Chapter 44:

A Bitter Look

> A riot broke out in the manufactory district today following the discovery of yet another house filled with corpses. Tensions are rising, and the crowd grows more volatile with each passing hour. If the new batch of Scribes isn't on its way soon, Speaker, we will be facing a general state of emergency. Control is slipping, and the streets are speaking more loudly than ever.

>

> — Speaker Alicia, to High Magister Orimund

Riella contemplated the challenge before her. A simple Compulsion, a directive, was straightforward enough once one had a grasp of the vocal intonations and the algorithms governing vocal resonance, combined with a basic understanding of human anatomy and the mood of the target.

But what if the objective was more complex? What if the Tongue’s task was not just to issue a command, but to erase? To make someone forget, and in its place, implant a new memory? This was what the Magisterium often sought: Please, oh great Tongue, make it as if this event never transpired.

It was never that simple.

Altering memories was far beyond the reach of most Tongue, even the most skilled. Memory was a slippery, malleable thing—tampering with it carelessly often resulted in disaster. One wrong shift, and the mind could be left shattered, lobotomized by accident. The risk was immense.

So, a Tongue had to be more inventive. Emotions, on the other hand, were easier to manipulate. The primal ones—fear, rage, desire—those were deeply rooted and powerful. What if, instead of erasing a memory outright, the subject was made to feel an overwhelming sense of terror when they even began to recall a particular event or fact?

And then, when gripped by that terror, they could be compulsed to think of a different set of facts—fabricated, incepted—and feel relief or even pleasure for choosing to focus on the false memory instead.

It wasn’t a perfect solution, but it was effective. A crude method of controlling information, but sometimes crude methods were all that was needed.

But the algorithm for such a solution was a chaotic tangle, one that demanded the use of a second vocal chord. So, Riella was creating another for herself.

It was an ancient technique, grueling and agonizing. The method wasn’t exactly secret, but it was widely avoided. It required mindful manipulation of the vocal chords, forcing them to tear apart, then using a set of precise intonations to knit them back together. Over time, with painful repetition, the process would create a second vocal box—a tool for more complex compulsions.

But even that wasn’t enough. Too many thoughts crowded her mind when she meditated, when she ripped her throat apart piece by piece. Thoughts of her friends, of Rinthess and her demands, of Godfrey... Thoughts best left buried.

To push them away, she trained relentlessly, sparring with combat instructors at the Institute. It was brutal, constant, and offered the kind of distraction she craved. Riella had been pulled from regular duties along with a handful of other promising Scribes, all selected for a special assignment. They were on loan to the Magisterium to administer amnestic protocols in the Lower City. Some kind of plague had begun to spread in one district. Rumors floated that Magisterium black sites had been attacked in the night over the past month, but that wasn’t something she was supposed to know.

Still, those thoughts barely lasted long in her mind. She preferred to lose herself in the pain, anything to escape reality.

Once her new vocal box was complete, she would be sent into the Lower City to perform the amnestic Compulsion. Her job would be to spread disinformation, to erase the knowledge of the plague and prevent the panic. To keep the manufactories running, no matter the cost.

As Adrian would say, this was all fucking rotten.

XXX

Adrian sat in front of a fork and spoon, staring at them in the dim, musty basement room Hadriq had shoved him into. The sour smell of rotting food hung heavy in the air, leaking from a cluster of sodden crates piled in one corner. He perched on a creaking stool at the only other piece of furniture in the room—a battered oak table, sturdy but worn.

The Hunters had left the city four days prior, trekking through wilderness before meeting Kieran in a secluded glade thirteen leagues from the city. From there, they had doubled back the long way, abandoning much of their long-term supplies from the Grain Gate barracks. At first, Adrian had been utterly confused by the strange detour. Then Kieran had gathered them all, giving them their orders.

"I know you have questions," Kieran had said, his voice steady as he addressed them. "Our mission is to locate and eliminate a rogue element within the Lower City. It was crucial that our exit from the city be both public and planned, so our return under cloak of night remains unnoticed. This is not over-caution; Magister Mopatis and I believe the rogue element we’re after is either a Knight or a Paladin."

The murmurs in the group had stilled.

"So far," Kieran had continued, "several Magisterium sites believed to be hidden have been hit. What’s troubling is that nothing was stolen, and the casualties were minimal. These weren’t slaughter raids—they were probing attacks. Someone is searching for something... or someone. And we've been tasked with stopping them."

Kieran had paused, his gaze hard. "Direct any further questions to Hadriq or Donovan. Nyx, Briscus—you’re with me."

They had slipped back into the city through the Plains Gate, navigating a web of tunnels that Adrian was sure were not common knowledge. Once inside, the Hunters had dispersed to their assigned hideouts, each tasked with surveilling the locations flagged by the Magisterium. Their orders were clear—observe the sites, assess the threat, but under no circumstances engage. If visual contact was made, all Hunters were to stand down and merely watch.

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For now, they waited. And Adrian, ever the rookie, had been assigned to Hadriq to continue his lessons.

So here he sat, staring down at a fork and spoon in the dim light of the basement, trying to convince himself that the fork was a spoon and the spoon was a fork. Simultaneously. His mind twisted over the task, caught between logic and absurdity. It was harder than it sounded. Far harder, and it already sounded hard.

Adrian stared at the fork. Really, it was just a terrible spoon, wasn’t it? And the spoon—well, if someone were determined enough, they could certainly pierce food with it. Both utensils were made of the same metal, roughly the same length and weight. In a sense, the spoon was already a fork, and the fork could easily be a poorly designed spoon.

He blinked, the realization dawning on him. The poorly made spoon and fork lay on the table, and in that moment, he knew he had done it. He had unconsciously swapped them in his mind, holding both contradictory thoughts at once. The absurdity of it made him laugh, and he let out a small whoop of joy.

He knew he wasn’t truly finished. He could hold both views—fork and spoon—as interchangeable in his single mind, but the objects were closely related. They were, after all, very similar. Yet already, he felt full, like his mind had reached its limit with the exercise, unable to stretch further.

That was when Hadriq’s steps creaked on the old wooden stairs.

"Good," Hadriq said, surveying the scene. "You’ve succeeded." He pointed to the wide fork with no tines. "Now, tell me what this is."

Adrian blinked. "It’s a fork."

"Good." Hadriq pointed to the spiny spoon. "And this?"

"It’s a spoon."

"Good." His eyes glinted. "Now, tell me they’re made of wood."

Adrian blanched, his mouth going dry. "They are both... made of wood."

Hadriq grunted. "I don’t believe you. Continue."

Adrian sighed, staring again at the fork and spoon—clearly metal, forged from steel. His mind rebelled at the thought, but he forced himself to consider it. Steel had a significant amount of carbon in it. Wood, when burned, became carbon, in a sense. The materials weren’t so different, not really. He squinted, feeling the concept blur in his head, forcing the connection between them, the edges of his thoughts fading into one another like smoke…

XXX

The street was still, the mist of late evening clinging to the air, draping the world in an eerie gloom. The silence stretched thin, interrupted only by the faintest stirrings of the city far off in the distance.

The Song pulsed in Godfrey’s veins as he strode along the rooftops, whispering promises of easy solutions, quick kills, the simplest path to power.

He ignored it, as he had learned to do.

His target slowly took shape out of the mist, a shadow against shadows. Without hesitation, Godfrey dropped from the rooftop, three stories in a single, fluid breath. He landed lightly, his boots barely whispering against the cobblestones.

He allowed the Song a sliver of awareness, just a whisper slipping past his lips as it seeped into the building ahead. It unfurled like a spectral mist, filling the space inside with his sharpened perception. In the depths below, several stories beneath the ground, he sensed huddled figures in the basement, their presence unmistakable.

Godfrey preferred a stealthy approach, but there was only one set of stairs leading down. No other option. He pushed aside any concern—tonight, subtlety mattered less.

He approached the door, bolted heavily from within. Placing his hand against the weathered wood and black iron, he let the Song pulse through his palm, its vibrations sinking deep into the door’s core. It thrummed, resonating with a soft hum that only he could hear, as the ancient power worked its way through every latch and bolt, seeking to undo them from within.

The bolts snapped with a dull crack as Godfrey found the right frequency. The door swung inward just as a pair of crossbow bolts whistled toward him. One slammed into his left shoulder, while his right hand instinctively shot up to deflect the second, his fingers brushing the rough wood as the bolt zipped past, embedding itself in the wall behind him.

Godfrey rolled forward, the impact barely slowing him, and as he glanced up, he saw the two men charging. Their eyes were blackened—Hand.

Without hesitation, Godfrey drew his longsword, letting the Bladesong pulse through him, filling his limbs with lethal grace for just a heartbeat. The world slowed around him, his every movement a perfect rhythm.

He danced through the two men in a blur of steel, slicing through flesh and bone with effortless precision. By the time his feet stilled, their bodies were crumbling, pieces slipping to the floor, leaking their lifeblood into the cold stone foundations below.

Godfrey advanced, methodical and unrelenting. He moved through the upper rooms, leaving only corpses in his wake. The idea of leaving enemies at his only exit was unacceptable. Each step was deliberate as he drifted down the stairs, clearing floor after floor.

The rooms grew darker, filled with filing cabinets, chests, and ledgers—likely the hidden secrets of those who thought themselves untouchable. The defenders, however, became less competent with each floor he descended, no longer the well-trained opposition he'd faced at the start.

He passed through a laboratory, where a few small men and women cowered in the corner, their faces pale and terrified. He spared them a glance, but the Song did not recognize them as enemies, so he moved on without a second thought.

At the bottom level, Godfrey encountered a man—fat, greasy, his lank hair matted to his shoulders. He sat at a worn table, cards laid out before him in a lonely, unfinished game. The man offered no resistance, his eyes wide with fear as he surrendered his keys to the dungeon without a word.

Godfrey took them, the metallic clink echoing in the oppressive silence as he moved deeper into the dungeon. The stench hit him like a wave, sickly and putrid, filling the air with the foul odor of decay and neglect. It clung to him, almost unbearable, but he pressed on.

He moved through the black cells, where the air was thick with the stench of decay and rust. Most of the cells held only corpses, their bodies dark with rot, the dampness of the dungeon so pervasive that Godfrey might have believed it intentional—if it didn’t so clearly corrode the iron bars. He pressed on, undeterred.

At the far end, he came upon a stone disc set into a raised well. A metal grate sealed it, and below, only darkness stared back at him. But the Song could feel them—two faint pulses of life, clinging on stubbornly. Stubborn as always.

Godfrey lifted the grate and covering with ease, the Song unconsciously flooding his body with strength. His eyes darkened, pulling in the faint light, and there, below, he saw two pairs of flinty eyes staring up at him. One pair was sharp and calculating, the other filled with passion.

"Godfrey?" the calculating voice rasped.

Godfrey smiled, his eyes warming. "John. Tarlow. I hope you enjoyed your vacation."

He crouched over the well, his tone shifting. "We have work to do."