Original Art by Conley Philpott

image [https://i.imgur.com/sOQ3WFL.jpg]

My enemies will fall to my blade. Fate permits no other outcome. I have but to find them. And then, one by one, they shall fall. This is how the Vicious Circle is convened, is it not? – Syyd, Author of His Own Destiny, heard at the Conference of Bladesmen on Kahl Undra-pex, 717 DE (Doom Era)

“What is it?” Dorja said, entering the cockpit. She had thrown off her robe, and was wearing an old bun’kta leather chest covering, the bird skulls on her necklace clattering. She often put those on as a matter of good luck, even though she hardly believed in the concept. Dorja’s topknot was askew and she was tightening it up as she stepped beside Kirek. “What have you got?”

“You don’t hear that?” Kirek spun around in the pilot’s seat and pointed up at the ceiling.

For a moment, Dorja just looked at him, nonplussed and frustrated, hearing nothing but the air-scrubbers gargling. Then, faintly, she thought she heard a dull thumping noise. It seemed distant, like someone’s fist thumping on metal at the other end of a long corridor. She listened. She heard it again. Then she gestured at the main board, towards the controls for the air-scrubbers. Kirek got the message and switched them off, and suddenly they were in silence, straining to find the source.

Dorja looked out the viewport at the field of unending stars. They’d dipped back out of the slipstream and now faced the same pitiless void they’d been escaping into for months now. She said, “Could it be the hull popping? Whatever it’s called—temperature differential?” She’d been flying long enough in vacuum to know that if a ship flew close enough to a star, even a few hundred million miles out, then a ship’s hull would pop from heat expansion. And if you passed behind a planet or asteroid or other cosmic body, the hull would pop again as it contracted in the coldness of that body’s shadow.

Kirek shook his head. “We’re not close to any stars,” he whispered. “Which is why it’s weird. But honestly, that’s not the reason I called you up here. I only started hearing the noise while you were on your way up.”

“Then why did you summon Dorja?”

“Look.” He pointed to the passive-sensor board.

Dorja pored over its screen, squinting at heat readings in this region. They were strong readings. Very strong. And Veringulf’s AI latched on to that heat signature and assigned neutron-imaging scopes to it, clearly delineating a line between a massive cloud of interstellar gases and the massive rock at the center of it. Half the surface of that rock was dappled in heat signatures. “Are we inside any star system?”

“No. We’re not even into Saito Sector yet.”

Dorja heard another thump. Sounded like it was moving aft along their hull. She listened. The thumping stopped. She looked back at the sensor screen. “That is too warm of an object for just any rock.”

“Right.”

“A settlement, then.”

“Between star systems?” Kirek said doubtfully. “Without access to a warm sun or worlds worth terraforming, that’d be a hard sell for anybody.”

“But for people fleeing the Doom?”

Kirek ran two fingers through his thickening blond beard. “I mean, I guess it’s possible. I’ve certainly heard of people taking up residence on rocks out in the Oort cloud regions of some star systems, maybe even a bit farther out. On Kypol-III, there was a movement by some Christian monks to build a monastery on a comet heading out-system. They said the Brood doesn’t target small objects, only large, occupied worlds. I remember they had prefab habitats built onto the outer hulls of their three starships, ready to deploy once they landed. Those prefabs had hydroponics labs, drill bots, construction bots, a small factory for melting any ice they found. They were prepared to live outside of a star system.”

“Whatever happened to them?”

“Nobody ever heard from them again.”

Dorja looked back out the viewport. At present, this possibly-occupied-asteroid wasn’t visible to the naked eye, it was a little over ten thousand miles away and just coasting through the void.

Another thump from above.

Dorja looked up. “What is that sound?”

“I’ve got no idea. I’ve got the external cams swiveling around, looking for any—”

“What’s going on?” Turtle suddenly blurted. Dorja hadn’t even heard her coming, the came bounding down the corridor and into the cockpit, followed quickly by Joshua and Newpik. Dorja almost shouted in alarm, for a moment she thought she was looking at some strange metal rodent—but it was only Joshua, the bot’s entire body was wrapped in small scarves, two or three shirts pulled roughly over its domed head.

“Turtle, what’re you—Dorja told you to remain in your quarters. And why are you playing dress-up with poor Joshua?”

“He likes it,” she said. “I dialed up his playfulness and agreeability—”

“Superstar!” Joshua exclaimed, waving two of its pincers in the air and gyrating.

“See?” Turtle giggled. “He likes it! He likes that he’s allowed to have more fun now! And now he’s—”

“Turtle shouldn’t be here,” Dorja said. “Turtle should be in her—”

“Naughty, naughty, Turtle!” said Joshua, in a faux grumpy stance, folding its pincers across its front judiciously.

“But we’ve been cooped up so long!” the girl said querulously.

“Turtle was told—”

“But we’re not even in the slipstream, so why can’t I—”

“Turtle should—”

“Shh!” Kirek said. “Listen. Both of you.”

They listened. The thumping moved fore to aft again, then sounded like it was making its way over to port side. Tiny pins danced over Dorja’s skin, as she felt childhood fears gathering around her like old friends. Ghosts in the ether, she couldn’t help but think. That’s probably what her sister would have called it. Dorja didn’t believe in those kinds of ghosts. At least, she told herself that. But it was hard to shake off those old tales of long-dead spirits of those who had died in space, looking for warmth, looking for any means to escape the cold…especially since Dorja was sometimes able to see those revenants in the zero field. They were never cruel or unkind, but still, stories like that tended to live deep in the psyche, refusing to be outgrown.

But another part of her, the logical part, knew what this was, and it was no less concerning than ether-spectrals. “Someone’s out there.”

“Yeah,” Kirek said.

“Someone with magboots.”

“Yeah.”

“And someone who was able to approach without us noticing.”

“Yeah.”

Dorja followed the thumping sound with her eyes. “They couldn’t have been with us since entering the slipstream, they would have been torn apart.”

“Right,” Kirek said, agreeing with her on everything.

“So, then…their ship is close by. Very close by.”

“Right.”

“But it’s not showing up on sensors.”

“Right.”

“So that means a stygian cloak.”

“Right.”

“Which means these are pirates.”

“Yes.”

“Pirates?” said Turtle, eyes wide as saucers.

“Pirates!” Joshua shouted, and shot two if its welding arms into the air. “Jazz hands!”

* * *

For a protracted moment, none of them moved.

Dorja looked down at the two bots, then over at Turtle. This was new territory for her. She was used to battles out in the open, or on a planet or moon, some kind of solid ground beneath her, and with hope of retreat or escape. Actual room to maneuver. Out here in the void, they were very much an island, and if they tried to run…

Then they’ll know that we know, and they may open fire upon us. A stygian-cloaked ship was no ordinary threat, and could be rated Quagmire 1 to 7. Q-levels indicated intensity of the plasma shield being emitted by the stygian generator. Plasma shields of such intensity could block out all radiation, including light and plasma beamfire, and encased the vessel in a perfectly black oval—spacers sometimes just called it the Black Egg. The ship inside a Q-6 or -7 Black Egg could not be seen or detected by any sensors anywhere. But, Dorja knew, the price paid was that the enclosed ship couldn’t detect anything happening outside of their Black Egg, either.

The pirate ship and her crew would be both invisible and blind. The only real way to spot a stygian-cloaked ship was to spot any black gaps in the stars themselves. And the only method for such a cloaked vessel to know what was going on outside the Black Egg was to send out a drone, or else an actual vac-suited person, to float out through the Black Egg, spy on their targets, then float back to the ship, back through the Black Egg itself, and report what they’d learned.

Thump…thump-thump…

Dorja listened, holding her breath, walking slowly away from the cockpit to follow the sounds. Turtle began to follow, too, but froze when Dorja held up a weeping-hand. The footsteps were moving aft now.

“Heading for the airlock?” Kirek guessed from behind her, whispering like they were in the forest at night.

And aren’t we? she thought.

Dorja nodded. Walked on wordlessly. When the thumping finally stopped, she moved with soft steps into the cargo hold to retrieve her glaive. She half expected to see Master Korvix there, but the essence box was still silent, emitting no holograms of any kind. She returned to the main corridor and stood beside Kirek. They listened.

Dorja suddenly felt how confined they were, how tight Veringulf’s corridors were. This was no place to fight. And with Turtle and the Kennisons so exposed…and the Kennison children…

These were terrible circumstances in which to meet an opponent, and the dread that now roosted in her chest was unfamiliar to her. Because she’d always traveled alone, but now, after all these months of being with these people, she had grown fond of them, even feel close to them.

This was an awful, awful feeling. Images leapt through her mind, horrors that might be visited upon these people that had trusted her to bring them safely to a new home, people she had fought to convince of her capability to protect, to do right by them, to preserve them against the Doom or whatever else awaited them. As long as Dorja draws breath, help is coming for those in need. Long had that been her mantra, but what happened when it was Dorja the Blade who was in need?

The moment of doubt lingered, and she dealt with it by taking in slow, deep breaths, and exhaling just as slowly. Focusing. Listening.

Kirek took out his omni-pad, which Dorja noticed he had connected to Veringulf’s external cams. The screen showed the space surrounding them. He whispered, “I don’t see him. Or it. Or whatever’s out there walking around. They must’ve marked all the spots our cams are situated, and they’re keeping out of line of sight.”

Dorja moved further aft, towards the airlock. The airlock was tiny. Since Veringulf was only meant for a handful of passengers, there were just four racks of vac-suits, some of them suffering badly from neglect. She peeked through the small circular window into the airlock and looked for anything unusual, any sign that someone had tried to gain entry. Right then it was airless, kept that way for hull integrity in case they were struck by tungsten rounds or plasma beams.

Dorja tapped a few keys on the wall panel beside the door, pressurizing the airlock.

“What are you doing that for?” Kirek whispered.

“In case they try to cut their way in,” she said. “Veringulf will notice he’s venting atmo.”

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He nodded. “Good thinking, but I don’t think they would be so obvious.”

She looked at him. “You’re the scout. How would you infiltrate Dorja’s ship?”

Kirek didn’t have to think for very long. “Main exhaust ports. Climb right up through, looking for a maintenance shaft while I’m still in my vac-suit, look for a place to cut my way in. Probably use a plasmetic-arc welder. Three minutes, I’d be in.”

Dorja looked past Kirek, towards the cockpit where Turtle stood with the two bots. “Turtle stays here. Dorja means it this time.” She nodded at Kirek. “Let’s check the exhaust port maintenance shaft.”

* * *

There were clear signs of cutting, melted patches that had been started and resealed by Veringulf, using the interstitial Rescue Foam that was put in the lining of most starships to auto-seal in case a meteor made it through the deflector shields and puncture the hull. Dorja had to crawl on her back to wedge herself into the small maintenance shaft. She reached forward with her reaching-hands, grabbing pipes to pull herself along, while her weeping-hands pushed against the flooring. She used her faery lights to shine around the tight confines, looking for any sign of other damage, listening for air leakage. “They tried,” Kirek said, squeezing up beside her. “They sure tried.”

She nodded. “The Rescue Foam probably frustrated them.”

“That, or they’re listening to us, and knew we were headed this way. If they’ve got a sound-sketcher attached to our hull, we wouldn’t even know it. Those things are small, fit in the palm of your hand. They pick up vibrations from the hull. Sensitive suckers. They can pick up speech. Our visitors could’ve been listening to us the whole time we’ve been talking about them.”

“One of us needs to be at the flight controls,” Dorja resolved. “We may need to head to that asteroid colony you found.”

“What if it’s a pirate haven?”

Dorja thought about that. She didn’t think it made sense. Pirate havens were never that big. Least, not she’d seen. “We will risk it. A micro-jump, soon as you can. If it is a proper colony, they may have Free Rangers.”

“Got it. On my way.”

“And Kirek? Not a word of this to the others. Especially the Kennisons, if they ask.”

“Understood, Lady Dorja,” he winked. He was quickly gone.

Dorja sat alone in the maintenance shaft, casting about for any sign the intruder may have gotten in. Once she was satisfied they were safe, she started back out of the shaft. She was just climbing up through the main port when Kirek’s voice came over the room’s loudspeaker, “We’re being hailed!”

“By a ship?”

“Negative. It’s a tightbeam transmission, coming straight from that asteroid. It’s a colony, all right. They’re asking if we’re traders. Asking if we brought them something called ‘akrinot’? Ever heard of it?”

Dorja searched her memory. “No.”

“Neither have I. Want me to respond?”

“Hang on. Dorja is on her way up.”

Dorja was halfway to the cockpit when she stopped. She was still carrying her glaive, and had only just now remembered. Funny, wasn’t it? Carrying it around when she was pretty sure she was alone. But pretty sure wasn’t completely sure. And something else had nabbed her attention. It took her a moment to realize what it was. The thumping. It’s gone. She hadn’t heard any more footsteps across Veringulf’s outer hull, not since crawling through the maintenance shaft.

Then, something moved in the corner of her eye. Dorja turned, and saw the thin, pale form of a man. He was elderly, shivering, looking directly at her. At once, she knew she was looking at a revenant, a spirit that only she could see, trapped somewhere in that thin skein between the material world and the ghost field. Dorja started towards him. The old man shook his head vehemently and cowered against a wall.

“Dorja will not hurt you,” she said.

“I know,” the revenant whispered back in a quavering voice. The spirit began to fade.

“Then why are you afraid?”

“Behind you.” A thin, trembling hand came up, and a single bony picture pointed.

Dorja spun, and found only the doorway to the cargo hold. “What—?” Dorja looked back at the spirit, but it was gone, vanishing as quickly as a dream. Dorja held her glaive in her upper-right reaching-hand and lower-right weeping-hand. She crept into the cargo hold, casting around. The hold appeared as it had been when she left it a half hour ago, the plastoid crates and steel pallets remained as they had been. Dorja walked over to the essence box lying on the floor where she’d left it. Then, Dorja stopped moving, froze suddenly, as forest vermin will do when they sense a predator near. It seized her, this feeling.

“Easy now,” a voice said from behind. It was smooth, pondwater-calm, and it came through a filter of some kind, probably a helmet’s speaker. “Easy. I’m a reasonable man. Lower the blade down to the deck. Don’t drop it, don’t make a sound. It’s fine. I’m a reasonable man. We’re all fine right now. I’m a very reasonable man.”

How had she let someone get behind her? How had she not detected him? How had he gotten inside without Veringulf somehow alerting her?

And why was she not wearing her full armor? She’d removed it to train. Let her guard down. Figured they were safe during jumps. Relaxed.

“I’m a very reasonable man,” he repeated.

Whatever the voice meant to convince her of, his repetition of that phrase had the opposite effect on her.

“Dorja is very reasonable, too,” she said evenly. “And she will not be lowering her blade.” She began turning, slowly, making no sudden movements.

“Stop moving,” said the calm, mechanical voice.

“No.”

“I said—”

“You are either out of ammo, or else you are very low,” she said, still turning. “If you could stun Dorja, if you had a stunner or a nepth’chk, she would already be unconscious now. If you wanted her dead, same. Yours cannot suffer someone such as Dorja to live. She is too much of a risk for you.” When she had turned fully around, she was looking at a man in a yellow armored vac-suit, the helmet’s hoses leading to the air tank on his back, the two bulbous red-glowing eyes boring into her like a demonic insect’s. The scuff marks and bolt-welded holes across his armor proclaimed him a survivor, someone who had scraped by and fought his way through the Doom, as did his stance, which was low, knees slightly bent, weight evenly distributed. He was ready.

Dorja looked the armor over. It looked like it might be power armor. If so, she wondered if its power core was low. Likely, she thought. Hardly any places left that make those. Wonder where he got it.

Then she looked at his rifle. An old model, easily pre-Doom. It was aimed directly at her. There was a taped foregrip and an underbarrel launcher of some kind that was only connected by two leather straps. Like his armor, nothing was there for style, all purely utilitarian.

“You a mutation?” the gravelly voice finally said.

“Dorja is no mutation.”

“The blue skin—”

“Dorja knows what she looks li—”

“It’s beautiful,” the visitor said, in a queerly flat tone. A judicious nod, an art critic merely remarking on some known fact, barely worth mentioning. It was clear he meant nothing by it. Somehow, Dorja sensed that this wasn’t even an attempt at flattery to disarm her. Indeed, the visitor’s helmet slowly turned away from her, those goggled eyes raking the cargo hold and seemingly taking it all in, like an appraiser at a merchant’s stall. In fact, he even nodded as if he had suspected something all along, and now had it confirmed. Then he looked back at her sharply. “Those tattoos,” he said. “Such interesting work. Never seen anything like them. It’s so quiet in here. Except for that faint knocking behind the walls. You know what that is?”

Dorja shrugged, nervous at his ability to change topics so rapidly. It made her think he was unstable. “Outgassing,” she said. Her eyes glanced to the doorway leading to the outside corridor, worried that Turtle or one of the Kennisons would happen in.

“So much pressure put on these ships,” he said appreciatively. “Gases and liquids being pushed through miles upon miles of tubes, heated by the radiation coming off of miles upon miles of superconducting wire running parallel to them.” He shook his head. “That gas has got to go somewhere. All that pressure.” He said it in mild wonder, a man seated on his porch and staring at the sun, considering the awesome mechanics of the universe. “We’re both reasonable people, I think. I feel that.”

She nodded. “Dorja is.”

“That’s good. Reasonable people can get things done without anyone getting hurt. Because they see reason.”

Dorja’s gut was tight. She believed she was right and that he had no ammo for that rifle, or else very little, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous. She wondered if Kirek had noticed how long it was taking her.

“A person’s hands advertise their habits,” the visitor said, not moving. His helmet might’ve been panning around, but his body belonged to a statue. “You have four hands, all of them callused. You don’t get calluses like that just by doing regular ship repairs. So, the glaive isn’t just for show, then. You’re a bladesman.” It wasn’t a question.

“Dorja is.” She glanced down at his rifle. “It doesn’t work.” Also not a question.

“You sure about that?”

“Ammunition is scarce here in the Doom. Dorja doubts very much a pirate would waste it to raid a vessel as small as this.”

The helmet tilted to one side quizzically. “Who said I’m a pirate?” He remained still, staring into her. “Blue skin. Four arms. You the one Syyd is looking for?”

She winced. Shrugged. “Dorja doesn’t know this Syyd.”

“Really? ‘Author of His Own Destiny’? You really haven’t heard of him? Top contender in the Vicious Circle?"

"What is the Vicious Circle?"

Another quizzical twitch of the head. "It's an interstellar competition of bladesmen, fighters of every kind. One season runs a whole decade, fighters hunting other fighters down, fighting till one loses, usually to the death. You climb the ranks like that. Truly now, you've never heard of it?"

"No."

"I find that hard to believe.”

“How did you get in?” she demanded, getting back to present issues.

“Where are you heading?”

“How did you get in?”

“Are you going to Agrinon?”

“Dorja doesn’t know what that is. How did you get in?” she demanded again.

The visitor finally shifted his weight. She saw herself reflected in both of those bulbous, red eyes. An eternity passed, during which each of these strangers sized the other one up. Dorja felt like they had met in a desert, both staring at a well full of water and wondering if they could trust the other one to share it, and she wondered who this man had been before, what he had been like on whatever world had birthed him, how he might have turned out if the Brood had not come along and brought with them the Doom. She wondered if she and this stranger might have been acquaintances. They could’ve been friends, sharing drinks, he might even have named his children after her.

But alas, her Master had often said to her, the Doom.

At last, the visitor said, “I just want some supplies.”

Dorja shrugged with her weeping-arms, holding the glaive now in her reaching-hands. “How much?” she said. But her true thoughts were, Satisfy all of a man’s needs, you’ve still only given him half of what he wants. More words from Master Jerrod, reaching from deep in the past to warn her. Dorja already knew the truth of the moment: nothing of what this man said could she trust.

“I’ve already taken a look at your cargo here,” he said. “You’re running low. So many mouths to feed. From what I picked up, you have several others that you brought back from a Doomed world. Do I have that right?”

Dorja nodded. Why lie? If he had a sound-sketcher mounted to the hull, as Kirek had suggested, then this man already knew everything. “You have it right.”

He nodded sagely. “Way I see it, I ask for too much, you’ll fight me on it, because leaving you with too little would be just as good as leaving you dead.”

“Yes. Dorja would fight you.”

“Heh. ‘Dorja.’ Third-person. You talk funny,” he chuckled. “Anyway, you also know I won’t leave without enough to get me through another jump.”

“The closest inhabited sector is Saito,” Dorja said. “You could always just follow us—”

“I didn’t know you were headed to Saito until I landed on your hull. But now that you know about me, I can’t go to Saito, else I risk you telling them about me. There are Free Rangers there and I know how they handle pirates. I’m not a pirate, though. Just desperate. Desperate men are often confused with pirates. Pirates are at it for a career. That isn’t me.”

“So, what then?” she said.

“Pycno pellets.”

“You want our fuel?”

“Just enough to get me to the someplace safe. Say a kilo?”

Dorja winced. “We are already low.” She’d noticed that the visitor had said “me” just now, not “us.” He’d let it slip, he was alone, there was no one else aboard his stygian-cloaked ship. “If I give you a kilo jar of pycno, we may not even have enough to get anywhere useful once we reach Saito Sector.”

“Well, lucky for us, we’re two very reasonable people.”

“Yes.”

“And reasonable people can negotiate, can’t they?”

“They can,” she allowed. “And a kilo jar is too much.”

The visitor hove a heavy sigh. “So much pressure,” he said, returning to an earlier topic, much to Dorja’s frustration. Where is Kirek? The visitor said, “The Axioms of the Moon Scroll Monks defines pressure as ‘too much of something pushed through too little a thing.’ Too much water through too small a tube, too much gas through too narrow an opening. Like that. That pressure can become so great, it causes the tube to rupture. I think this tracks. Imagine a man under stress. Too much hunger, too little time. Too much need, too little resources.”

Dorja nodded slowly. “That’s very interesting.”

“But do you understand it?”

“Yes.”

“Then say it.”

Dorja sighed. “Time is running out. You’re under pressure.”

“Three-quarters a kilo jar,” the visitor said.

“Half.”

“Three-quarters.”

“Three-quarters and you show me how you got in,” Dorja countered.

The visitor didn’t move, but he made a hmph sound. “You see? Just look at us. Very reasonable people, getting along in this galaxy just fine.” It looked like he was about to lower his rifle.

Suddenly, the essence box on the floor beside her gave a loud click! and switched itself on, and the bright, shimmering gray-blue hologram of Master Korvix emitted into the space between them. “Don’t give this scum a damn thing, Dorja.”

“Who the—!” The visitor stepped back, bringing his rifle up to aim at the face of the hologram. “What is this? Where is this transmission coming from?”

“Don’t give him anything,” Korvix repeated.

“What is this?” the visitor said, the barrel of his rifle sweeping over to her, back to the hologram, then back to her. “What is going on here? I thought we were—”

“Reasonable people, yes. This is nothing, Dorja assures you,” she said, holding up placating hands. “We have a deal. We are two reasonable beings, like you said—”

“Then who the hell is this?” the visitor demanded, voice cracking.

Korvix wore that superior smile of his. “Maggot. I was the One Who Walked Alone, when the Kingdom was in its prime. When the Jade Temple fell on Ordnin-I, I was there, I saw it happen, and I alone survived.”

“Dorja?” said the visitor, his tone an envenomed warning.

“This is nothing, just a hologram.” She looked to the long-dead Master. “Korvix, stay out of this—”

“You are a flea,” Korvix chuckled. “A trembling leaf, quivering at the end of its branch, fighting against the last cold winds of winter. And you’re talking to a man who witnessed Galdri the Conjurer fall to the sword of Yalanea of Ghi. I was there when the first Moon Scrolls were deciphered and the Monks burned their temples and fled in exile to study the Scrolls in secret. I watched it all fall apart, I was there before it fell apart.”

“What is he talking about?” the visitor said, barrel still sweeping left and right. “Who is this person? Is he transmitted from the cockpit?”

Dorja felt the moment slipping out of her control. She said, “We have a deal! You and Dorja, two reasonable people, we have a deal—”

“That doesn’t sound like what he’s saying!”

Master Korvix laughed, “There will be no deal, maggot—”

“Korvix! Silence!”

“—and do you know why?”

“Korvix!”

“Because you are a careless traveler who went walking through a forest at night, kicking rocks over carelessly. Only now—”

“Korvix! Dorja said to be quiet!”

“—you’ve stepped on a viper.”

“What’s all the shouting about?” said a tiny voice, and Dorja’s heart sank when Turtle suddenly appeared in the doorway just behind the visitor, alongside Newpik and Joshua, and with her bokken in hand.

Dorja’s had no time to cry out or wave her away.

It all happened so fast. The visitor jolted, startled, spun in fear, dropping what apparently was a useless rifle and drawing a knife from his side, just as Joshua exclaimed, “Jazz hands, everybody!”

The visitor lunged at Turtle.

Dorja leapt at him.

As she collided with the visitor, and, very faintly, she was aware of Master Korvix’s booming laughter.

image [https://i.imgur.com/f6fHUfp.jpg]