She can’t hear the song of holystone any longer. For as long as she’s had memory, she has nurtured their soaring melodies in her breast. Now those voices have fallen silent and that absence rings without cease, a tinnitus of the soul. It’s like the organs have been plucked from her body, leaving a weak-walled flesh husk behind. This is the work of Heretics, carried out by those who call themselves Faithful. She will never forgive this betrayal.

There’s another prisoner bound for the ship, tall and slender and spitting fire as they tug her in directions she doesn’t like. The Lady Alodia Lightning hasn’t been given the VIP salve treatment like Misery has, possibly because she’s been better behaved. Misery’s heart kicks up in joy: even in this low moment, she is not alone.

Across the field of harsh white light the princess catches sight of her. Instant joy on her face, and fresh determination: she’s found a reason to fight again. She elbows a guard and makes a sprint forward. “Misery!”

The muzzles of a dozen weapons snap upward to block her way. An armored hand pulls her back by the shoulder as its owner barks, “No talking! March forward!”

Lightning slings her shoulder free, defiant and angry. No one tells her what to do. She takes another step and the closest soldier raises hir gun, ready to fire.

The princess narrows her eyes. “You wouldn’t dare.” She’s been treated relatively well since capture, and she’s maintained that core of arrogance, without which she wouldn’t be Lightning. Even here, even in these circumstances, her family name protects her.

Standing at the door to the waiting shuttle, Commander Ashe says, “You may not be disposable, but your friend is. Bear that in mind.”

Lightning hesitates. Maybe she can call their bluff. But is it worth the risk? If she’s wrong, Misery’s dead. Is she sure enough to take another step? She isn’t. The potential cost is too high to bear.

She locks eyes with Misery across the space that separates them. Even from afar she can tell something’s amiss in Misery’s deflated posture and dull eyes. She knows the bastards running this station have done something to her. After all, she’s had plenty of experience with being unwillingly slugged to void depth on salves. Plenty.

If only Jericho’s lies about telepathy were real. If only Misery could read minds and project thoughts like he said. Then she could shed the cruel distance between her and Lightning and let her know that she’s sorry things happened this way. She’s sorry things didn’t go as planned. But she’s not giving up. Not now, not ever. Her crusade against the Heretics has only just begun.