The House didn't know what to make of this… attention.

It had grown used to this level of activity within its halls, a certain kind of nostalgia in both this child and his… wife's (now that word was a strange one) day to day activities. It had watched as the days drew by, measuring the shadows cast by the three suns and the cold light of Unudo, and simply observed.

It had watched her.

She was this strange, and very captivating foreign girl (A Princess!) from beyond the northern graves; having such exotic blonde hair and a peculiar accent that this House was almost immediately suspicious of her.

After all, these were the people who broke that original promise, the creators of those monstrous half-amalgamations who had made that very distant city-spirit scream out in its death throes. And more importantly, this was the daughter of that woman of silver who had ordered such an awful thing…

So what is she doing here?

This girl whose soul smelled of wheat-sap and copper-silver must've been here to do something terrible too.

But the House listened to their highly awkward conversations, watched as they spent the long days eating meals within that living room, and felt… something else growing between them.

Human behavior was not exactly its forte, the millennia spent in the soil dulling this once vast intelligence (and fractured as it was, oh my) to simply sit here and observe this catastrophe of a person. Forced to experience every embarrassment that this girl felt, every pang of psychological pain from those donut withdraws (what an addiction, the house thought) and perhaps most importantly: every small victory in the struggle of daily life.

He was completely unlike the child of that mother, who upon a much closer observation, shared so many things with that song-singer. In that pale skin and dark hair, in those soft words that came from his lips, and in that longing gaze that he held to the world around him.

He had the same soul as his creator, a child of that singer of ancient songs; a depth deeper than a sea of stars, an abyss that stared back in sick captivation.

Hitched to a catastrophe of a human being.

The House, for the first time ever, actually felt this strange parental sense of disappointment crawl up from its eastern wing. How could this… gremlin of all things, be the wife of this most precious child. Even worse, the concept that this creature could actually be the daughter of that monster beyond the graves was sickening.

Blessed is the emperor who seeks nothing. The message came in a half whisper from the young forest growing behind the House. Blessed is the shepherd who desires nothing but to shepard their flock. Blessed is the one who loves not for power, blessed is the one who loves for love.

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But, carried upon the backs of migratory cranes, whose flocks had undertaken their spring crossing back to this nation state, came a much more honest message from that Imperium as they called it. These spirits who had lived in the fertile soil toiled by farmhands, minds who were conjoined together in vast steelwork factories, and voices from the nascent neural networks of sprawling city streets; composed just a single missive to this home:

This soul, in her most perfect and wondrous creation, may have had her hymn sung in a slightly different octave than the rest.

Well, that did make sense.

And there was something growing within that child's heart towards her: in those very slight glances as she walked into the various rooms, in how they read those books together in his room, and how whenever she grew close to him his heart beated just a slight bit faster than normal.

Captivating for sure, and if it was his desire what was this House's place to question it?

As long as he's happy, as long as the House could see that subtle smile on his face, on those sighs of relief from his lungs then it was going to be ok.

Because that's what she would've wanted.

But this Prince was not happy now. Not with his breath held like a man waiting for a punch. Not with his eyes following the shadows as they moved across the eastern flank, where armed soldiers combed the grounds like birds searching for worms.

They had come quite suddenly, aboard that heavily armored war train of theirs packed full of weapons and some heavy, mechanical beast of burden with an engine that spat black fumes into the pristine sea air and howled with arrogant pride.

Taking the entirety of town into the possession of military force, with those black uniforms on street sides and the butt of a rifle quick to follow any signs of discontent.

The House was uncomfortable with all this, especially as they all came down the old road like some conquering army come to claim their rightful war prize.

Come to take it home to the great spirit of Landfall.

It was an army, these squads of soldiers setting up their dirty barracks in perfectly dusted reading rooms, patrolling these manicured gardens with rifles in hand, and setting up that awful command center right in the heart of the living room. They had turned the House into a variable fort—from its original grace and elegance transformed into nothing but a brutish, dumbed pile of rock and cannon.

And the House hated them for it.

See fire! That damned prophetic sermon from the crashing ocean waves speaks up once more, that thing coming again to haunt this child like some vengeful animal. Child that shall burn with fire! See sky demons returning with fire! So many die because of him, because of…!

It quiets itself suddenly, at the new presence within the protective walls of the House. And now, much quieter, the great peaks of waves and rolling tides give another permutation of prophecy from its vast dataset. Child of silver, new child of fire. Bringer of fire, summoner of sky demons…

The House is ready with another series of counter attacks, its most recent renovation giving its roof a fresh coat of disgustingly unnatural charcoal-tar plastic that it was quite happy to unleash against these spirits who were now gathering at the edges of its property.

But the prophetic voice speaks to the rest in a hushed tone, watching this simple girl joyfully remain awake at this awful hour of the night. Child of silver, daughter of the farmers and shepherds; save him from your fire. Spare him, protect the son of murder. Spare him from the wrath, save him from those that shall die for him, against him.

And that great gaseous spirit above, arching through the vast storm clouds of methane, drawing power from the tides of metallic helium, whispers as quietly it can manage towards this small, almost insignificant girl.

Save us all.

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