hip, not risking a single glance away as she reached inside.
“Speaking of...” she started as she withdrew the pistol.
Wide-eyed, the beast whimpered and cawed in protest, its eyes locked on the weapon as its ears flattened.
It hid itself behind a burnt brown wing, ducking its head in like a cape.
At the strange display of nervousness, Flora was taken aback.
What sort of off-brand of scythe was this?
These creatures were known to be as fearless as they were vicious.
In addition to being about as confrontational as a baby deer, this particular scythe lacked the usual aura of color-leeching dullness.
Its coat was honey brown rather than black, with a light core and shoulders that rolled into dark wings.
As the leaves swayed above, the morning sun danced across fur and feathers in scattered hues of bronze and gold.
Looking at it felt like seeing in color for the first time.
Flora’s eyes widened as a thought struck her.
A “polychrome” scythe, the journal called it—it was an anomaly even an expert like Sona had observed only once.
She could almost hear Sona’s voice, begging her to preserve such a rare specimen.
Sona would be floored, enthralled to see this now.
Helpless, a thought whispered, a taunt as much as a warning.
Flora ground her teeth. She could feel the cold of the trigger as her finger curled around it. Resentment festered in every tingling nerve, every burning wave of adrenaline. Sona’s ghost would be pleading for her to let it be, but Flora wouldn’t die the same way she did.
A wide and verdant eye peeked above the cocoon, then ducked back down like a scared child.
Flora held her stance, but there was something far more virulent than sympathy stopping her, muzzling her better instincts—something that Sona had sewn so deeply into her that it could never quite be removed.
Curiosity.
Those eyes, she thought. Flora blinked, her bitterness stifled by intrigue.
“Look at me,” she directed. And to her surprise, slowly, the creature looked up, eyes wide and worried at the center of her glare.
The scythe cooed like a pigeon, and for an instant, Flora was stunned in place.
“What the hell?” she murmured, releasing the bitter feeling in her chest with a steady exhale as her grip loosened.
Dazzled and terrified, Flora was startled by the color in its eyes—an emerald green that reflected a yellow fire like polished amber.
“Go on,” she said, flicking her wrist like she were shooing a dog. As though she were issuing a trained command, she prompted gently, “Fuck off.”
The creature seemed inclined to obey, backing away with a slight stumble.
In a flash of warm color, it leapt into a glide across the meadow, sailing off toward Night Sky Forest. Gawkishly, it latched itself to a tree with its talons, offering only a brief last glance before the bronze glimmer of its feathers burnt out among the shadows.
Flora’s arms swung back down to her side. She stood in her soggy shoes, entirely perplexed. Shaking her head, she began toward the safety of the village below. She kept an eye on the edge of the Forest, weapon still in hand as her nervous pace quickened.
Flora stormed into Thaola’s house, barely registering the twins’ warning that their mother was visiting another family. She rifled through the pages of the journal until she found the section on polychrome scythes.
“Please, Sona,” Flora murmured. “Tell me something.” With a harsh exhale, she began to read.
The polychrome scythe was a particularly reclusive variant—never observed among other scythes, rarely even observed on their own. But Sona did find one.
It was strange, she had noted, how it lacked the typical pallor in its eyes. And though Sona had been silent and observing from a distance, she swore the scythe saw her.
“Stay away.”
That was the warning it left her with. Its body shuddered, and it looked around at nothing as though it saw a world she couldn’t.
But it saw Sona enough to worry for her, and it backed away and left.
For a long time, those words haunted Sona more than any others hissed from a scythe’s tongue.
It wasn’t a lure, wasn’t a trick—just a polite warning to remain out of harm’s way.
And it was just considerate enough to peak Sona’s curiosity indefinitely.
Flora sighed, sinking slowly into her chair.
For years, Sona was perplexed by that anomalous creature, so much so that it was one of the few stories Flora had actually heard aloud.
But that one encounter—it was all Sona’s journal had on the subject.
Void of any further direction, Flora skipped forward to re-read Sona’s final entry: Therapeutic Applications of Scytherax Components.
Only two concoctions were listed: Tincture of Ash and Darkvein Elixir.
Flora furrowed her brow in thought. She knew that the “Tincture of Ash” was a potion derived from the remnant ashes of scythes slain by the King’s Hunters.
Discovered by Sona herself, the medicine was now widely used for sedation, pain control, and as an antidote to a number of poisons.
But Flora had read every single text Sona owned on Emyrian medicine, and she couldn’t recall any mention of a “Darkvein Elixir”.
Flora turned to the next page, but that was it; the rest of the journal was empty. She paused, noticing an unfitting paper slipping out near the end of the journal. Nestled between two empty pages was this little note. Carefully, Flora slid it out.
At the top of the note was the date of Sona’s death, and below was a cryptic record, scribbled hastily in her hand.
“Subject P.,” it read. “Hour 6/24.” Flora’s eyes traced the red flowing ink along the brittle parchment paper.
Affect: increasingly agitated
Ocular Presentation: increased redness of the sclera, iris maintained from origin, now notable for improper pupillary response
Phase: P.C. type (dark brown with ebony periphery)
The entire note was written like a field observation, clinically documenting everything Perri experienced in the first six hours after injection of Sona’s “Darkvein Elixir”, which Flora now presumed to be some derivative of Aria’s blood.
From shuddering pupillary contractions, to a steroid-rage-like behavioral presentation, every word of Perri’s clinical course sounded eerily familiar.
Toward the end, though, the fear of a loving sister began to bleed through the cleric’s sterile observations.
“... He swears that his body is mending,” she wrote, “but as the rage grows, so does the affliction of fire and ash. Still, in those fevered eyes I see kin, and in that unsettling form, I see my brother.”
Frustration surged as Flora rested her elbows on the table, pulling at the thickness of her hair.
“Fire and ash,” Flora repeated, tapping her head.
“What does that mean—fire and ash?” She retraced the events of the past few days in her mind, shaking her head.
She recalled the way the scythe disguised as Elia had transformed—in a flurry of fire and ash.
Then, before her flashed the image of frightened emerald eyes, outlined with a thin frame of gold.
“Perhaps the shadow we fear,” Sona had written, her final words like a warning meant just for Flora, “has been our own all along.”
“No,” Flora whispered in realization, standing abruptly. Zana and Mari watched curiously from across the room at her sudden movement. “No,” Flora growled angrily, her frustration spilling over and startling the twins.
“What’s wrong?” Mari asked.
Flora thought to herself: What would Sona do?
She shook her head, pacing as she tried to piece together a logic that was forever out of reach. Conjecture, Flora reminded herself, it was all just conjecture. But if Sona’s theory was correct…
She exhaled deeply, her hands folding behind her head as a calmness spread through her. What would Sona do?
Flora smirked.
Sona would lose her mind with excitement, probably. Because in her last day alive, she’d found the answer to her favorite riddle, deciphering the etiology of the polychrome scythe.
Opening her eyes, Flora noticed the twins’ worried expressions.
“Noec,” she replied, a new resolve in her tone as she clutched the journal tightly with Sona’s note tucked inside. The twins shared a confused glance, and Flora rushed out the door, running to the only place she knew to go.