The War For The Pallid Throne

The Astralarium

If the scholars are the hands, then the Astralarium is the heart. An ancient relic given to mankind by the Basilisk. They say it's made from the spinal cord of a Leviathan and that it was embedded in earth's crust, reaching the core. Like an iceberg, the tip is a mere fragment of what lies beneath. The scholars have a name for the peak, an instrument they call the sundial. A tool that has its own gravitational pull strong enough to influence even the gas giants. What manner of power is this and why don't we fear the god who made it?   

16

Ilene started with her ankle. A fold of skin came loose nearest her big toe, and it was easy to work that section free. At first, it felt good, like peeling off a week-old scab that burned and itched. Even as a little girl, she loved that feeling, sneaking out of her mother's house to rub sycamore sap on her hands to peel off later. That's how it felt, pulling webbing from between her toes and the squamous carcinoma from her palms and thighs.

Beneath a mound of leathery scales was a soft pink layer. That was her lymphatic vessel. Fresh skin puffy and red. Ilene was careful not to scratch and break the membrane before its time. She wanted to stay like this as long as possible, like the young woman whose stomach didn't growl while her sister slept. What she wouldn't give to be that woman again.

Ilene took a deep breath. The simple part was over.

Click.

She dislocated her right arm to grab at the loose section across her back.

"One," she said to herself. "Two, Three!"

Rip!

She screamed, tearing out the gills and spindly fibers that danced across the floor like a fish out of water. Ilene dropped to her knees, panting, her hands shaking and sweat dripping from her brow.

Click.

Her right arm rolled into place, and she sat on her ankles, pinching the skin on the side of her left breast and the loose patch from her navel to her groin.

"One," Ilene exhaled sharply. "Two!"

Rip!

Ilene screamed again, blood and tears flowing like a river, filling divots in the floor. She lay there for a time, struggling to catch her breath and keep her fingers still. The cool ivory felt good across her belly, itchy and red.

Soon, Ilene rolled onto her back and sat up cross-legged, reaching for the hand mirror on her bedside table. She worked at the layer of skin by her ear, pressing her thumb until the membrane gave way. Then, pinching the corner with her thumb and forefinger, she lifted, pulling the skin away like rubber until it hit the corners of her scarred cheek. Ilene hissed, the scab holding fast like hair under a wad of adhesive.

"What I wouldn't give to be that woman again," she said, clenching her teeth and closing her eyes.

Rip!

The thirteenth, of course. It had to be the thirteenth. Her time of the month was always the same, no matter the year or season. Ilene laughed, remembering when the cycle involved little more than a few drops of blood and a cramp or two. In those days, she was innocent; In those days, she couldn't yet hear Vorax.

The Leviathan never seemed to stop screaming during a Pallid war. Closing her ears was useless. The sound peeled back her fingers and ruptured her tympanic membrane. Itrit gave her lotion for the scars, and it helped for a time. At least until her cochlea enlarged, making space for a second vestibular nerve. She could hear everything now, like Pilus arguing two floors down, Felix licking his wrist as he panted in the dark, and Icarus sounding the call of battle on the distant plains of Kath'le Kal.