OPHIUCHUS FLINCHED

  TALES OF CIEL

  BOOK 2

  Z. BENNETT LORIMER

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, events, and organizations portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Ophiuchus Flinched

  Copyright (c) 2025 assigned to High Trestle Press LLC

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2026902175

  All rights reserved.

  Cover design by Zefanya Maega

  A High Trestle Press Book

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  Ames, IA 50010

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  ISBN 978-1-968122-04-1 (Ebook) | ISBN 978-1-96822-05-8 (Trade Paperback)

  First Printing, February 2026

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  For Liz

  CONTENTS

  Prologue: Muldoon

  1. Effie

  2. Effie

  3. Vanna

  4. Muldoon

  5. Effie

  6. Vanna

  7. Effie

  8. Kai

  9. Effie

  10. Kai

  11. Kai

  12. Effie

  13. Vanna

  14. Effie

  15. Kai

  16. Muldoon

  17. Effie

  18. Effie

  19. Vanna

  20. Effie

  21. Kai

  22. Vanna

  23. Effie

  24. Vanna & Effie

  25. Kai

  26. Effie

  27. Muldoon

  28. Vanna

  29. Kai

  30. Effie

  31. Vanna

  32. Muldoon

  33. Effie

  34. Muldoon

  35. Vanna

  36. Muldoon

  37. Vanna

  38. Effie

  39. Effie

  Epilogue: Kai

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by Z. Bennett Lorimer

  Want to see what happens next?

  PROLOGUE: MULDOON

  “Iturn the false Governor Muldoon over to you and our host for judgment. You all can figure out what to do with him.”

  Muldoon felt a tug on his bound wrists, then a spark of pain as the ropes fell away and blood rushed back to his extremities. The sudden return of control over his arms unbalanced him, and he nearly toppled face-first into the dirt. His shoulders screamed as he caught himself.

  He felt that sanctimonious dragoon retreating with a blast of unnatural wind.

  Muldoon reached up with one aching hand and removed the greasy sweep of unwashed hair from his eyes, only to find Ansel’s square head looming over him. He’d had limited interactions with the man, but those few occasions were enough to leave the impression of a stubborn midwit swollen on his upjumped status and authority.

  The Governor of Volturnus shook his head in silence as two liveried footmen materialized to flank Muldoon. Those stoney eyes of his performed outrage with admirable commitment, but it was obvious to Muldoon that Ansel was enjoying this.

  “Can you stand?” Ansel asked.

  In answer, Muldoon stood.

  Ansel sniffed the air, lips curling back from a wide row of burnished teeth. He snapped at his footmen. “Escort the Lord Governor inside the manse, and see to his bodily needs. Once he’s presentable, bring him to my office.”

  Muldoon batted away the staff’s attempt to place hands on his person and marched himself inside.

  A silent valet helped him extricate himself from the soiled garments of his captivity, while maids shuttled steaming buckets of water to a claw-foot tub. Muldoon refused to acknowledge their ministrations, guarding the depths of his humiliation. When they were finished, he lowered himself into the tub with a prurient sigh and dismissed the lingering valet with a limp-wristed wave.

  The water scalded his sensitive skin, searing the infected boils accumulated during his harsh term of incarceration. Reveling in the bathwater’s cleansing report, Muldoon closed his eyes and sank beneath the ablutions.

  He stewed in his resentment and his filth, all the while picturing the Volturnian Draft Lieutenant responsible for his arrest. Vanna Strait—a name he’d not soon forget. She would pay for her insolence. Of all the indignities visited upon his noble person by these provincials, her indictment cut the deepest. If it hadn’t already been obvious to Muldoon, this latest episode certainly confirmed the weakness of Kelestina’s position. Admiral Siprichor sent him here to help Her Lightness bring this wild land under control, and he’d done a fine job on Aeolus. His success would have continued, if not for the Bluethorn’s arrival and the credulity of the Aeolians who were only too willing to drink from his forked tongue.

  Muldoon’s predecessor, Dama Anyela, had retired too late. She’d stayed in the position of governor well into her dotage, and the duplicitous Aeolians took advantage of her senility. It didn’t take Muldoon long to discover all the cunning ways the local craftsmen had been cooking their books, clipping their tithes at the port and undercounting the shipyards’ production. The lazy shipwrights were working at less than two-thirds capacity, and the longshoreman paying less than half of their annual dues. It was all a lawless mess, but he could hardly fault doddering Anyela for the oversight. The true fault rested with Kelestina, who seemed content to let these infractions slide.

  A knock at the washroom door announced the arrival of a young maid who offered her services to help Muldoon clean himself. He accepted with a nod and extended his arms over the rim of the tub. The maid soaked a cloth in a bucket of fresh water and began applying perfumed lye to Muldoon’s skin, scrubbing until his arms and shoulders became red and raw. She moved on to his greasy hair, each pass of her sodden cloth returning a speck of strength to Muldoon.

  When the maid was finished, she handed Muldoon a monogrammed towel embroidered with Ansel’s heraldic crest. She turned her back respectfully, offering the Patrician guest a modicum of privacy.

  Muldoon rose from the bath and affixed the towel around his waist. At his grunting signal, the maid returned to pat his shoulders dry and comb out his auburn hair. She left him with a modest plate of food, a fresh Patrician uniform in Ansel’s gray and brass, and a single black band for his hair.

  Muldoon declined the services of a waiting valet. He dressed himself, but had little stomach for the food. He took two bites of a seasoned dinner roll, then turned to inspect himself in a full-length mirror. The warm bath had restored some of his color, but the mark of his struggles lingered in the fine lines around the corners of his eyes and the dark circles beneath them. He prodded at these imperfections with the pads of his fingers.

  Jokai fend—he’d aged a decade in a week. Cursing under his breath, he proceeded out of the washroom and into the hall where one of Ansel’s armed sentinels waited at stiff attention, ready to escort him to the Lord Governor.

  Muldoon found Ansel at his hardwood desk, performing his importance by inspecting a stack of papers that might as well have been blank. He scanned the chamber’s spare decorations as he waited for governor to acknowledge his arrival. The single portrait of a galloping white mare looked as expensive as it was kitsch, though he did admire the set of craftsman armchairs opposite the desk. In the corner of the office, a standing timepiece taunted him, tick-tick-ticking as its brass pendulum swung back and forth.

  Ansel scrawled a flamboyant signature across one of his papers and finally looked up from his labors. “Ah. That’s better. Feeling restored, I hope?”

  Muldoon returned an acid smile that never reached his eyes. “Yes, your conscripts are very dutiful.”

  “They are,” Ansel agreed. “We value decorum here on Volturnus.”

  Eyes tightening, Muldoon absorbed the jab. He gestured at one of the craftsman armchairs opposite Ansel’s desk. “May I?”

  Ansel nodded. “As you will.”

  Muldoon took the offered seat and crossed his legs, drumming one set of fingers across his knee.

  Ansel holstered his fountain pen in a golden desktop mount and met Muldoon’s gaze. The governor’s square jaw worked back and forth as he studied the dispossessed Patrician before him. “What am I to do with you?” he finally asked.

  “With me?” Muldoon’s fingers stopped tapping. “I assume you’ll conscript a unit of armsmen and restore me to my rightful seat on Aeolus.”

  Ansel’s thick, black eyebrows crept together across his brow like caterpillars joining to mate. “That’s quite the assumption.”

  “What do you intend to do about your renegade dragoon?” Muldoon continued. “Lieutenant Vanna Strait. I assume she’ll be called to account?”

  Ansel shook his head in disbelief, salt-and-pepper hair frozen in its lacquered coif. “I warned Kelestina that you weren’t ready for this charge, did you know that? No matter your pedigree, youth and inexperience lend themselves poorly to the task of governing the plebiscite.”

  “You must be joking.” The condescension struck Muldoon like a pistol shot from pointblank range.

  “I’m not known for my sense of humor,” A
nsel said.

  “You know little and less of what you speak.” Muldoon felt his self-control wearing thin as Ansel’s stationary.

  “Is that right?” Ansel’s smirk finally pushed him over the edge.

  “Aeolus was a mess when I arrived!” Muldoon raised his voice. “Kelestina’s court has done her a grave disservice in this land. The plebiscite lives in excess. Over a decade of colonization, and still you’ve turned but a fraction of this land’s yield to the Throne’s devices. The plebeians take advantage of our host’s forbearance, and none of you possess the managerial skill to herd them back in line. It’s no wonder the Bluethorn worked his way under this land’s skin with such ease. None of you are paying any damned attention!”

  Ansel waited calmly, permitting time for Muldoon to burn himself out. “Are you quite finished?”

  Muldoon pressed his lips shut. If he spent any more time glowering, the lines around his eyes were sure to become permanent.

  “I’ll take that as an affirmative.” Ansel leaned back in his chair and threaded his fingers together, perching them atop his uniformed gut. “Her Lightness Kelestina prefers that we take a gentle hand with the plebiscite in this land. We aren’t expected to wring them for every last drop of blood. She prizes stability over production.”

  “How benevolent!”

  Ansel's ample eyebrows turned down. “Sarcasm is unbecoming of a Patrician.”

  “So is incompetence,” Muldoon sneered.

  “Damnit, man!” Ansel slammed one meaty palm atop his desk. “We aren’t here for kite-ships and libras of grain.”

  “I’m sure the Armada will thank you for keeping them well-provisioned with plebeian good will.”

  “The plebiscite is the provision, you childish fool.”

  The two Patricians stared across the desk at each other, locked into a silent battle of wills. Muldoon realized he might have overestimated this man. “Midwit” was far too generous. The Governor of Volturnus recited his litany with the zeal of an imbecile.

  Muldoon had dealt with plenty of imbeciles before. He knew the type. Shouting wasn’t likely to pierce his thick skull, so Muldoon left his outrage to simmer and attempted a different tack.

  “How long has it been since you last visited Toran?”

  The unexpected question struck a chip of hesitation into Ansel. “I really couldn’t say. Decades.”

  Muldoon suspected as much. “Then allow me to fill you in on the latest developments: the war isn’t going well. The Agnar have broken from their leash and now raid freely across the veldt and deeper into Rydia. Admiral Siprichor had to abandon our positions around the inland sky, and now the Akkadians are playing footsie with the Jokai-damned Hellicon League. Umar is our last Toranese stronghold, and it's practically under siege.”

  “That sounds awfully histrionic,” Ansel said. “We have consulates on every outlying island for leagues around the eastern coast. Hellicon is surrounded—penned in.”

  Muldoon almost envied the man’s ignorance. How simple it must be presiding over these tame Elementalists a thousand leagues from the nearest conflict.

  “It’s the damned Gullivari, Ansel. The Bluethorn and his saboteurs are fighting an asymmetric war—and they’re winning. The Ring has operatives threaded throughout the Doric Sky. They’re on Brundis and Takomar—even Vangulmark has been infiltrated. They’re throttling our supply lines. The Bluethorn and his ilk—they’ll diminish the Armada by a thousand cuts and leave the Hellicon League to deliver the killing blow.”

  An uncomfortable silence passed between them, with only the ticking of Ansel’s gaudy clock to season it.

  “That’s all very troubling,” Ansel allowed. “But what does it have to do with the Zephyr Isles?”

  “Everything!” You brainless hayseed. “The Admiral sent me to Kelestina to ensure that these islands start to produce.”

  Muldoon could almost see the wheels turning inside the governor’s thick head as he tried to square this new information. Failing, he simply gave up.

  “None of this matters,” Ansel said. “Siprichor may have shipped you across the sky with a wish list, but you’re a member of Kelestina’s court now. Her Lightness isn’t as enamored with the Crystal Throne’s adventurism in the west. Her interests tend to the esoteric. I admit, serving Her Lightness can be an adjustment, but her goals in the archipelago have always been steadfast. We Patrician servants are charged only with prosecuting them, never questioning. We have been tasked with cultivating the plebiscite—a task you failed on Aeolus. Catastrophically.”

  Muldoon blinked, dumbfounded by the dullard’s sanctimony but hardly surprised. His voice became very low. “You’d have me—what, then, Ansel? Apologize to the plebiscite for all the trouble I caused? Grant them tacit permission to return to their foot-dragging and their fraud?”

  “Oh, I think the kite-ship has long-since sailed on disingenuous apologies.”

  “Surely my position is to be reinstated⁠—”

  “Surely not.” Ansel reveled in his return to stable ground in the discussion. “I’ve already exchanged messages with Aquilon. You’re to report to the palace and receive judgment from Her Lightness, and don’t expect a warm reception. If I’m reading the subtext of Kelestina’s missive, she’s more likely to have you staked to a geode than restored as a magistrate of her court.”

  Muldoon scowled. “Now who’s being histrionic?”

  Ansel propped his hands back atop his stomach and leaned back in his chair. “As soon as you're fit and able, I’m to ship you off to Aquilon without delay.”

  “And what of the dragoons who violated my person? Will they be called to meet the same justice?”

  “They will not.” Ansel snorted, the curling set of his lips too smug by half. “The dragoons are too popular among the plebiscite, and our host would not see their ample Gifts squandered.”

  Bereft of counterarguments, Muldoon shut his mouth and closed his eyes. His humiliation was finally complete. He fastened one of the brass buttons on his uniform and stood up, offering Ansel a stiff, shallow bow. “Then I will prepare for departure this evening. You’ll make the arrangements?”

  Ansel nodded. “Kelestina will send a coach.”

  “Very well.” Muldoon affected Patrician composure as he took his leave, turning his back to Ansel to conceal a decidedly un-Patrician expression turned hideous with rage.

  Staked to a geode… She wouldn’t dare. Muldoon was a born Patrician. A Gifted servant of the Great Admiral Sprichor and a decorated war veteran, to boot. He had too many friends in high positions across the sky—too many powerful patrons waiting in Toran.

  But the skies were vast, and Toran was far away.

  1

  EFFIE

  Effie sat rigid at the edge of her padded seat inside Kelestina’s carriage. She could feel the effects of the Nectar beginning to ebb, but her heightened senses remained. Kelestina sat across from her, long fingers folded across her lap, studying her with those liquid-green eyes. The smoky tint applied to her face in the shape of wings seemed to gleam on her polished skin.

  Effie watched her host’s Celestial body sway with the motion of six hippocampi pulling their carriage into flight. Only moments ago, she’d been sailing on the back of a wild dauphine, and already the experience felt like a distant memory.

  Those fleeting moments returned to Effie in montage. Kelestina met her on the shore of the Moonflow Lagoon. She approached with open arms and shocked Effie with a covetous embrace. Effie nestled stiffly in those porcelain arms, surprised by the unexpected heat burning within a body that felt hard as glass.

  You marvelous child, Kelestina whispered in Effie’s ear. You precious, precious gift.

  Those were the first and only words that passed between them. Effie had violated a sacred ceremony to prove her worth. She wasn’t sure what to expect in response to her insolence, but she was increasingly certain she would not have to endure any punishment for crashing the Ascension.

  Through their brief flight to the top of the cliffs, Kelestina continued to watch her, unblinking. The intensity of her gaze made Effie want to look away, but she feared any flinch might be taken as an insult. She forced herself to match Kelestina’s gaze, even though the cold beauty of the Celestial form threatened to blind her.