Time passes.

Ishara sits on the floor of the study.

She doesn't feel sad. Or angry. Or really anything at all. 

... There is a letter in her fist. It says... It says enough.

It says there isn't anything good left for her.

...

No. 

While she's still breathing, she can fix this. People have manifested resurrection before. Nobody's done it for... for people like her father. For those who don't bear souls. But she'll never have the chance if she doesn't try now. 

She reaches.

There's nothing there. That's what usually happens, of course. Hardly anyone locates their soul perfectly on the first try.

She reaches.

Not there either.

She reaches. If she tries enough directions eventually one of them will be right.

Is she sure about that?

She's out of directions. Inward. Outward. Upward. Downward. Left. Right. Nothing works. 

... Maybe she's too young. 

If she's too young, the worst thing that will happen to her is that she'll waste some time. She has nothing better to be doing. 

She reaches. 

Every direction continues to be the wrong direction.

She needs to do better than this. 

She cannot be too young. Ignore that. If she's too young then there's nothing she can do. So that is not the case.

What did her mother say about manifesting? She doesn't remember. She should have listened. Is she even reaching properly? 

She pauses for a moment, trying to recall a half-forgotten lecture.  What was it? 

Consider what you are. (Stubborn.) Consider what your soul looks like. (Smooth. Clear.) Reach for it. (What does that even mean?)

... Maybe it was a metaphorical sort of reaching. Has she been waving her arms around for no reason? 

If she sits still, and reaches without reaching, in no direction at all—

There it is, right at her metaphorical fingertips. It's not physically present but she can see it in her thoughts, a vague shape, smooth and clear and - flat, and round -

There's an edge! A curved edge, right there against her fingertips! 

... And now there isn't anymore, not after she startled like that.

Bumping it like that feels jarringly painful, a sharp impact without a location. An injury to her soul. But the pain clears after a few seconds.

Ow.

... Next time she'll be more careful.

Alright. Concentrate. She needs to get this right. A firmer grip this time. 

She closes her fingers -

- nope, bad move. Her soul is not exactly physical yet, and doesn't react like a physical object; it jars away again, slipping from her grasp.

... Ouch. 

Okay. Okay, that was too strong. Just. Slowly. She needs to be firm but if she goes too quickly it'll just slip through her fingers again. Worry about pulling it into reality later, can she just. Grasp it?

The moment she moves her hand at all, she loses it again.

... Okay. Okay, it worked when she didn't physically move. What if she just imagines grasping it?

That works just fine. If she is very very careful.

She is very very careful. 

It feels. Circular? Yes, circular. A disc. Of glass? A lens? Yes, a lens. Why is her soul a lens? Is it because she's perceptive?

Her soul has no comment on the reason for its shape.

But it becomes - more clearly visible, as she considers its properties in more detail. A lens. The surface and interior are still undefined, but the shape and colour are set. And it feels just a little closer, somehow, even though it definitely hasn't moved in the slightest.

It feels... Firmer against her imaginary fingers, somehow. A lens. Lenses are for seeing through, right? So it's clear -

If she imagines that it's colourless and transparent like extremely high-quality glass, that works, and refines her vision of it just a little bit more.

But if she imagines that it's clear all the way through without pattern or flaw, it jars away again.

Yeah, that makes sense. Her soul probably isn't doing very well at the moment.

(The pain curls up around her, like a blanket made of sandpaper.)

How do you hurt a lens of glass... You fracture it. It's got cracks in it?

Let's try that. (ugh ugh ugh)

Yes it does! Tiny cracks, not tangible but visible, fracturing the light that passes through the lens.

... Hardly any light is going where it's supposed to. Her lens is clouded and dark. Is she. Is she really shattered this badly?

Well, souls aren't supposed to lie to their owners. So yes, she is. But that just means she needs to get better. Resurrecting her parents would definitely help with that. 

She supposes that's part of her soul too, the will to overcome. Probably most twelve year old girls would be having a crying fit right now. She's not one of them. Maybe that makes her strange, but she's thankful for it. 

The mental picture of her soul clarifies a little more, and feels a little closer to reality, when she considers the will to overcome as part of her. So yes, that one checks out.

She feels... A little steadier, now. Even if her soul is flawed, it's good for her to accept that truth. Hiding from the darkness doesn't make it go away. It still hurts, her soul is still in pain from her careless touches, but it almost lends her a little more clarity. 

Focus. She can do this. At twelve. (A little flicker of pride, quickly squelched.) 

What sort of person is she?

Stubborn. Willing to overcome. Not beholden to other people's rules. (Twelve.)

Yes, and yes, and yes. Closer, closer.

... She wants to be better and she wants to be better at making the world better, but she doesn't know how that's really a part of her personality... 

And yet it works. She's starting to see fine detail, the tiny cracks as thin as spiderwebs, the way the light sparkles from them...

... It's actually a little pretty. But she's not one to pick aesthetics over what's right. She needs to fix this.

And on that note, the image becomes reality. Her soul sits in her hand, a clear lens filled with hairline cracks, shining with splintered light.

... That worked. 

That worked.

... Now what?

Good question.

Well, theoretically she should be able to... consult her soul on it? Yes, that feels like a good idea. 

Her soul informs her that it is not generally in the habit of dispensing sage advice, but she can consider herself informed that she doesn't need to sleep now.

Really? That's all?

That's all that it's safe for her to use it for. She did bruise it rather badly while extracting it. 

Oh, and no, her soul isn't debased. She's suffering a little for not having gone with her parents, but she just successfully extracted her soul. At twelve. She's doing plenty of overcoming. 

... Well. Turns out manifesting her soul didn't fix all her problems.

There's nothing to do but go on.

Her soul makes a little sound of glass on glass. One less fracture.

... Okay, maybe this has helped a little.

Click.

... It's definitely helped.

She thinks she'll unlock the door now. 

It's been several hours. The followup letters are beginning to arrive.

Which would she like to open first? Some of the names are unfamiliar, but there is one from Rekhanthai Zierni Kelora and one from Den-aminde Rysher Nahira.

... It's probably a good idea to read the only letter she's ever received from a Rekhanthai. Probably the only letter she will ever receive from a Rekhanthai. 

The letter from the Rekhanthai goes like this:

Rusadhan Ishara,

Kulemeleri Enkuleakala Rekhanthai Zierni Kelora

... Why yes, the offers are coming in already. Though this is a better one than she might have hoped for. 

Still. She'd be a fool to accept the first option she met without considering the others. (Click.) What does this other letter have to say?

Dear Ishara,

Nahira

Who is this woman, and why does she think she can use Ishara's first name? Some relation she's forgotten? No, the name on the envelope says she's a Rysher.

Where does she recognize that family name from? Overheard it when her parents were having one of their quieter arguments? That doesn't bode well. Powerful, for sure. And that soulname... "Long-shadow?" 

Ishara decides firmly that she wants absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with Den-aminde Rysher Nahira. (Click.)

Is there any more mail?

There is in fact a formally-worded marriage proposal, prefaced with perfunctory condolences, from a man she's never heard of who writes out his four indirect-diminutive inheritance titles without their lineage traces, probably because if he'd gone for the full list he would have crowded his actual name all the way onto the back of the envelope. What are her thoughts on Batarimele Itholimele Ashirestele Batarimele Novaran Andare?

Batarimele Itholimele Batarimele Ashirestele Batarimele Novaran Batarimele Andare can propose to Niseinar Kaithal Mafol if he wants a landed spouse. It would have to be a winter marriage, but since he naturally has no ambition on the Sorvol title and is proposing a spring marriage merely as a matter of tradition, that shouldn't be any issue whatsoever. Does he think her parents taught her nothing?

Ishara sighs, and tucks the letter from Kelora into her dress pocket. It's probably the only one worth keeping for now, but there'll be more mail in the morning. Until then, she needs to look to her own safety...

Well, the manor hasn't been burned down yet, so that's a good sign. And if Kelora's telling the truth about the offer of guardianship, that probably means she doesn't need to worry about assassination. Just kidnapping. Though if Mafol is using official channels, then she can... Official back? Somehow? She doesn't know how any of this works, she wasn't expecting to be an orphan -

She steadies a shaky breath. Panic isn't going to help. She needs to talk to Tamor. He'll know what to do.

A pair of finely-polished shoes click down the hall. 

"Ah, I see you've finally decided to return from your solitude. We have business to attend to, Rusadhan Sorvol. I do hope you're quite recovered." 

"Tamor. Wonderful timing, as always. I think you might be working under a false impression, though..." 

Ishara opens her left fist, and shows him her soul. 

"You don't approve?"

"... Under the circumstances, I suppose it's reasonable. Though I would have advised against it."

"Admit it, if I wasn't twelve you would have suggested it yourself."

"I suppose that's true. Congratulations. Now, can we take a moment to discuss this offer of adoption from our new Niseinar?"

"Just so we're clear, I do not want to be adopted by the man who murdered my parents."

"Jumping to conclusions a bit hastily there, aren't we? But yes, he's certainly the natural suspect. I've already sent a letter of dispute, but I'm afraid as a commoner my objection is likely to be quickly overruled - even if you add your own to the pile. Commoners and children are alike that way." 

"How long do we have?" 

"A week at most. I wouldn't rely on more than three days. The sooner you are far away from him, the better."

"I have an offer from the Rekhanthai, but it seems foolish to just take the first letter I received..."

"And does the Rekhanthai seem to have your best interests at heart?"

"Yes, so far as I can tell from the letter..."

"Then I recommend in the strongest terms that you accept without delay. The Rekhanthai is the one person associated with Seofar who has any trace of a redeeming reputation, and you are very unlikely to get a better offer of sanctuary than one from the crown princess. Leave today. Don't give Mafol the chance to become impatient and resort to more forceful methods of acquiring you." 

"... I had better start packing, then."

"Yes. I'll write your acceptance letter." 

"Thank you, Tamor. I knew you'd make everything alright."

"We're a long way from alright yet, Rusadhan. Go pack."

She goes.