Ten’s corpse rotted in the center of a dark, wooded grove. Moss and mold crept onto her sides, clawing their way up her greying fingertips and neck. Verdant vines crawled over her body, slowly sowing their seeds within her decaying skin. Iridescent butterflies and crystal-eyed flies fluttered around the exposed ribs of her chest, both species attracted to the pungent scent of her rotting flesh. Beside her, Ten’s sword rested, its once distinctive features obscured by wet, black moss. 

Her knuckles, white, still grasped onto a golden fragment of an intricate key, the only part of the being not nearly destroyed by rot. The key. The Fey Queen’s key. Dies Irae.

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Idika knelt over her work table, sweat dripping off her deep, glowing brown-toned skin, callouses forming on the pale inner sides of her hands. Next to her, the bare minimum materials needed to polish metal, glistening oil, some dark pastes, rags, and obviously her sword. Her breath, shallow, her scrubbing, forced, her focus, strained, but the blade needed to glisten. She would not stop until she could see every scar and wound on her face reflected in the silver metal. She had an audience with The Fey Queen in a matter of hours, and she could not bear to give anything but her best.

Aside from her workbench, the room she spent a large portion of her life in was incredibly sparse. Simply crafted wooden-framed bed with a single knit blanket and pillow overtop. A few cabinets, a fireplace, but no decorations, nothing besides essentials. There was no need for anything but essentials. Most of her days were spent away, out of the house for her work, and anything that distracted her from her work was a worthless endeavor.

The hilt of Idika’s sword already shone with a perfect, reflective sparkle. The base of the sword was crested with an amethyst gemstone and silver metal grapevines wrapped the cross and grip. The entirety of the blade glimmered with a purple sheen, sparkling and pure, the radiant touch of The Fey Queen’s blessing.

She lifted her sword by its handle. The blade itself, nearly white, with a faint tinge of purple, mirrored the pure white of the sun filtering through the window. Yet, a rusted black speck kept the blade from being perfectly clean. Idika dabbed a touch more oil on the base of the blade and continued scrubbing.

Still, rust. Black, tainted rust on the base of her sword. Idika sighed and tried to reclaim control over her breath. In. Out. In and out. In. If she held her breath long enough, maybe she could slow her heart rate. It would be fine. Certainly.

Idika donned her formal wear, the bangles, rings, and chains meant for an occasion as pressing as a meeting with her source of power and acclaim. The gold and silver twisted around her now greying hair and her many-layered necklaces forced her spine into upright attention. Crescents and stars and scalloped edge coins dotted her person. She pressed a final, studded nose ring into her septum and sheathed her sword.

Before she exited the simple wooden door to her home, Idika pulled a smooth purple gemstone from her pocket and brushed it with her finger. She smiled, “Shall we?”

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Idika slashed through the vibrant flora of the forest of Westlow. Baby blues and pastel purples of the flowers swirled around her with each swish of her sword. The more and more she traveled the same path through the forest, the more the forest seemed to keel under her blade. Not only did the ground below her feet slowly indent with her repeated footsteps, but the trees practically cowered in her presence. When she first began this route years prior, it seemed that the forest was crushing her, bushes and vines clinging to her, trying to drag her to the dirt. Now, more than a welcome guest, Idika was a known entrant.

Before long, Idika stood before two marble columns, both towering white. Pristine. Perfect. A level of cleanliness that her scarred, human hands could never achieve. She sighed and knelt between them, using her sword as support. She pulled the smooth amethyst gemstone from her pocket and placed it between the columns. Shutting her eyes tightly, she spoke, “Your gracefulness, I make my presence known.”

In a matter of seconds, a glistening, nearly transparent, but strikingly indigo tapestry appeared between the two columns, reminiscent of the silk of a spider spun between two tree trunks. The purple of the fabric pulsated, glowing brighter with each threaded heartbeat. The image of eyes took form from the tapestry, three on each side of the head and one large in the center.

As Idika knelt, eyes fixed ahead, a voice formed from the tapestry, a pitch a high and clean. A voice that let each word stick to its tongue like sugar crystals, “My precious Tree of Life, how I’ve awaited your arrival. How do you fare?”

Idika turned to face the tapestry. “My queen, Idika is fine. No need for titles.”

“Always wise to adjust to new names in these uncertain times.” As the voice continued, more features began taking shape in the tapestry. A sharp jaw, narrow shoulders, and many wings of a dragonfly on the figure that only possessed seven purple eyes moments prior.

“Certainly,” Idika apprehensively turned away from the tapestry once more. “But, you made summons for me. Is there news of your artifacts?”

“Why must our interactions be so transactional?” As the creature spoke, its body began to emerge from the tapestry. Purple, sparkling skin, holographic dragonfly wings, multiple eyes, all held in a glorious, towering frame. She continued, “Is it not fair for a patron to wish to see her last remaining champion?”

Idika laughed awkwardly. Stilted. She could not tell if her queen was joking.

“Tragic. Always so serious.” The Fey Queen reached out a glimmering purple hand and held it to the cheek of Idika. 

As their skin made contact, Idika’s posture weakened, softening into The Fey Queen’s touch. Idika’s cheeks flushed a dark currant red. She angled her sword towards the grass and let go of the blade, using the free hand to cup The Fey Queen’s hand on her cheek.

The Fey Queen’s effervescent smile widened as her head tilted slightly. “Word of Dextera Domini has been found through the Grove of Saturnalia, the holy grail of its renowned temple. Return my chalice to me, and your labors shall be complete. The work the others completed shall not go in vain.”

Idika laughed a deep dark laugh from her chest, the kind that she could not contain, “I knew there would be news of your artifacts.”

“So discerning, my love.” The Fey Queen caressed the side of Idika’s face. With each motion of The Fey Queen’s talon-nailed fingertips, Idika’s expression softened even further.

Idika gently pulled The Fey Queen’s fingers away, not enough to let go of her grasp, but just enough to maintain her composure to speak. “Once completed, will the Knights of Westlow be reunited as you promised?”

“Would I ever lie to you?”

Idika smiled a wide, soft grin. 

The Fey Queen traced the jawline of Idika with her fingers before pulling away. As she stepped backward, her physical form unraveled, slowly knitting back into the tapestry between the columns. Soon, only her upper torso remained corporeal, she continued, “State your title for me, champion.”

Idika’s posture stiffened back to her reverent kneel. She retrieved her sword and pressed its point into the dirt, “Idika, Amethyst Eye of The Fey Queen’s Court.” 

The Fey Queen’s smile widened even further as the rest of her form unraveled, until only her eyes as indentations in purple fabric remained, “How much better it sounds out of your mouth.”

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Idika held the gilded edge of her blade to the scratchy chin of a young man. He was built, as many satyrs were, tanned skin and powerful muscles from cavorting through Westlow’s sunlit clearings. His horns were untouched, no chips, no discoloration, no scars. He was young. Young enough to avoid the troubles of conflict and skate by with ideal, picturesque ram’s horns. The man bore a few tattoos denoting devotion to specific leaders and particular otherworldly entities, but Idika did not need to concern herself with the matters of lesser heroes and lesser gods. Not when she had The Fey Queen.

At this angle, the satyr looked feeble. Weak. Most did to Idika, but especially so as he was backed up against the ground, cowering in fear. She tilted her sword up, his head followed. Fear rattled his rectangular pupils, she could see them trembling. She pressed ever so slightly, allowing the sword to pierce his skin and draw blood from his sharp jawline. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“I swear, there is not a record of any sort of chalice here for centuries!” He had the kind of voice meant to be drawn out, slow and smooth like tree sap, but due to the circumstances, his voice trembled, trying to spit the words out as quickly and efficiently as possible. “I have never heard of any Dextera Domini.”

Idika pressed the blade further into his chin. The blood now swelled at the edge of the sword, enough to begin dripping onto his simple leather armor. Armor not made for conflict against skin not made for scarring. He yelped in pain.

“Your lip quivers when you lie.”

“Please! Forgive me, I’m sorry.” The satyr’s breath shook. “It has been told of in legend. Wive’s tale in the grove, right hand of some forgotten god. Dextera Domini, that is all.”

“Share the temple that keeps it in legend.” Idika flung his own, inhuman accent back towards him, with only pitiful scorn and a desire for information keeping her from drawing more of his thick blood.

“They tell the children that it is kept in the center of some temple. Don’t know how the fawns believe such things, there has never been a temple in the Grove of Saturnalia.”

Idika’s grip on her sword weakened. So much so that the blade barely scraped her opponent’s beard. A temple. In the Grove of Saturnalia. She hadn’t considered it, but it truly made no sense. Ecstasy, revelry, wine, and such, that was the way a satyr showed devotion. When a practicing satyr was commanded to pray, there would never be a temple involved. Connection with nature, the sky, the ground, all were necessary for an act of worship for any major or minor entity of the Grove of Saturnalia. A temple would only get in the way. Why would the most devoted circles of satyrs build a temple in the Grove of Saturnalia?

“A temple in my Grove of Saturnalia.” The young satyr laughed a hollow, nervous laugh, “I pity the entity who sent you on such a fruitless endeavor.” His lip did not quiver.

At the man’s words, Idika’s posture immediately stiffened, her blade returning to a sharp incision in the satyr’s flesh. She was out of breath again, even though she had not been doing anything physically draining. It was a harrowing thought. There couldn’t be a temple in the Grove of Saturnalia. She pressed harder. The satyr continued his hushed yelps at her movement. 

“You have not yet learned not to speak of another’s patron that way.” She stepped closer, kneeling towards his frozen form.  

She grabbed his chin and gripped his cheeks, pushing her fingers against his skin and pressing into the bone underneath. Skin unworn by time. Idika stared deeply into his eyes, nearly a moment ago, they were almost calm, but now, his vision trembled in her exacting grasp. His eyes were perfectly unworn by tragedy. 

He was weak.