Harmony

Her mantra had gotten her through to another day. That was all that mattered.

The walk back to yet the same convenient clearing--of which she'd grown even more averse to calling the “Renato Crater”--was surprisingly peaceful, mentally. Octavia had expected more emotional turmoil on the way to what she assumed would be a dramatic and traumatic experience. With the amount of eyes on her, watching with wary concern, she wondered if anyone would hold her hand if she asked.

The thought left her feeling like a child, and it was embarrassing the moment it crossed her mind. If nothing else, Octavia appreciated their efforts to maintain a semblance of normality, well aware of what genuine Hell would await as the day progressed. It possibly explained why Renato opted to walk so close to her. She could've sworn he was more annoying than usual, somehow.

“Day one of seeing dead people begins. Give it up for our fearless leader,” he jeered, his volume a bit too much for comfort this early in the morning.

“Please, please shut up,” Viola pleaded. “Please. Just once.”

It wasn’t enough to keep Madrigal from clapping. “Yay, Octavia!”

Octavia groaned. This might've been more miserable than dying repeatedly.

“We’ll take things one step at a time,” Harper reassured gently. “No need to rush. If you get overwhelmed, we can stop and try again on a different day. They've already waited this long. What’s a little more patience?”

His words were the only ones that brought her any semblance of comfort. She gave him a weak smile. He sounded like Stradivaria.

“So, who are you starting with?” Josiah asked.

The kick to his left ankle that Harper delivered was swift, instant, and--if the look on Josiah’s face meant anything--painful. Octavia was mildly impressed. “Learn a little tact,” Harper growled.

Octavia waved her hands defensively. “No, it’s okay. I haven’t decided yet. I don’t know who’s…eligible and who isn’t.”

Viola raised one hand aloft, adjusting Silver Brevada’s case with the other. The way by which the sling kept snagging against her hair seemed mildly agitating. “Me. Almost positive.”

Josiah nodded. “That’s one. I know it isn’t a pleasant thing to admit to, but we’re gonna have to be honest here. If anyone’s got Dissonance baggage that could maybe, even possibly count, this is as good a time as ever to speak up.”

When Josiah’s eyes fell to Harper, the Maestro’s own narrowed. “Nope. I know the rules, thought about them long and hard. My circumstances wouldn’t count. Bet on it.”

Josiah’s eyes flickered to his next victim. “Madrigal?”

She shrank under his pointed gaze, eyes wide. Harper aimed at the other ankle. He was, as expected, dead-on.

“Man, you can’t just ask people stuff like that. If they wanna talk about it, they’ll talk about it. It’s none of our business.”

“It’s gonna be Octavia’s business in a minute,” Josiah argued. “No hiding from that.”

The mention of her name alone was enough for Octavia to wince. Her discomfort wasn't lost on Harper, and he bristled.

“Octavia’s business, not yours. Look, no one’s obligated to tell you their life story. You’re not the one calling the shots here, anyway.”

“You think you’re more suited for the job?” Josiah spat.

“Fearless leader, remember?” Viola added, visibly aggravated with his words--and the apparent discomfort of leather snagging against satin repeatedly. “Stand down, idiot.”

“Guys, don’t fight!” Madrigal whined. It was a useless plea.

Octavia rubbed her temples. The sky was still pink, the clouds were still giving way to the morning rays, and she still wasn’t fully awake. It was much, much too early for this. She waited uncomfortably for Renato to cheer, agitate them further, or do anything to contribute to the chaos--as always.

When he offered only a soft chuckle, she wondered if the world was coming to an end. At her side, he walked slowly, his own footsteps falling in time with hers. The four troublemakers ahead of them were a world away, wrapped up in a verbal mess of their own making that their respective Muses surely overheard with interest. She watched his calm face, his muted expression a stark contrast from the Renato she’d grown so accustomed to. Recently, she felt like she’d seen two different versions of him altogether.

Her eyes fell to his sides, and she shifted her attention to the way his prosthetics lazily flanked either side of his slacks. Again, she couldn't stop herself from admiring the craftsmanship. Were it not for their rich coloring, she could easily mistake them for the real thing from a slight distance. Up close, the lacquer and finish broke the spell, somewhat. Still, they shimmered beautifully against every touch of light that graced the gentle red. She wondered how long they’d taken to make--the joints in particular.

“You’re staring.”

His sudden accusation was enough for her to jump. The red tint of discomfort on his face only served to bring an embarrassed blush to her own. It was probably insensitive. She kicked herself.

“Sorry,” Octavia mumbled.

Renato coughed awkwardly against the back of one false hand. “I, uh, if you wanna see, you just gotta ask. At least get to know a guy first,” he joked.

Octavia shuffled her fingertips against the hem of her dress absentmindedly. Against her better judgment, she surrendered the question she’d been swallowing for days. “How do they feel?”

Renato smiled faintly, casting his eyes downwards into his upturned palms. “Not as weird as I expected. They’re kinda weighted. Not too much. I sorta thought they’d feel more…unnatural, I guess. They’re not the real thing, obviously, but I figure this is as close as I’m gonna get. I like them.”

Octavia couldn’t help but return his smile, no matter how delicate. “I’m glad. Let me know if you need anything, okay?”

He grinned in earnest. “Same to you, because you’re about to need everything you can get. And to think, you brought these idiots along as moral support? You brought a guy like me with you for whatever the hell it is you’re about to do. Good luck with that decision.”

Her dubious circle of moral support in question was still arguing, growing louder every second. Octavia could only laugh. By now, Viola had lapsed into the colorful vocabulary she typically reserved for Renato alone. “Not the worst decision I’ve made,” she countered. “Make sure you’re storing them properly when you take them off, okay?”

He was silent.

“I mean, they were made with a lot of care, from what I can see, so you’ll have to maintain them pretty well. You don’t want them getting scuffed too badly or anything. Put them back in the box if you have to.”

Still, Renato didn't speak. When he averted his eyes, Octavia raised hers in return.

“You…are taking them off regularly, right?”

He overtook her wordlessly, his steps a bit too fast for her liking. What she couldn’t catch from his face, she was left to wonder at his back. Her heart skipped a beat. She thought to press. She didn’t get to.

Are you prepared, Octavia?

She’d been waiting all morning for that question. Stradivaria’s voice still startled her anyway. Distraction hadn’t done her any favors, and she jumped ever higher. His newfound form born unto the world hadn’t negated the warmth and safety of their own mental communication system. Octavia found out the hard way. “Yeah,” she murmured under her breath.

Her boots met with the tamped dirt and dust of the clearing all too quickly, her thoughts carrying her far further than she’d paid any mind to. The backdrop of petty arguing that had become a running theme lately had helped to lessen the lengthy voyage in its own way. Logically, it wasn’t that long of a walk. In reality, she’d expected being alone with her racing thoughts to add--at bare minimum--an eternity or two to her travels. Octavia hesitated to get to work. No one else did.

This time, at least, cases didn’t clatter so much as lower gently to the soft earth. Harmonial Instruments were gathered into open arms with less confusion. Whether intentional or otherwise, the four Maestros flanking Octavia had fanned themselves out into a haphazard semicircle at her back. Carefully stationed as they were between messy masses of upturned weeds and shattered sticks, she wondered if the outright hole in the forest was ever actually going to grow back.

Josiah, at least, benefitted from the comfort of the same tree stump once more, which he seemed to be quickly growing fond of doing nothing on. With Stradivaria nestled against her chest, Octavia rolled her eyes at the world.

“Whenever you’re ready,” she murmured, her voice touched by uncertainty. She did what she could to cherish the brief moments before her heart burst from her chest, bile burnt her throat, and her breakfast met the dirt. Already, her head was fuzzy enough that she couldn’t recall exactly what the latter had consisted of in the first place. It was a film. It couldn’t have been more, and she swallowed the lie time and time again. If she prayed hard enough, it could perhaps be the truth. She knew better.

The second time Stratos greeted her, the blinding pulse of luminous light was as rapid as the manner by which he’d disappeared the day before. If she blinked, she surely would’ve missed it. Even so, she didn’t, and she earned the nuisance of floating spots before her eyes as a compensation prize. Her peripheral vision wasn't safe from the same speckled plight. Given the sudden onslaught of vibrant color that dotted her surroundings, she doubted the others escaped the same fate. One moment, he was gone. The next, he was there. It was as simple as that.

“Credit where credit is due, your own returned, Stratos,” Brava spoke, his volume unnecessary.

Octavia sighed. She’d forgotten the manner by which there was exactly one person--if she could use that word loosely--that had the potential to be louder this morning than Renato.

“Speak what you mean,” Stratos said, far quieter by comparison.

“Why, I had half a mind to expect that she would take flight. Who would blame her? She does not take after your cowardice, it would seem,” Brava hissed.

Octavia narrowed her eyes. Something about hostility towards Stradivaria snuck beneath her skin much faster than she would’ve expected. “He’s not a coward.”

Brava laughed once, a singular and bitter sound that startled her at the same obnoxious volume. “Oh, you would not know, and how could you? Now there is a story to be told.”

“There is much to be done,” Orleanna interrupted softly, lowering herself to match Harper’s stature. “Focus is imperative.”

“Is it okay if we take breaks? Like, if Octavia needs a minute?” Harper asked, casting his eyes to his partner.

She nodded. “I see no rush. The Ambassador may do as is necessary.”

“The Ambassador?” he repeated.

When Orleanna raised her gaze to Octavia, the Maestra was equally as confused. With one arm awkwardly wrapped around Stradivaria’s body, she raised one pointed finger to herself. A nod from the scarlet Muse did nothing to alleviate her befuddlement.

Renato put his hands on his hips, the tail of each drumstick propped against either of his pockets. “That, uh…that’s what we’re calling it?”

“You’ve been promoted,” Josiah joked.

“The Ambassador alone may perform the Witnessing, and none other. They are the key to our mutual salvation,” Lyra offered gently.

“The Ambassador will always be born of the Heartful alone,” Orleanna continued. “Octavia will play the part.”

Renato’s eyes lit up. “Damn, that’s actually pretty cool. She’s like…chosen. What’s it like to be a hero, braids?”

“We can be heroines together!” Madrigal exclaimed, beaming brightly. “We’ll be untouchable!”

Octavia never earned the chance to respond to their praise, embarrassing or otherwise. Brava’s boisterous voice came crashing down on her first. “Come off it. It could be any of the Heartful. The manner by which you, a most available Heartful, have crossed our path first and foremost is nothing short of coincidental, and nary more. You, child, are not special.”

“Brava,” Lyra hissed, "curb your tongue. Show gratitude towards she who would aid you.”

“I am not incorrect,” he growled back. “She is not special. Do not think otherwise, lest your ego be a distraction from your task. You are a means to an end. Do you understand?”

His words were biting. What little pride she could’ve found slipped through her fingers almost instantly. For what she was to endure, praise was a weak compensation. It was tangible, if nothing else. Part of Octavia wondered if Priscilla had to withstand the same verbal abuse. Brava wasn’t her partner. It shouldn’t have mattered. Still, despite her best efforts, she couldn’t fight the tears that pricked at the corners of her eyes.

Silver Brevada flying halfway across the clearing terrified her.

Viola didn’t seem the type to possess a solid throwing arm. At this point, Octavia was open to any surprise that life could plague her with. Judging by the recoil of every Maestro in her vicinity, she doubted she was the only one with the same thought.

“You are nothing!” Viola shouted, throwing her gaze high towards her hypercritical partner. “Compared to her, you are absolutely nothing, and you never will be! It’d do you some good to shut your mouth every now and then, you know that?”

Where Octavia expected ire, if not at least irritation, she found only pompous amusement. Brava, too, quickly ended up on her level, face-to-face with only several feet of comfortable safety between himself and his partner. Even devoid of facial features, she could imagine the expression on his face that surely would’ve infuriated Viola further.

“You would show such hostilities to your own partner? Perhaps you are not so innocent and well-mannered as you would lead the world to believe, girl.”

“I don’t need to be anything for anybody,” Viola answered bitterly, “and I’m not gonna let you sit here and talk to Octavia like that. If you want her help, act like it. If you want to be stuck here forever, then go ahead. Keep complaining.”

“Then we stand at a stalemate, girl. Should I stay, so, too, does the Dissonance. Would you allow your pride to stand in the way of that, as well?”

Viola fell silent. Her eyes spoke on her behalf, glaring daggers into the brilliant cerulean Muse that endeavored to anger her. Octavia didn’t particularly like where this was going.

“Viola, it’s fine,” she said, shaking her head. “Just…drop it.”

Her eyes widened. “But he--”

“Believes himself to be superior to all who would dare exist in his presence,” Mente interrupted casually. Apparently, they were uninvested enough to settle for lounging upside-down several feet away from Renato’s head.

“Arrogant words without action, as could be expected. Pay him no heed,” Aste added. The way by which Renato’s partners both lingered so near to his hat, specifically, was somewhat amusing.

Of everyone present, Mente and Aste were the last Muses Octavia would’ve expected to stand up for her. She opted to shelve whatever expectations she had left in favor of focusing on the entire reason she was here at all--Brava’s gaze on her back be damned.

“Stradivaria,” she began, “how do I do this?”

It took him a moment to gather his words. “With whom will you begin?”

She briefly locked eyes with Viola. Her attention returned to Stratos almost immediately. “Wait, I’m still not entirely sure what my options are. Can we…go over this again, one more time? I wanna see if I’m understanding this right.”

He nodded. “As you wish.”

Octavia hesitated, piecing her words together carefully. “If someone paid a toll, I have to watch it. Watch, witness, whatever. I have to see how somebody died. Right?”

“Correct.”

“If they have more than one, do I have to watch--witness, I mean, do I have to witness all of them? All the tolls that person paid?”

“That, too, is correct.”

“And to count as a toll, and tell me if I’m wrong, it has to be a death--no, someone had to be killed by Dissonance? Or, like, in some way related to Dissonance?”

Stratos nodded once more. “To answer your question, it must be that which would not have occurred had the Dissonance not poisoned this world.”

“So if there was no Dissonance, they wouldn’t have died somehow. Right?”

“Correct,” he repeated.

It was Octavia’s turn to nod her head, albeit slowly. She paced the words that followed, torn somewhere between grace and memorization. “How will I know if someone paid their toll or not?”

“We will inform you ourselves,” Orleanna added. “You need only ask. You will know the quantity, as well.”

That solved one issue. “If I…if I do this now, will I lose you afterwards?”

In the moments before Stratos found his words, the suspense left her nearly ill. The simple thought of him disappearing from her life was nauseating. Several weeks had served as a lifetime, and their hearts were entangled. When he finally shook his head, the weight of the world lifted from her shoulders.

“It is our duty to see your pursuit through, lest we could not call ourselves worthy of returning. We will await your success,” he reassured gently.

“Or your failure,” Aste muttered. The way Renato swatted at them had Octavia stifling a chuckle.

“It is by our own volition that we will choose to remain. That may not be the case for our counterparts,” Lyra said. “It is not a decision we make lightly. However, we believe that this task would be far too treacherous without our assistance.”

“Good, because I don’t want you to leave,” Madrigal whined, her eyes shining as she pulled the harp ever tighter to her chest.

“I mean, we really appreciate you guys sticking around,” Harper added with a smile.

Octavia exhaled, her heart only now beginning to calm its rapid rhythm. It didn’t make the nature of her task any easier. Still, knowing she wouldn’t be abandoned by those who were most knowledgeable about her current circumstances was highly comforting. It was the only comfort she’d get. She hated and loathed the question that needed to be asked, unavoidable or otherwise.

“In that case, who here has actually paid their tolls?”

The very air around her screeched to a standstill. In its place came a tangible, notable, and universal discomfort that physically stung her skin. Not one pair of eyes in the vicinity showed the slightest tinge of confidence, let alone an aura of calm to begin with. Octavia was well aware that the question was loaded. She hadn’t expected as vividly jarring of a collective reaction.

Her eyes flickered to each Maestro in turn, and every single one was utterly frozen in place. Several fingers curled tighter around Harmonial Instruments. Several shoulders rose and fell with the weight of rattling, uncertain breaths. Even Josiah, for all of his earlier bluster, was equally silent. Without personal investment, his own roaming gaze spoke only to anticipation. He’d long since asked the same question. He’d get his answer soon enough. Octavia imagined not every truth would be comfortable.

It was Viola who cracked the suffocating atmosphere, jutting one hand sharply into the crushing air. “I have. I’m sure of it. Tell them, Brava.”

Her courage in being the first to volunteer didn't go unnoticed, and several sets of weary eyes gradually shifted in her direction. Even so, the manner by which Viola’s other hand, clutching a flute retrieved begrudgingly from the dirt, trembled against the silver was not lost on Octavia. Provided she understood the rules correctly, it was impossible for Viola to be wrong. Octavia didn’t dare imagine the alternative.

When Brava nodded in affirmation, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, Viola exhaled heavily towards the sky alone. Given the circumstances, there was no way Octavia could smile for the sickest of victories. Ultimately, it wasn’t something to be celebrated. Still, it was one less thing to dread.

“Indeed. Viola Vacanti, your toll has been paid twice over,” Brava spoke.

Viola’s relief was short-lived. She stiffened, her hand only halfway lowered from the air. Her fingers twitched. “Twice?”

“It is true,” Brava said.

“Not…thrice?” Viola asked slowly, her voice trembling.

Brava nodded with confidence. “I am correct. Twice over, your toll has been paid, and only twice.”

Viola’s eyes widened, a mixture of horror and confusion settling in behind her pupils. “That’s…that doesn’t make sense. There should be three. There should be three, right?”

When she turned her head towards Octavia, her question pointed along with it, Octavia could do little more than return her gaze. Octavia winced. She knew what Viola was getting at. It wasn’t as though she could offer an answer.

As such, when Viola poured the truth into the open, Octavia was forced to stifle a gasp. “Vincent Vacanti killed three people while he was Dissonant, correct? Why doesn’t the third one count?”

Viola’s words weren't fully common knowledge, and it showed on each and every face around her. She didn’t particularly seem to care about the five sets of eyes locked onto her with abject terror. If the panic on her face spoke to anything, the truth took priority. Even Octavia, dumbfounded as she was by Viola’s open admission of familial guilt, was equally as baffled by the discrepancy.

Brava took his time to respond, his voice as calm and collected as it was firm and serious. “Know this to be true, girl. Two of our own may not carry the same toll.”

Viola’s tense shoulders fell. Collectively, each and every one of her muscles appeared to fall slack. Whether from shock or something else entirely, Octavia was unsure. The Maestra could only stammer, her words a tangled mess. “T-That’s…I…”

Her reaction was not exclusive. In every direction, the revelation was the same. It wasn’t subtle. It was well-understood. The implications were grand, as were the possibilities that spread like a splintering delta in each messy mind. It wasn’t a rule that had been communicated before. It was a new obstacle altogether, both overarching and localized. Octavia resisted the urge to resort to her favorite phrase with all of her might.

No one dared to steal the question from Viola’s lips. The right was hers and hers alone, and it came when it came.

“Then whose is it?” she finally cried, her entire body trembling just as much as her voice.

Brava only shook his head. “I cannot say. It is only the Ambassador who may witness the true depths of each toll. That knowledge belongs to her, whether or not she wishes to harbor that burden.”

“You can’t…tell me who each toll actually is? Like, who the actual people were that paid it?” Octavia asked, hesitant to impede Viola’s highly-justified emotional turmoil.

It was Lyra’s turn to answer. Even the soft tones of her voice weren't enough to ease the tension amongst the Maestros. “We know only the tolls of our own. Even so, we are not at liberty to speak them aloud.”

“By choice?”

“By…virtue,” she murmured. “It is not our place.”

“Even if it would help us?” Octavia pleaded. “Even just one Maestro at a time would be a tremendous help.”

“It matters not,” Brava interrupted. “You will witness each in turn, in time. You will know all, one by one. What difference would it make, even were it possible?”

Octavia’s words died on her lips. She couldn’t counter the fact. Left only with a distressed Viola, there was little she could do to ease the Maestra’s frustrations. If Brava spoke the truth, she’d still find where Viola’s third toll had ended up eventually--for better or worse. It wasn’t necessarily a comfort.

“Does, uh…anyone else…want to know next?” Harper offered timidly, his own voice not immune from a slight tremble.

When Orleanna turned to face him, Harper gulped. No amount of pulling Royal Orleans closer could shield him from whatever would follow.

“Do you wish to know now, then?” she asked.

He was silent for a moment. “I don’t…really want to know, but I know I need to learn eventually. I don’t think I have one. I’ve lost a lot of things in my life, but I don’t know what would meet that criteria. I’m sorry.”

“On the contrary,” she said. “Harper Reed, your toll has been paid twice over.”

His reaction, while milder than Viola’s, carried the same initial expression of astonishment and a subsequent total loss for words. What succeeded it was a puzzled look that spoke to the turning gears in his head.

“That doesn’t make sense,” Harper said.

For a brief moment, Octavia wondered if the answer was too obvious to be true. She couldn’t have been the only one. Part of her, just the same, was left to wonder if Harper was in denial.

Orleanna didn’t respond. To Harper’s credit, he didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t cry, nor scream, nor swear, nor struggle. “That…doesn’t make sense,” he repeated softly. “It has to be someone else, right? It…wouldn’t. It can’t.”

Once more, another Maestro raised their head to Octavia, confused eyes meeting her own. Once more, all she could do was return a gaze of pain. There was nothing else she could offer.

“To think, Apex, your own squandered an excellent chance at claiming a toll for herself,” Mente muttered.

“With ease, all that was to be done was the utmost minimum, and the prize would have been rightful to her alone,” Aste continued. “The weakest of blows would have sufficed, for what had already come to pass.”

Lyra’s ire was unmistakable each and every time Octavia witnessed it. “You are both cruel in ways I do not understand. Their lives are not rewards to be won, nor games to be played.”

Her bitter words were lost on Mente. “How nice it must be to have the choice even to decline, that you may face opportunity and turn away still. We cannot say the same for this fruitless fool.”

With a pointed glare from the Muse to illustrate their point, the severity of Renato’s grimace was enough to compete with Lyra. “That’s a lot of fancy words to say I don’t have a damn thing, right?”

Octavia’s eyes widened. “You don’t have a toll?”

He shrugged, his palms outstretched as a drumstick hung between each set of wooden fingers. “I mean, I figured there would just be one somewhere down the line. That whole cause and effect thing, right? Like, I had a cousin that died in an accident when I was a kid. Construction worker. Fell off a building. Really nasty stuff. That doesn’t count?”

Viola shook her head, the ongoing unraveling of their current situation somewhat shaking her from her stupor. “It has to be related to Dissonance specifically.”

“Or something related to the Muses being here, right?” Octavia asked aloud to no one in particular. “I…had a question about that.”

It was Stratos who immediately came to her aid. “What would that be?”

“When you say…related to you guys being here. Does that include things related to Maestros existing?” she asked slowly, her words tentative and small.

With his singular, simple nod, something in her stomach twisted. “That is also true. Solely the impact of one who borrows our strength may bring about the cause and effect that pays the toll.”

Renato threw his hands up dramatically. “Oh, great. We’re just adding new rules now.”

“That’s a problem,” Harper said. “That opens the door for all sorts of ways to pay tolls. Doesn’t that mean a Maestro could pay a toll by--”

“Yes, they could.”

Octavia wondered if they kept forgetting in earnest, or if their insensitivity was intentional. Either way, she was grateful when Lyra gave an answer before her own words of hurt could leave her lips. She was tired of being reminded repeatedly, accidental or not. It didn’t stop the burning. It didn’t stop the nausea.

“Hence their venom,” she concluded, her faceless gaze still aimed at the two milky figures orbiting Renato against his will.

“Then you shall surely languish upon this world forever, should that suit your fancy,” Aste hissed.

“Know that this child has paid her toll,” Lyra hissed back. “Speak no further, lest you bring ever more shame to your legacy.”

Madrigal didn’t move. She didn’t speak, she didn’t blink, and she didn’t breathe. She could’ve passed as a statue, if she wanted to, for how her distant gaze bored holes in the horizon. Never before had Octavia seen Madrigal so motionless--or anyone, really. Her expression was nearly impossible to dissect, bordering somewhere between petrified and empty. It was almost intimidating. It took conscious effort for Octavia to entertain the idea of calling her name. She didn’t get the chance.

“And what say you, boy? You watch on without a care, but you are not innocent to the same plight,” Lyra growled.

When she turned in full, her back entirely to the two hostile Muses who blighted her, Josiah’s cool expression spoke to something Octavia couldn’t pinpoint. To his credit, he didn’t flinch, content to continue his lounging with his legs crossed lazily over one another.

“What do you mean by that, exactly?” he asked with equal coolness, raising an eyebrow.

“Do you think me a fool?” Lyra spoke menacingly. Gone was the warmth of her usual speech. This was new.

Josiah didn’t answer, only tilting his head slightly to the right as he maintained his relaxed eye contact. How he stayed so calm in the face of her intimidation was beyond Octavia.

“Twice now you have brought him alongside you. Twice, as such, you believed I would not notice. Is this so?”

Octavia side-eyed him. When Josiah remained silent, she took the initiative. “What…is she talking about?”

He never tore his eyes from the Muse. “This, probably.”

The silent stand-off between Josiah and Lyra was loaded with indescribable heat that only burned brighter as Josiah flipped the flap of his bag backwards. He ruffled one steady hand slightly within its canvas contents, every motion composed and unhurried. The thick, hollowed pipe of blackened rosewood he eventually withdrew was one which Octavia had briefly forgotten existed. Her thoughts matched the pace of her racing heart. With an unwavering grasp she never would’ve been able to replicate, Etherion came to settle comfortably into Josiah’s hand.

Lyra didn’t move. Neither did Josiah. The Harmonial Instrument between them remained aloft, bound comfortably to Josiah’s palm. The boy hardly blinked, staring down the Muse with curious eyes as he awaited her next move.

The endless and agonizing silence was equally intolerable to the Muses. Brava, in particular, was far from satisfied. “Compose yourself, Apex. You do a disservice to your legacy with your pitiful…investments.”

“But it is certainly a shock,” Orleanna said gently. “How strange it must be to see him again, by coincidence or otherwise planned.”

Octavia shook her head. “I’m not following. Josiah, why did you--”

Even when responding, his eye contact never wavered. “It’s a Harmonial Instrument. I’m not leaving it out of this. I have some…theories.”

“You will explain yourself. You will give him to me,” Lyra spat, balling her luminous fists.

Josiah shook his head, his face devoid of amusement. “I’ll do one of those things. Tell me if I’m wrong, and maybe I’ll think about the other.”

“You are truly evil, boy, to dangle him before me in this manner. You know not the forces with which you trifle.”

Her threats, seemingly, were lost on him. “Answer this, then. Tell me if I’m wrong.”

She fell silent, watching helplessly as he rolled the clarinet between his fingers. When she refrained from interrupting, he continued, tilting his head ever so slightly in the other direction.

“Maestros can pay their own tolls, can’t they?”

There was no collective gasp, nor any widespread shock. Still, the idea alone was more than enough to prompt a visible ripple of discomfort amongst the Maestros as a whole. Harper winced. “What do you--”

“Octavia,” Josiah began, his head snapping in her direction. “How many tolls do you have?”

She froze. She knew the answer. Even so, she was almost afraid of asking Stradivaria again. It took all of her courage to cast her eyes upwards, trembling as she met his faceless gaze. Her only consolation was the manner by which she was positive he recognized her discomfort. At the very least, he made the effort to be gentle.

“Octavia Ellis,” he began, “as I am sure you are aware, your toll has been paid twice over.”

“Twice,” Josiah repeated, cutting off any chance Octavia had to interject. “I…figure the first one isn’t very cryptic.”

Octavia wanted to punch him. By the looks on some of her companions’ faces, she wasn’t the only one--even if he was correct. She opened her mouth to chastise his insensitivity. Once again, she never got that far. He pressed.

“So think for a minute. What’s the other one?”

In truth, Octavia had thought about it already. For how much he was presenting the concept as a unique revelation, the idea wasn't his alone. She was all but 100% certain who her other toll was. A Maestro’s own death would suffice, if his--rather, her--hypothesis was true. Of all of the hidden rules that slowly seemed to be surfacing, not one was quite as damning. The thought made her blood curdle.

Her discomfort still wasn’t nearly enough to halt Josiah’s theorizing. “This one. It’s been paid, hasn’t it?”

Octavia could’ve sworn she heard Lyra growl. Nonetheless, Stratos interrupted before Lyra’s venom could sting the boy further. “While I cannot say of my own volition, I would suspect as much.”

Only now did Josiah allow himself to blink, inhaling sharply as his shoulders relaxed. “There’s a lot of extra rules you guys are hiding from us. I don’t like it.”

Orleanna shook her head. “We hide nothing.”

“Lying by omission is still lying,” he said calmly.

“I will not deny the complexity of this task,” Stratos offered. “It is precisely for that reason that the...caveats of its execution may be more than we have initially disclosed. I can assure you, it is not intentional.”

“I don’t believe you,” Josiah spat.

“Josiah!” Octavia hissed. His cynicism was unwelcome. If it was aimed at Stradivaria, it was worse.

She wondered if he’d ever look away from a furious Lyra. She found her answer in the form of his gaze versus her own fury instead. “I’m sorry, but it’s the truth. There’s too much that isn’t being said out loud. I’ll support whatever you want to do, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

Octavia cringed, fighting a headache born of stress that she was slowly growing accustomed to. She doubted Stradivaria would be of much assistance to that end. “Can I witness Etherion's toll, too, then?”

He shook his head. “A bond is key. Only when bound to one of our own may the Ambassador bear witness to they who paid the tolls.”

Josiah laughed, a single and uncomfortable exclamation that spoke only to bitterness. “See? Another rule. Can’t witness a damn thing without a Maestro, and we already know what happened to Etherion’s.”

“Man, what the hell’s gotten into you?” Renato asked, more puzzled than angered. “You’ve been this little ball of negativity for a hot minute now. This isn’t like you. At least, I don’t think so.”

“I don’t want Octavia to do this anymore.”

His words made Octavia physically recoil, her fingers trembling around Stradivaria’s body. Even as she gripped the violin tighter, the manner by which chilled blood pulsed through her fingertips only furthered her discomfort. This was heading nowhere positive.

“It’s not up to you,” Harper replied sharply.

“I don’t care. I have a really bad feeling about all of this.”

“Josiah, it’s fine,” Octavia reassured, neglecting her distaste for the empty words on her tongue.

She was half-lying. With every word out of the Muses’ mouths, she, too, was gradually growing more unnerved. Ignorance was bliss. She’d already chosen this path, and there was too much she didn’t understand. Whatever other caveats--as Stradivaria considered them--applied to her messy task, she didn’t particularly want to know.

Even so, the look of hurt on Josiah’s face when he cast his eyes helplessly into the dirt spoke volumes. She didn’t blame him. Were she in his shoes, as hellish and unkind as the world had been to him in the past several weeks, she wouldn’t be too fond of Maestro endeavors. Octavia entertained the idea of mentally trying on the shoes in question, and she still came up short in every fashion. There was absolutely no way. She left it be.

No amount of “trust me” would help, either. She’d already offered him that before, and not with success.

“I just…let’s just do this already. I don’t want to dwell on it anymore.”

Stratos’ voice, once calming, now only felt intimidating--even with identical verbiage and tone. “I ask once more, with whom will you begin?”

“Me.”

Viola didn’t give Octavia an option. By the time the newly-crowned Ambassador had raised her head, the Maestra had advanced on her. Face to face, she clasped Silver Brevada in front of her tightly with both hands, stilling the flute upright. Her face was not fully devoid of fear, although it paled it comparison to Octavia’s own. Viola’s flats dug into the soft earth below as she stood at attention. Her bold and rigid posture brought at least some semblance of contagious confidence to Octavia herself.

“Let’s do this together,” Viola said. “You and me.”

Octavia’s fingers twitched against Stradivaria’s neck. Part of her was afraid to let go, clinging to the comfort of the violin. “Are you sure? You don’t know what’s going to happen--to you, to me, to both of us.”

“Then we’ll find out together. Put Stradivaria down.”

Even the suggestion made her uncomfortable. “Viola--”

“Let’s do it,” Viola repeated. “Don’t be afraid.”

It took extra strength on Octavia’s part to uncurl her trembling fingers from Stradivaria, doing what she could to relax her vice grip on the violin. It was enough to return her circulation. She hadn’t even noticed it was gone. More so, she was thankful for Madrigal’s nearby assistance, by which she surrendered her partner’s body with only mild mental distress. It didn’t keep her from fleeting looks of fearful separation anxiety, her saving grace stolen from her arms. Viola was immune to her plight.

“Look at me.”

Octavia did as she was told, meeting the Maestra’s demanding gaze wordlessly.

“Whatever happens, happens. You’re not alone. I told you I’d follow you to the ends of the earth, no matter what. You’re the bravest person I know. You can’t go soft on me now.”

Octavia wanted to cry. She almost did. She forced a weak smile, wiping wet eyes with the palms of her shaking hands. “I’ll do my best.”

“Stratos,” Viola began, raising her head to the Muse above, “how do we do this?”

Octavia sighed with relief as Viola took the lead, her heart pounding heavily. Stratos’ words were muffled in her ears, nearly overpowered by the sound of her own blood rushing past. “It is the responsibility of the Muse to carry out the rites. Octavia, you need only lay your touch upon the vessel at will, and you will bear witness to the toll.”

“A-At the same time? Both of them?” she stammered. Already, her throat was dry, and the words were a struggle to concoct.

“One at a time.”

“I have to do it twice,” she whispered anxiously.

Even if Viola knew, she couldn’t stop herself from repeating it out loud. It was the most terrified she’d ever been. It was one thing to take a life. It was another entirely to lose her own.

Brava’s voice was sudden, loud and powerful with a vivacity to his words that came all too quickly. “Viola Vacanti, your toll has been paid twice over. Now, Ambassador, see through the eyes of the ones who paid the toll.”

His words were over as quickly as they began. There was no glow, no sparkles, no additional magic that she could perceive in any capacity. She had, frankly, expected more to preclude her sickening actions. The distance between her task and the precious moments she had to savor before her own death--or death itself, maybe--was all but gone. No amount of hesitant gazes towards Stradivaria helped. He only nodded his head.

At your ready, he urged her softly from within.

Octavia ran out of excuses. She gulped hard, her throat tight enough to stifle what little oxygen she could swallow. With violently-trembling hands raised aloft over Silver Brevada’s newly-outstretched body, she regurgitated the same sentiment of panic over and over against her will. She was going to die. No amount of thinking it over was helping it sink in.

She could still pull out. She could still step back and regroup. There was another way, surely. No one would fault her, surely. If it was any of the others, if they stood where she did, she wondered if they’d have the courage to follow through.

Priscilla would’ve.

You’re the bravest person I know. You can’t go soft on me now.

If nothing else, for the outcome it would bring, she could do it for Viola, too.

With one final look into Viola’s unwavering eyes, loaded with determination and faith, Octavia plunged both hands downwards. Chilled metal stung her burning palms, and still her blood burned in the worst way. She blinked, she stumbled, and her world went black.