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You can tell Moxana is waiting for something, as the Circus leaves Sturmhalten. You don’t know what it is until a boy slink-slips into the wagon the two of you are tucked away in.
He is wreathed in hesitation when he approaches you and your sister, almost as though he is a hunted thing.
The younger prince of Sturmhalten tugs down his hood, revealing bright eyes that shine with desperation. You and your nearest sister's names fall from his lips, his tone almost reverent.
“I’m th—we should ta—” His eyes are wide and lost and near-fevered. He closes them and takes a deep breath. Exhales it slowly and meets your gaze once more. “I-I need to ask you something. Please.”
He appears near-suppliant. (And what way is there to refuse someone with his authority, without at least endangering those who have shielded you here?)
You wait, and listen.
He tells you a story.
The well-worn books tucked under his arm can trace through his watered-down lineage back to your first and only King, the one you were crafted to serve and guide. (The one who Prende still claims can recover, can somehow return to his former height, despite these many years lapsed.)
He cannot claim the title he seeks, not yet.
Admittedly, he does not seem to act as though it (and therefore you) already belong to him. This is a point in his favor.
He speaks of his sister, and begs that he bring you with him to study, so that he might mimic your creator's working, and craft a metallic shell that will be enough to carry the princess's gem-bright self as her body fails.
There are many reasons to distrust this. There are the many writhing schemes of your King’s descendants that you and your sisters have been so careful to keep yourselves from. There are the obsessive plans of the boy’s own father, which he himself warns you of. There is, of course, the possibility that his every word to you is a lie.
(But there is also is the way his voice breaks when he speaks of his falling sister, and how it brings to mind the pains of your own scattered kin.)
You are not Moxana, to trace the paths that might come from this, or Orotine, whose analytical gifts might pierce through a deliberate facade. You know Change well enough to be certain that the impending choice is a crucial one, but nothing else. You long to ask for your sisters' input, but there is no surety of having time to slip into your shared dreamworld and contact them.
You gently shut the book he placed before you, and return it to his trembling hands, still silent (still uncertain).
His trembling hands just barely brush yours in the process.
A miniscule thing, and a monumental one.
A pink-tinted iridescence lingers on his fingers for a moment before starting to fade, and your eyes shift down to see an almost-glowing white disappearing from your own.
You have no heart, but something in you seems to stutter.
The prince (your Prince, perhaps?)—
…didn’t notice the reaction. Is tucking the books back into a satchel, the set of his shoulders seeming to brace for a blow. (For you and Moxana to turn him away.)
“I will go with you.” The words play out from your voicebox, steadier than you feel, shifting his expression to wonder and almost-hope. You hear movement and turn to look at your nearest sister.
Moxana has shifted, beckoning him over.
When he reaches her seat, she clasps both his hands in hers. A blue iridescence marks his skin where they touch, and when he looks down, pure shock flashes onto his face. She releases him and opens her table, removing a collection of your creator’s notes with her briefly almost-glowing palms.
Moxana places it carefully in his hands, her calm mechanical eyes meeting his in silent permission.
Your Prince’s eyes are still wide with awe as he leaves, with you at his side. Moxana stays behind, likely wanting to reassure the Circus when they discover your absence. (As well as knowing that her form is less easily hidden than yours. Once offered the book, the boy had hesitated to bring either of you back, but you insisted on joining him. He relented, on the condition that you would carefully remain hidden from anyone else in the castle.)
You spend much of your time in Sturmhalten hiding away, in little-used passages and half-forgotten recesses. It gives you plenty of time to think.
He studies you and the notes carefully, gradually fashioning a form that could easily be mistaken for a sister of yours, if it wasn’t lying so very empty.
When the main work is finished, he connects her. You aren’t there to see the princess’s new mechanical eyes click open and light up for the first time as she wakes.
He finds you after to explain, worry and guilt etched into his face.
His sister is settling in well.
...And the elder prince, who came to see the development, is now pouring through your creator’s notes.
Luckily, your Prince is well-practiced in deception, and wove an alternate tale of how it came into his possession, as well as carefully convincing his father that the princess’s body was inspired only by the book.
He keeps you hidden even more carefully, then, and at the first real chance after, he wraps a stealth cloak around your shoulders and orders you to leave Sturmhalten. To leave him, because he must stay, to look after his still-recovering sister, and watch for what his father might manage to accomplish with van Rijn’s secrets.
Though conflicted, you agree to go.
Master Payne’s people are cleaning up after a show.
They were worried, but you told them upon your return that both you and the Circus were no less safe than before. Master Payne accepted your words reluctantly, though clearly concerned at your lack of elaboration.
Moxana shares your worry for your Prince, but is also relieved to have you back at her side.
You took some time to send all you know into the Bond-dreamscape, for your far-scattered sisters.
Now you tilt your head up, casting your gaze to the night sky above.
The afterimage of your (first) King’s touch had been a thing of burning gold. Now his descendant works and plans back in Sturmhalten, moonlight to Andronicus’ once-shining sun.
(A paler, softer reflection, trading a more direct, relentless power for versatility.)
You think of him, and his nearly-lost sister, and hope fervently that they persevere to find you again, beyond the shadowed walls of their cage.