Lavastro cursed as the man spasmed again. Meaty arms thrashing without a mind to guide them, flying in all directions and clipping her head more than once. She grit her teeth, ignored the irritation and pain. Focused on holding him down even as he fought like a hound.

He was a huge man, body almost six feet long. Chiselled hard and vascular by years of testing labour. He’d surely have been stronger than her. That she could pin him regardless was perhaps the only cause to give thanks for his wound.

Blood trickled from his mouth as he fought, then a spray of it was thrown by a cough. The spittle seemed to take his strength with it, for he soon sagged limp against the hammock.

Mumbling, muttering, groaning and cringing, he lay still while Lavastro took a closer look at his injury. She studied the piece of wood protruding from his gut, felt around the skewered area and examined its location.

It took her only seconds to conclude what she’d already suspected for the better part of five minutes. It had skewered the man’s stomach, filled his insides with toxic sludge.

She’d been wrestling a corpse.

Even knowing the futility of remaining by his side, it was difficult for Lavastro to leave the man. Her head was low as she walked through the field hospital, eyes stinging as much from tears as the rancid, iron tinge in the air.

Sound filled her ears from all directions. Crushing, stifling. Groans of pain or throaty screams. Sobs, feeble whispers. Coughs and retches. The chorus of death, composed of a thousand terrible notes.

How she loathed it.

The field hospital had been set up quickly and urgently, but efficiently enough to still span several blocks. Sheets sectioned off the wounded, dying, infectious and sterile. The walkways between them were flecked with bodily humours of every kind.

Carefully wrapped surgeons and medics hurried ahead and around her as she walked. Eyes down, legs swift. Urgency evident in their every step.

She emerged out into the fresh air, breathed deeply and let herself revel in its clarity for all of a second before the sounds grew overwhelming. More sobs, more retches, more groans. Thrice as loud as they were beneath the sheets, ten times as desperate.

Washing the area with her gaze, Lavastro’s heart sank.

No death toll had been yet produced to tell of the previous night’s lethality. Dozens of buildings had been crushed, scores more burned and charred. Roads had erupted, towers crumbled. And every demolished structure had been bought with a harsh price of blood.

She saw it before her. People flocking outside the makeshift medical station, terror evident on their faces. Clothes ruined, eyes sagging and skin worn. Some clutched ruined limbs- cripples. Others sat or lay amid puddles of their own gore.

Lavastro saw one teary-eyed man clutching a small, broken thing to his chest. Wrapped in blankets stained a deeper crimson than anything around him.

She looked away quickly, too scared to discover more.

When at last she arrived at the collection of chairs and tables set twenty fathoms from the hospital, she felt her trekk had stretched for hours and miles.

“What is she doing here?”

Balogun’s harsh tone had never vexed Lavastro as much as it did then. Greeting her while she sat, the woman’s hostility was entirely unobscured. Bared like a predator’s fangs. She forced her own to remain hidden.

“Taking a seat and preparing to meet with my fellow organisers.” Lavastro answered, staring at the woman head-on.

Black skin hid the flush almost completely as the Írìsi’s blood boiled.

“You speak as though you are still one of us.” Balogun sneered. “Just last night you were in the process of being removed from your position.”

Lavastro had to fight the grin to keep it from showing across her face, even with the viscera still warm on her. Balogun never had been good at the arithmetic involved in such situations.

“To depose an organiser requires a supermajority of four votes in agreement.” She said, speaking quickly as much for genuine impatience as to make a show of it. “If you’re so determined to make the effort, we could count the votes this very instant.”

“I oppose the notion.” Sorafin said, speaking with a perfect swiftness. Balogun’s eyes widened, flitting to the other organisers as if she realised only then just how things had changed.

“I support the notion.” She said, voice quiet. Already defeated.

The remaining votes were counted in moments. All but Balogun and Zilch were against. Lavastro retained her position, though failed to find any satisfaction in it.

Luck had kept her in place, not skill or guile. She might as well have wished for lightning to strike Tamaias dead.

“We’ve wasted enough time on this foolishness.” Said Zilch, practically screeching the words.

Of them all, Lavastro thought the night had diminished him most. He’d grown paler, skin turning rough and lined with exhaustion where once it had been smooth and polished. What light still remained in his eyes was born of fear, not thought.

“Reginald Tamaias was murdered. You can all make of that what you wish, but I intend to leave this damned city.”

Lavastro bit back her disgust at the declaration. Cowards never ceased to enrage her.

“And where would you go?” Sorafin asked. Voice quiet and soft, yet cutting all the deeper for it.

“Anywhere but here.” Hissed the luminar. Then, seemingly after only a moment of thought, he continued. “Jaea. Prince Gangorah will have ample protection, moreso than even an Immortal. I’ll be safe under his watch.”

The Jyptian nodded thoughtfully, seeming to truly consider Zilch’s words. Lavastro watched him with fascination.

Sorafin alone seemed unaffected by the night’s events. Sitting without any apparent fear or trepidation. Cold as ever. Cold, Lavastro supposed, as an Immortal. As perfect a rationality as any living being could aspire to achieve.

“I think we’re in agreement.” He said at last. “The heart of the Gangorah Princedom is a refuge matched by few places in all of Unix. Certainly, the Prince’s Coterie and associates will prove a greater defence than any you’ll find in Udrebam. However you seem to be under the notion that you’d ever manage to reach it.”

Zilch paled, tired eyes growing animated with fear as they widened. Sorafin’s face turned halfway to a smile.

“I’m not threatening you.” He continued assuringly. “Merely reminding you about our situation. One of the most powerful Immortals alive was murdered last night. Tamaias would have been more than a match for all our magic at once. If whoever killed him has their sights set on the rest of us, leaving for Jaea will only make it easier for them to ensnare us.”

Silence answered him. The sound of fearful consideration and slipping, prideful masks. Lavastro, for once, found herself unable to fault the organisers for their instability.

The thought of being hunted by an Immortal of any kind was terror itself. One that could slay Tamaias, even worse. For the first time since arriving in Udrebam, she wished she’d not fought so hard to arrive alone.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

“We need to defend ourselves.” Said Balogun, fearful. “I shall not sit idle while that monster closes in to slay me. We must rally whatever mystics our collective nations hold the loyalty of in this city. We already began to prepare a militia, let us turn it to this.”

“I agree.” Said Mylif, somehow not surprising Lavastro at all with the focused strength of his voice. “It would be dangerous to think only one organiser would be targeted.”

“Why limit ourselves to a city-wide milita?” Lavastro asked. “There are a dozen Baronies in this Princedom, and the Sieve is the pride of them all. If you seek martial or magical aid, some of Udrebam’s sisters and brothers could send both with only weeks of notice.”

By the look of the dozen eyes that turned to her, Lavastro knew there was something important at foot. Something she wasn’t privy to.

It was Mylif who answered her first.

“Sorry, Kaiosyni, I assumed you knew already. Contact with the other cities is impossible. Udrebam’s resonance tower was destroyed in Tamaias’ attack. There’s no way of communicating with the rest of Unix from here, unless you happen to know a Manamicist capable of hurling their thoughts that far with will and magic alone.”

The revelation threatened to shatter her calm, but she chanelled whatever frenzy might have sieged her into thought rather than panic.

“Destroyed?” She repeated. “How completely? Is there any chance for repair?”

“Destroyed completely.” Answered Mylif. “Half buckled, half slagged. I’ve seen used candles in better shape.”

Mylif’s lack of hesitation before the truth did him credit, but it was of no help to Lavastro.

“How long would you estimate we have before other cities take note of Udrebam’s sudden silence?” She asked Sorafin. He paused only a moment before answering stiffly.

“Weeks.” The Immortal said. “At least. Udrebam is not a particularly loud city, regarding the use of resonance stones at least. The number of messages sent out from its centre each day could be counted on the fingers of both hands. And few of those are important enough to warrant attention from anyone so high as city governor, let alone a Baron or Prince.”

She cursed, leaning back and massaging her temples. A sudden headache was the least concerning thing to reveal itself thus far, yet still a distraction.

Almost distracting enough to keep her from stumbling upon the obvious.

“Were you operating the Quanturn on the night of the attack?” Lavastro asked, turning to eye Zilch as she spoke. The mystic seemed hardly to register her question, trapped deep inside his own mind, palour growing ever deeper and sicklier as the moments passed.

He answered just when she was about to speak again, looking up to match her gaze. A sudden anger burning in his own.

“Did you not know? You weren’t aware of the tower’s destruction, either. How did you not know, girl?”

Lavastro let him ramble, recognised the madness of terror for what it was. Stifled her annoyance even as it rose like the tides.

Finally Zilch’s frenzied gibbering subsided long enough for him to speak usefully. He did so with a frustrating quietitude, lowering his gaze and mumbling incoherently.

“Speak up.” She snapped, not hiding her anger. Finding herself suddenly too tired by far with the man’s spinelessness to bother.

His eyes shot back onto hers, voice suddenly strengthening.

“I was using the Quanturn.” He hissed. “I was using it all night, looking in on contestants and measuring mental states. Preparing tasks, moving fields. Yes. Yes I was using the Quanturn. And it showed me the attack as it happened.”

It was clear from the other organisers’ reactions that Zilch had regailed them with the news already. She didn’t care, even finally discovering the device’s secret barely registered to her. So long as the truth reached her own ears, Lavastro had time enough to spare.

“And you saw the attacker?” She asked.

His eyes narrowed, face turning into a mask made as much from hate as fear.

“Danielz.” He whispered. “Bob Danielz, the butcher. I saw him attack Tamaias, though their battle was faster than my eyes could follow. I saw him deliver the killing blow.”

“That can’t be right.”

Lavastro spoke absently, her thoughts turning to words without caution or consideration. They still met Zilch like needles against his skin.

“It is.” The man growled. “The Quanturn doesn’t lie.”

“I agree with Kaiosyni.” Mylif grunted, breaking the locking of words. “Jack’s butchers aren’t known for unprovoked violence, at least so far as Unixian officials are concerned. This would be… unprecedented.”

Zilch looked like he might burst with fury as he whirled on him.

“Are you calling me a liar??” He asked, words jittering as his voice cracked and shook.

“I’m calling you mistaken.” Mylif answered. “Or tricked. The Quanturn shows you physical images, right? Extends your sight across all of Udrebam. But it doesn’t move past the city’s edges. There are ways to trick a view like that, with magic.”

The luminar’s mouth moved silently. Balogun spoke before he could find his tongue.

“This is conjecture.” The woman said. “We have no reason to believe this is anything other than how it looks. Are there any other mystics of his scale in Udrebam? Let alone who even knew of the Quanturn, as they’d have needed to if they were to fool it?”

“We have no reason to believe this is anything other than how it looks.” Lavastro repeated. “Save for it being entirely uncharacteristic of Danielz, there existing alternative explanations and the murder in question being among the most amateurish I’ve heard of, on the assumption that its perpetrator had indeed heard of the most famous relic in the city.”

That last part stung even her, a painful reminder of how she’d foiled her own plan for Gemini and Stimon by overlooking it. Still she paused, fishing in her thoughts before continuing.

“And as a matter of fact, there is another Immortal of such power. His namesake competed just the day before. Rajah.”

An argument soon rose to envelope them. Bitter, snipped and icy as the grave. It was entirely similar to most others Lavastro had witnessed or taken part in with her fellow organisers.

She might have drawn comfort from the familiarity, were it not such a frustrating thing to behold.

Thousands lie dead around us. She thought. Thousands more wander without homes, festering and expiring by the hour as surgeons treat only the luckiest tenth of them. How they squabble now?

But she knew why already. Unixian or Kanan, it was the prerogative of those with power the world over to leave a gulf between themselves and the people they governed. Lavastro wasn’t naive enough to expect it would stop in a crisis.

Experience didn’t lessen her disgust.

Ten minutes passed before Sorafin managed to restore some semblance of order to the bickering millstones, prying them apart and putting a stop to the senseless grinding. His voice was more commanding than Lavastro had ever heard it, reminding her in an instant that the Immortal was as much a leader and orator as schemer.

“Enough.” He called out, silencing them with the word alone. “This is no time for squabbling and bickering. We must act. As the only Immortal among us, I will take command to ensure we do so swiftly.”

“What sort of justification is that?” Balogun began, tongue falling still and slack in her mouth as Sorafin’s royal blue eyes shot for her like musketry.

“I have been polite thus far, child. Don’t test my patience any further.”

It was almost amusing to hear from such a youthful face as his, but laughter was the farthest thing from Lavastro’s mind. There was a weight to his tone, a certainty to his proclamation. Compounding knowledge and reminding her that she sat before a living antique.

“Now, if no one else has an interruption planned, I will continue.”

Sorafin divided tasks with an efficiency that most would find only after years of familiarity. Handing out assignments as though he’d already grown used to being the superior of all present, batting down protests and swiftly voicing rationalities when arguments grew too lengthy. In only five minutes more he’d given all present their goal.

All save Lavastro herself.

“We need someone to investigate the matter of Tamaias’ death.” He said, almost apologetic as he gazed upon her. “And I fear you and I alone are suited for such a thing.”

She needed no more explanation than that. The other organisers could not be expected to do so, for they lacked the ability. Sorafin alone could take the burden instead, yet he was far more valuable overseeing the city’s defences.

Any other time it might have pleased Lavastro to see her worth so undeniably demonstrated before the bickering children she’d been shackled to.

But victory was the farthest thing from her mind.

“I accept.” She said, already tense with apprehension. Severe in the knowledge of how testing a task she’d let herself to be given.

It was only when the organisers had dispersed again, on her walk back to the relief station, that the true extent of the challenge began to dawn on her.

Like in any sinking ship, Udrebam’s rats had been the first to flee when disaster struck. The streets had been emptied of half their urchins and vagrants, gangers and cutthroats. Any other time it might have been a relief, one less danger to worry about preying on the wounded and impoverished. But those very street-rats made up the bulk of Lavastro’s spy network.

She’d agreed to investigate the matter, but it was only as she re-entered the field hospital that Lavastro realised she’d agreed to do so blind.