For all that she saw, Ismay never saw the end before it happened.

The gods whispered urgently in her ears, but their voices overlapped. Every time she got close to parsing one, the others would grow louder. Her head throbbed at all hours, and nothing anyone tried would settle her. She sequestered herself away with her rituals and her herbs, and she sent occasionally for one of the Sisters to bring her more when she needed it.

On the day it happened, her headache suddenly cleared. The gods were silent. Her stomach had become a pit, but she was eager to return to some form of normalcy. With Tamasin on her shoulders, she had settled in with planning for a new moon ritual she had been attempting to tend to before the gods had intervened. The snake’s scales whispered over her clothes, as an urgent flick of her tongue hit Ismay’s ear. The only time she normally did that was when she was about to step on something, run into someone, or fall down a drop. Her mouth tightened in a frown, as she raised a hand to soothe her serpent.

Tamasin, what’s-?

She didn’t get to say much else.

When she woke, it was quiet. Her ears strained, desperately, waiting for the familiar voices, steps, anything. But there was nothing. Only the gentle lap of water against something, stone. There was nothing. No one. Only the cold and the damp. Ismay shivered, feeling as something soaked to her skin. Snow? A brush that wasn’t fabric when she moved. Fur? It was only now that she wished beyond wishing that her eyes were still there.

Bly..? Nothing. She strained further.

Elswyth..? No one.

Sisters? She’d even take a hound, if one was around. That was the level of her own desperation.

the waterstained crone arrived easily. she had not fought the waves as they carried her out and pulled her down, down, down. she had smiled as water clogged her lungs, and wrapped around aching joints, and hair tangled around her neck.

it was home, was it not? the wild sea, cold and cruel, clutching one of her devout so dear.

when she awakes, she is laid out on her side in snow, like a sacrifice on an altar. mirewen did not fret—much. it was too cold. it made her bones ache and chest rattle with a cough that followed her even here. she does not curse it. age is proof of survival.

nonetheless, it forces her upright, and spindly legs find purchase against broken stone. her long fur drags through water, gathering ice and reeds. cloudy eyes sweep what little she can see, and her chin tucks into fur that falls in long, wet tendrils around a new body.

her nose twitches, testing the air.

oh quiet silver sister, she rasped, teeth snapping softly as the worried voice carried through the ruins. they can’t hear you yet.

For a moment, nothing moves. The water laps the shore with a gentle tongue. She can hear the faintest plink of snowflakes hitting the water, melting almost instantly. The tall points of her new ears twitch in unfamiliar directions, but they catch on familiarity just as scent reaches across the way. Despite the water, she can pinpoint the smell of a sister.

And the voice only confirms it.

Mirewin. She calms, her muscles loosening. The old woman was one of her favorites, merely in the bluntness she wields like a weapon. She lifts herself off her side, tucking thin limbs beneath her and up. A slither of scales across stone and dirt catches at the edge of her attention, as what must be Tamasin curls up her leg and into the fur at her neck. A tongue hits her ear, greeting.

Would you mind too terribly describing our surroundings? I hear water, but I know not how deep. Only close, and calm. In a way the water had not been before. But it must have been for a reason, right? The gods had been warning her, and somehow, the oracle she was, she saw nothing.

mirewen’s ears flick, catching the quiet shift of her silver sister’s weight against stone. the sound of scales slithering earns a faint, approving huff through her nose. her familiar had followed her, good. mirewen hoped hers had joined her too, though she doubted the old toad would have braved the journey. lazy and fat, he was.

hm, she murmurs with a click of teeth, gaze lifting toward the drowned ruins. so she was to be eyes then? for the silver hand, she would try. near us, the water is enough to steal a body, but not enough to hide it.

groaning beneath her breath, she rises in the snow, the powdery white crunching beneath paws. her spindly legs carry her closer to the edge and she peers down into the dark, sluggish pool nearest her. snow drifts across its surface, dissolving into nothing. beneath, her muddled reflection stares back, ivory points flashing in a grin.

she wonders how well her new teeth will tear flesh when she is hungry. the sounds that will follow, the blood that will spill. she cannot wait.

knee deep where stone ends, she rasps finally, a cough rattling her chest.deeper where the earth gives up. it is winter here, silver sister. wretched snow covers years old moss, hides it from us. even the swamp is fouled by its presence.

mirewen uses a paw to knock aside stone, nose wrinkling.we wake in ruins all around us. i’m sure something sacred once, perhaps—but now it rots. as it should, she snorts, teeth clicking again. not for us—it is ugly. you are lucky your eyes are taken.

she turns her gaze toward ismay, squinting, and begins to edge closer, long fur dragging through the slush like a shroud.

you’re safe, silver hand, she adds, voice low and unpleasantly pleased. for now. the water isn’t hungry here, and that serpent of yours does well.

a dry, rasping laugh follows. she had forgotten! and we are beasts now, too, she muses. how fitting.

The old woman’s voice wafts over her ears in its croaking array, and Ismay stands statuesque in the falling snow. Water, ruins, Mirewin describes them all in the same tone. Blunt and forthright in the ways she appreciates, without eyes to see a face when it speaks. Tamasin’s tongue swipes at the back of her ear, truth, as she inches along the stone, using the tips of her paws to touch the stones in front of her feet. Her going is slow, but eventually she joins the old woman at the water’s edge. She can hear its lap, feel it attempting to reach for her. But it is not the sea, it is a trapped creature, desperate and hungry. It is a mire, just waiting to drag her down with it. But for now, it is silent. It knows better than to try to grab for her ankles. It knows what she can see.

Had she the eyes to see the physical world, she’d have looked down, observed herself in the water in a small fit of vanity. As it stands, her sightless face stares over the swamp surrounding the sisters, her ears gamely twitching to every sound. They are small sounds. Dripping water somewhere faint. A scuttle of something small, its nails gentle on the stones. The faintest flutter of a perching predator, watching that scuttling thing move. And her, witness. Her mouth tugs at its corners, the faintest of smiles.

How well fitting is my skin, sister? She extends a delicate forelimb, feeling the tendons tighten, the muscles contract. She does not know what she is, and that excites her.

Am I still a fright for a disobedient hound? Do my ears stand tall as devil’s horns? My teeth like silver sickles gleam? If I am to be a beast, am I one that is of use? She was something with teeth and tall ears and fur, and her tail did not feel so long as to be a cat. No, she was not quite sure what this skin would be. And how exciting was that?

I know I am not feline. Nor equine. Am I canine? Am I somehow more? She folds her limb back, tucking it neatly beside its opposite.

Sister, you see better than me, and my nose only tells me so much in this mire. Are we as alone as I believe? There was no fear in being alone with a sister, only a distant discomfort of missing a part of her soul.

without a word, mirewen lets her snout drag along ismay shoulder when she joins her, nostrils flaring. it serves as orientation—a brief, indulgent tenderness—but also a means of learning her new nose. ismay smells as she should—of ocean and brine, cold salt and drowned kelp, and beneath it all, iron. always iron. a satisfied snort leaves the older woman, tongue snaking across the other woman’s flesh in a brief sweep.

when she leans back, her murky eyes are gleaming. what a gift.

she watches ismay closely as she feels herself into being, eyes tracking every twitch and stretch. dark ears twitch at the vanity in her questions, and a low, pleased sound coils up from mirewen’s chest.

it takes a moment for her to answer, and when she does her voice is dry and delighted. you do look like a ghastly fright, she says, a smile spreading. there is no malice in her words, only approval. her teeth click together, pleased. an exquisite monster, she corrects herself, nodding. a wolf with the face of nightmares.

unhurried andignoring the serpent watching her with a stillness she could never manage, she leans in closer, if permitted, sniffing near the sockets where ismay’s eyes should have been. her breath ghosts over the scars. the flesh is healed, but pink and rough, as though it has always belonged that way. how… bewitching, she muses, ears twitching as a distant plunk of water sounds nearby as something returns home to the swamp.

leaning back, she settles into a sit, groaning slightly at the way her chest tightens. age claws at her, even here. why had she not been gifted youth? bitterness rises, then fades like a lazy retreating tide. she had no right to feel such a way, to be selfish. she had lived more seasons than most, and too many—far too many—of her favored sisters were long gone.

a coughing laugh leaves her, and she lets her eyes wander the drowned ruins and dark, spoiled water. for someone who sees so much, a rasp. you ask me many questions.

her tail tucks wetly against her thigh as she shrugs. whether we are alone or merely unnoticed by what hides here, i do not know, silver sister. i just woke as you did.

she lifts a forelimb, scrutinizing the fur there, the dark nails already stained by muck and begins to lap at her toes. loudly. others will come, she adds around the cleaning, voice muffled and unconcerned. saliva pools on her lips, dripping down her chin. they always do. i only hope they are close. i have no patience for travel, but if we must— a click of her teeth, gnashing against a nail. i shall complain the whole time.