“Welcome,” said a voice Aissaba recognized even before the hood came off. It was Styxx – or someone who looked very much like him. His body augmentations were every bit as extensive as Tassadu’s. His ears and fur testified to his having borrowed some genetic ideas from the feline family.

In the crowd behind cat-Styxx, Aissaba noticed that body augmentations were common here – perhaps even the norm. There were no dragon mods – but plenty of cat and bird mods. Several people had tentacles, or an extra limb. A variety of alternative hands poked out of sleeves: crab claws, talons, even a cloven hoof or two. Eyes of many colors glowed in the torchlight like a rainbow starscape behind Styxx.

“I see you recognize me,” he said. “My twin was recruited to your Fortress. From what I understand, though, he’s dead now.” He raised a whiskered eyebrow.

“That or being tortured,” said Aissaba. This didn’t seem to surprise anyone. A few murmurs swept through the crowd. She couldn’t quite make out the words. Something like, “Fast may he rot.”

Then, silence.

“So…” said Tassadu, trying to make conversation. “You’re the Rot Cult? And you have your own Fortress.” He gestured at the igneous walls and the gloomy marketplace, stalls made of wood scraps and stained tarps. “It’s… great.”

“We’re in a bit of a pebble shortage,” said cat-Styxx. “That’s why we’re hoping to recruit you.”

“About that…” said Aissaba. “We’re not exactly here to be recruited. Hopefully, that doesn’t make things too awkward.”

“Oh, we’re well aware of why you think you’re here,” said cat-Styxx. “But allow me to take you on a small recruitment tour. We’ve been recruiting from the Fortress for a long time now. And – like the two of you – our conversion rate is quite high.”

As he led them through the crowd, Aissaba noticed more familiar faces buried beneath the genetic modifications: the woman who had been her mother’s boss in the cafeteria; the scribe who had worked a few rooms down while Aissaba was writing her thesis; the bureaucrat who ran pebble payroll every week. She half-expected to see her own face, dirty and covered in fur or scales.

The crowd parted, and people went back to whatever they had been doing. Generally, this seemed to involve queuing up at the rundown stalls and haggling with merchants. Wares being exchanged included small knives and leather armor, tools Aissaba didn’t recognize, and blackened meat that neither looked nor smelled particularly good. Behind some of the shops, rotisseries spiraled unidentifiable meats over open flame.

Beyond the place of commerce loomed the tower – the analog of the Spire of Masteries – and it was to its door that cat-Styxx led them.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

“I forgot to mention, I’m one of the Masters here,” he said. “We don’t make a big deal about titles – but I thought you should know.”

“Master of what?” said Tassadu.

“Of Rot, I suppose you’d call it,” said cat-Styxx. “We don’t divide Masteries along the lines of pebble magic. We’re all just Masters of what you call Rot.”

She could tell he was waiting for her to ask the obvious question: What is the Rot? Tassadu shifted from foot to foot during the silence and finally blurted, “So are you guys trying to destroy the Fortress or what?”

***

Cassandra expected the limo to pull into a hospital parking lot. The last time they’d been brought to see Grandpa, he was staying in an assisted living facility associated with some big hospital whose name she could never remember. But the limo didn’t even follow the highway into the city. Instead, it exited early and began to follow a country road.

Cassandra’s heart started to pound the moment she realized they weren’t headed for the hospital. She began to imagine all sorts of ways they might be murdered a few minutes from now. When the car turned into a cemetery, she couldn’t help herself. She scrambled at the door handle and tried to break the window when it didn’t open.

The Master of Mind tried to restrain her, so she clawed his face and screamed. Orion came out of his pebble trance and said, “Dude! What’s going on?”

“It’s okay,” said the Master of Language as the limo came to a stop. “We’ll proceed once your sister has calmed down.”

“Cassandra, chill out,” said Orion, exasperated. But when he looked out the window, he finally showed the appropriate amount of situational awareness, “Why aren’t we at the hospital?”

The Master of Mind opened the door and slowly released his grip on Cassandra. She flung it open and landed on the snow next to a moldy gravestone. For a moment, her plan was to sprint across the cemetery to the treeline on the far side. But then what?

“Take us back to school,” she demanded. Phone in hand, she threatened to call the authorities. But the others ignored her as they climbed out of the vehicle.

“I want to warn you,” said the Master of Language, making his way through the headstones, “there are a few things about which your parents haven’t been completely honest.”

Cassandra lagged behind the other three. She gave a half-hearted imploring look to the limo driver, but he wasn’t watching her – just staring blankly out the window as if hypnotized by the wiper blades. Chances of him phoning the police? Pretty low.

“Our Grandpa has dementia,” Cassandra called out. “He’s not dead.”

No answer from the Masters. A moment later, though, they stopped beside a mound of fresh dirt whose headstone Cassandra refused to read.

“Two things can be true,” said the Master of Language.

Whatever Cassandra was going to say died in her mouth when she realized they weren’t alone. Sitting on the headstone was an old man whose plaid flannel and smell of pipe tobacco she would have recognized anywhere. He had not been there a moment ago.

“Fast may I rot,” said Grandpa. “But not yet.”