The wine sloshing in Crow’s gut was sure to leave a greater ache than before. Already he regretted indulging so much, dreaded the pains it would turn to. But the warmth was undeniable. Leaving it difficult to mourn his excess with any sincerity.

“We should talk to pass the time.” Unity said from beside him, voice clear and chipper as it rebound from the corridor around them. Marred by barely a fraction of the numbness Crow felt.

“You can if you’d like. I’ve got my hands full as it is.”

A derisive snort cut the air from beside him, cold and amused as ever.

“Oh don’t be so dramatic, you’re walking just fine. Pit, I’ve seen you stand up moments after being disembowelled and try to stuff your guts back in so you could keep fighting. Don’t try and tell me a little discomfort is keeping your tongue trapped.”

Crow said nothing, hoping Unity would take his silence as an answer. The boy proved less observant, or more tenacious, than good fortune would have decreed.

“Crow, we have another half mile of corridor to go. If you make me walk it in boredom I’m going to shit in your pillow.”

Biting back his irritation, Crow turned to shoot a glare at the boy. It seemed to slide off him like rain.

“Fine.” He growled . “Speak, I’ll try and entertain you.”

Unity’s grin seemed equal parts childish and demonic, exaggerated even beyond its usual proportions. It almost made him reconsider.

“Why thank you Crow. Whatever would I do without a companion as caring and considerate as you? Truly-”

Crow found his attention slipping as the boy prattled on, voice sinking into the background one word at a time. Joining the symphonic footfalls and distant sounds of the building’s staff.

It was only the repetition of his name that recaptured his attention.

“What do you really think your chances are?” Unity asked him. His humour had left him, and he seemed all the more genuine for it. The sincerity compelled an answer.

“Realistically? Almost nothing. But I’m not going to accept that.”

The artificial laughed, but Crow heard no malice in his voice.

“Pit, you’re insane.” Unity sighed. There was a weak smile on his face, easy and effortless, but tainted all the same by emotions incongruent with its cause. “It was almost funny at first. Now it’s just… sad.”

The words cut deep, paired with the defeated tone that carried them. He found his resolve eroded. If only by a hair.

“There’s going to be Sieve staff on hand to stop the fights, and medical treatment if I really need it.” He tried. “You know I’m not in much actual danger.”

“Right.” The boy answered, dismissive. Crow found himself too irked to allow it.

“Right.” He insisted. “You’re worrying for nothing.”

Unity turned sharply to him, glaring with an undisguised fury.

“Don’t you fucking dare try to pass your manic optimism as any sort of rationale. You’re facing a serious chance of permanent injury or death here, given your habit of pushing yourself to that point, and it doesn’t seem to bother you at all. If you’re going to be so brazen in risking yourself, be brazen in admitting it. It’s the least you can do.”

Crow didn’t answer.

The walk to Flecke’s location was swift, at first. Lichos enjoyed the benefits of his adrenal vigour, finding time slipping him by as he trudged along, so alight with strength that the silence was almost a comfort.

It was only halfway through that he came to realise the terror of it.

Scars and blisters began to creep across the road’s face as they marched, buildings growing cracked and tortured. Habitation becoming scarcer with every other step.

Lichos realised within a half mile of the growing destruction that they were nearing the innermost parts of the city’s outskirts, just leagues from the Crux. Just leagues still from the battlefield of the very Immortals they sought to investigate.

He steeled himself for the sight, drawing on memories of the worst he’d seen in Gol to bring himself detachment and courage. It was almost disappointing how well it worked.

There were no bodies, as he’d seen in the army, the city’s governor had doubtless seen to that. Corpses rotted and brought infection, burning them would have been among the first priorities.

But the blood was still there. Viscous and half dried before any workers were on scene. Sticking and oozing into a millions pores in the city’s face.

It had rotted black in the weeks since it spilled, so black the night’s gloom left it hard to see, but Lichos recognised it still. Dehydrated from sludge to stains. Too aged for even the flies to draw near. Splashed across debris and draining into fissures.

He felt his temper quicken at the sight, images of the massacre drawn across his mind even as Lichos fought to stop himself from piecing it together.

“It shouldn’t be much farther from here.” Pyrhic said, eying him with a mix of caution and worry. Lichos tried to stifle the rage boiling across his features as he answered.

“Good.” He said simply, not trusting himself to speak any more than that.

Try as he might, the fury remained. Beating within him like a war drum. Lichos found himself hoping they’d arrive sooner rather than later, that the remaining walk would prove too short to strip him of the anger coiling within.

A mystic would be the perfect target to loose it upon.

Pyrhic soon took the lead, drawing towards a warehouse as Lichos followed in step behind her. He drew his snuffbox, snorting a pinch of the arcstock crystal within and feeling the thrum of his consciousness as it sharpened ever more with the sudden strength. It was all he could do to pocket it again, rather than empty its contents into himself.

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He entered before the dula, drawing his musket and keeping it readied. Pyrhic called out for Flecke as he kept his eyes sharp, peering around the warehouse’s interior and practically seeing the shadows melt away as magic took a whetstone to his sight.

Before long he saw the body slumped against a far wall.

Lichos called it out to Pyrhic, keeping his gaze open and his trigger compressed as they made their way across the room to examine it. He wasn’t surprised at all when the dula identified it.

“Flecke.” She sighed, irritation clear as the ichor soaking their target. Face turning straight, emotions already stuffed away into a distant corner of her mind. She turned to Lichos with a raised eyebrow.

“How long ago do you suppose she died?”

He shrugged at the woman.

“I have no clue, I’m a soldier, not a surgeon. Don’t normally stick around long after putting someone down. She doesn’t smell, and the blood’s still red, so no more than a day or two is my best guess.”

“I’ll take that into consideration.” The woman grunted, studying the corpse further. “Cause of death?”

Lichos stared at her.

“Well I’m not an expert, but I think it might be the massive fucking cut across her neck.”

“Don’t get snide.” Snapped the dula. “Do you have any idea what sort of weapon might have done it?”

“I might.” He mumbled, leaning in close and taking in the fallen woman’s appearance.

Her brown eyes were wide, face pulled tight and teeth bared with terror. Her hair was dishevelled, many strands slick with blood, and fingernails pristine even in spite of the deathly wreck the rest of her had become.

The wound quickly drew his attention, and Lichos studied it more scrutinously than the rest. He stumbled onto the obvious quickly.

“This was done by a professional.” He noted, pressing a careful hand to the corpse’s head and tipping it to one side for a better view.

“You’re so sure?” Asked Pyrhic.

“I am. Look at this.”

Lichos pushed the woman’s head back, revealing the cartilage of her throat bulging against its skin from beneath.

“Throat pipe’s not cut at all, and the flesh over it’s barely nicked.”

“Trachea.” The dula corrected. “It’s called a trachea.”

“Right.” He grunted. “Point is, most people cutting a throat pull the person’s head back first. Think it makes an easier target or something. It’s the worst thing to do, because that just presses the tracker up against the skin from below. That gets in the way of all the veins and arteries in the neck, which are what actually kills someone to slice open.”

“That doesn’t tell us much.” Pyrhic noted. “There was little doubt that this was a random killing.”

Lichos stood, shaking his head.

“Random isn’t the same as unprofessional. Whoever did this knew what they were doing, probably because they’ve done it a lot. Just look at her hands. There was barely a struggle.”

Glancing at the wound once more, he continued hesitantly.

“Also, and I’m not certain about this, but I think her throat was cut with something like a saw. Serrated or jagged, whatever it was. The wound’s a right mess.”

Pyrhic said nothing, falling into the silence of heavy thought and careful calculation. Lichos felt the trickle of magic leave him by the time she answered.

“We have something to go on, then.” She mused. “A professional killer, likely one based in this very city who possibly makes use of serrated blades.”

The woman didn’t hide her lack of confidence. Lichos would have mirrored it even if she had. He could tell already their search was far from finished.

Unity had left Crow soon after their talk ended, heading off alone into the cooling Crux. Anger and outrage apparently too much to bear in company.

He couldn’t blame him. Every moment he spent looking back on their talk left Crow more doubtful that he stood in the right. It was only Galad’s memory that reinforced his conviction. A pillar beneath the weight of the world, as always.

And I won’t need to settle for his memory soon. He reminded himself, drawing strength from the knowledge.

Crow would win the Sieve, and he would do so with the ten thousand credits needed for the Eclipse’s Nectar to be bought. Then he would kill an Immortal. There was no alternative.

The madness of his goals kept him occupied until his room loomed ahead. Crow hurried inside, yearning for warmth the moment it came into sight. He came to the door amid a drift, almost missing the sight of Ajoke Balogun leaning against the wall beside it. The girl eyed him as he approached, expectant. Crow realised she’d been waiting for him.

A sudden anxiety accompanied the knowledge.

“Good evening Tempora.” She said, voice uncharacteristically soft. She didn’t smile as she greeted him.

“Good evening.” He answered. “Or night. Is there something you need?”

Conversation started the beginnings of a headache in him. He was far too drunk to speak with anyone, let alone the heir of Bârëi.

“There is something important I need to talk to you about.” Balogun continued, seeming suddenly hesitant. “It’s about our next task.”

Crow felt himself tense in an instant, recalling only then that the Sieve had pitted their teams against one another just as it had Rajah and Amelia’s. He bit back his caution.

“So you’re the one your team chose to represent them.”

It came as no surprise to him, all in his own team had predicted Ajoke as the obvious choice that she was. Crow still found it strange to hear the girl volunteer the information so brazenly.

“I am.” She confirmed. “Are you going to be competing, too?”

“That’s right.” Crow answered, realising a second too late that the secret might be worth keeping. He pressed on even while cursing his addled thoughts.

“What’s this about?” He asked. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve had a long day and I was really quite looking forward to bed.”

Her face hardened at that.

“Right.” Balogun said through gritted teeth. “You’re so very busy. I can smell the drink on you from here.”

Crow felt his cheeks burn as she continued.

“I’m here to make a request.” Said Balogun. “Of you. Regarding our fight. I need you to… forfeit.”

He stared at her, stunned beyond speech. Certain he misheard. Balogun crushed his doubt by continuing.

“I understand you have your own reasons for wanting to win, but my life depends on this. And I’m not certain I can defeat you, or not certain enough at least. If you want compensation then I can arrange something afterwards, but-”

“Don’t.” Crow cut in. Balogun paused, eying him as he spoke. She looked suddenly weak, vulnerable in a way Crow hadn’t seen her. The sight left a bitterness on his tongue.

“You won’t convince me to let you win. You won’t convince me to stop. I’m not entering the Sieve for money or fame or anything else like that, there’s just something I need to do and the Sieve is the only way I can do it. I’m sorry but that’s more important to me than my life, or anyone else’s.”

Balogun measured him with her gaze, seeming to look at him with new eyes. Relievingly, Crow saw the strength return to her.

“And there’s nothing I can do to convince you otherwise?”

“Nothing.” He said. “Sorry.”

Something wavered in her. A wetness in her eyes, a trembling of her lip, a convulsion of her throat. Then she straightened her face to its usual quiet dignity. Emotion gone in a flash.

“I’ve wasted my time then. And underestimated you, I think. My apologies.”

Crow didn’t answer as she left, instead entering his quarters amid a haze. Heart sinking ever lower in his chest.

He told himself Balogun was lying, found it by far the more likely scenario. Prodigies like her didn’t face death as a punishment, such things were too wasteful to allow.

Surely.