Crow hissed as Deka squeezed the joint of his knees, tender flesh spasming at the nerve-plucking pain. Gem held the limb still enough for the girl’s testing to resume unhindered.

“Stop moving.” She snapped, more irritated by far than Deka. Her face had long since grown flushed and tight with annoyance at Crow’s reactions.

“I can’t help it.” He growled, finding himself no less annoyed by her insistence. Gem responded by tightening her grip and putting more of her weight into pinning his limb in place.

He grit his teeth and hid the pain, deciding not to give his teammate whatever satisfaction she might find from it.

“Are you almost done, Deka?” He grunted, feeling his joint protest against the luminar’s grip and eager to end it, as much so he could get his damned task over with as anything else. She seemed not to hear his question, not even looking up as she studied it further.

Just as Crow was considering asking again, Deka signalled for Gem to release him. He drew his leg back tentatively, finding it still tender in the torturous test’s wake.

“You’ll be able to move as fast as you can manage without injuring yourself further.” Deka spoke, not waiting for any prompting. “But that’s all I can say for you. I doubt you need me to point out that you’re lacking much of the strength you usually have.”

She didn’t. Even as Crow withdrew the limb and shifted his seating he could feel the weakness behind his movements, body seeming heavier than normal. Clumsier, more fragile.

“I don’t suppose you can tell me how Rajah’s injuries compare from what you saw of his match alone?” He asked. It didn’t surprise him to see Deka’s head shaking apologetically.

“Sorry.” The girl answered.

“We know they’re bad.” Gem cut in. “No matter what relics he might have had stored up, he’ll be wounded severely.”

“Hopefully moreso than me.” Crow grumbled, without optimism. It would take a great gap in condition for Rajah to lose against him, and Crow doubted anyone with access to a Sieve’s worth of healing relics could enter a battle so injured.

Grunting, he rose from the sofa. Teeth grit, face tight with pain and as much bravery as he could muster. Suddenly he found himself wishing Unity and Astra were there to see him off.

He killed the train of thought before it could start. Fearing where it might end up.

“Are you ready?” Deka asked him. He nodded, finding what remained of his adapted armour suddenly tight as he moved to the door. A hand on his shoulder stopped him, and he turned to see Astra’s face pinched by its usual glare.

“I don’t think I’m quite angry enough not to wish you good luck, Birdie.” She sighed, pulling him into a hug without warning. He returned it, finding his sister’s embrace warmer and more comforting than ever before. It was broken only by a clearing throat behind her.

“We are on a schedule, you know.” Unity sighed, leaning against a wall as he watched. “Though if you lose by tardiness I suppose it would achieve both my and blondie’s goals, so by all means hug away.”

They broke the contact, and Crow felt his throat tighten as he looked between his friend and sister.

“I’m sorry.” He said at last. Unity sneered, looked as though he might say something, falling silent as Astra spoke instead.

“We can talk about that later.” She sighed. “For now, you have a task to compete in. Focus on that, Crow. Jyptia comes after you win.”

“Jyptia?” Asked Gem, inquisitive as ever. Crow nodded at his sister, ignoring the Menza’s curiosity as he shifted his eyes to Unity.

The boy seemed almost perplexed by the silent question.

“Oh I’m not wishing you good luck.” He grinned. “No, I just realised that I might as well turn this to my advantage. I bet ten stars on you losing horribly. This way it’s a win-win situation for me, and I can’t wait to see what my earnings are.”

Crow laughed too hard by half. Unity’s joke was barely funny, certainly poorly timed, yet something within him leapt on the opportunity for levity.

He noticed his teammates staring by the time he finished, but it didn’t bother him. He merely grinned wider.

“Thank you Unity, I’ll be thinking of your support while I compete.”

Without another yearned-for delay, he was out through the door.

“Good luck, Chaths.” Came Rajah’s calm, eternally level voice. It seemed harsh in his ears, though he knew his mentor would never betray such emotion. His trust a painful reminder of how near Chaths had come to losing in his last task.

Nerves threatened to shake themselves free of his grip again, and Chaths stilled them with a concerted thought. Mouth already drying, eyes already sharpening, guts already squirming like a nest of rats.

“Good luck.” He heard his mentor say again, and somehow the words abated his fears. If only by a hair.

Chaths forced a smile.

“You should wish the other guy luck, and hope I can at least get an entertaining fight out of this.”

Inside he was cold. Focused. He needed only compete once more, then he’d be done with the Sieve. Done with Unix. The thought was like water on a parched tongue as he strode out.

He moved through the stage as a dream, felt time pass him by like styxian regrets. Before he realised what was happening he stood in the centre, watched as a man not among the Sieve’s organisers called for Crow. Studied his opponent when the boy entered, all nerve and fear and maddening will.

Crow hobbled slightly as he moved, body a palace of raw skin where it had been bathed in fire. Rajah saw none of the harm he’d hoped for on his flesh, felt it gnaw at his confidence.

He could only hope the wounds were as internal as he’d suspected.

Then the speech was done, the introductions concluded, magic seizing them both with seemingly no more than a breath to prepare. He felt his weight leave him, light drowning the world, geometric fluctuations becoming all that his eyes beheld as he waited for the translocative magic to finish doing its work.

When at last Chaths felt his feet meet solid ground again, he almost tripped from its surrender.

The earth beneath him oozed around his soles, displaced and squeezed apart by weight alone.

He wasted no time in looking around, neck aching from the speed with which he moved his tortured body to scan the world around him.

It was all obscured by a curtain of rain.

Constant, heavy. Made of drops the size of eyes, striking the ground like sling bullets and leaving miniature craters in the soft, sodden mud around him. It was a storm the likes of which appeared rarely even in Jyptia’s rainiest weeks. Graves dotted the land between obfuscating rainfall, leafless trees among them. Gravel paths and weathered benches completing the picture.

A cemetery, he supposed, was not entirely inappropriate.

Panic seized him almost as soon as he began his run, frantically screening all around him for any glimpse of his opponent. It didn’t take long to find the boy.

Crow’s hair remained gold, even wet and soaked by the rain. Glinting in what little light could pierce the clouds above them, an easy thing to catch from even the corner of his vision.

He was charging for Chaths with eyes ablaze, sprinting fearless and unhesitating. Slowed only by the dragging bites of slushed dirt around his feet. Magic propelled him fast, and Chaths had little time for a defence before the boy was on him.

There was no sand around him, save that which Chaths had kept wrapped about him. Barely gallons in total, not enough for even a single full limb.

He cursed as his hand extended to the area around, drawing up the mud at their feet to make into his weapon. It was sluggish to respond, requiring caution and delicate aid in remaining cohesive beneath its own weight as Chaths shaped it. He was barely done by the time Crow came within range.

Chaths roared as he sent the tendril to strike his enemy, pitting every scrap of magic and will he could muster behind.

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It was wasted effort. A flash shot across Crow’s eyes, those damned, runic eyes, moments before Chaths even attacked. The boy gasped, alert and rolling before the tendril of mud was even moving. Too early for Chaths to hit him, too late to abort his attack.

The mystic slid beneath the congealed mass as it passed overhead, flecks of sodden terrain spraying and dripping from it. He was on his feet, filthy, before Chaths could draw it back. Still running, still closing in.

A second tendril had already been readied by Chaths’ side, and he coiled it around himself as a shield.

Crow hit the mass like a warhorse, letting out a bestial cry as his momentum died against it. Chaths almost relaxed, before he saw his enemy’s scraping hands clawing apart the mud.

He struck out at Crow, felt the boy stumble away as his fist connected, then called in his first limb to guard himself again while the second reformed. Stepped back, eying the enemy and cautious.

Sand was Chaths’ weapon, but he could work with dirt. Even dust. Anything dry and frictive was a useful tool. Mud, though, was far too heavy and feeble for his taste.

Fear crept into his mind as he studied the approaching Unixian ahead. If there were ever a circumstance Chaths might lose to such an inferior opponent, it was upon him.

Lavastro had, for the first time in over a week, rested for a full eight hours the night before.

Her body had needed the sleep. Though still tired and aching, she could already feel the difference. Her mind was clearer, thoughts less pained, temper far more controlled.

Even so, she found the change a small advantage amid the group sat around her. Udrebam’s organisers, her technical peers. Imbeciles, cutthroats and bastards to a one. It almost made her lip curl just to be in their presence.

“I’m so glad all of you could make these summons.” She said, opening conversation among the room. “As I’m sure you’ve all deduced already, my investigation has turned up matters of great urgency.”

A pause followed, deliberate and calculated on Lavastro’s part to give her time for the other organiser’s expressions to sink in.

Sorafin seemed focused, Balogun dismissive. Mylif resigned as ever and Lesifarz, uncharacteristically, held her eyes with a great focus.

All seemed in better condition than she’d been, undiminished by the calamity. That left a bitter taste in Lavastro’s mouth, one which she had no choice but to put aside as she continued.

“As you all know, I have, for the past few weeks, been directing an investigation into the death of Reginald Tamaias. My dula and bodyguard have been heading this, and yesterday they found a piece of evidence that is of great relevance.”

“In support of your own suspicions, no doubt.” Balogun cut in, eying Lavastro the way one might a child whose shirt was wet with drool.

The woman had if anything grown prouder in the weeks since her idiocy at the stadium. Head high as ever, curled hair proudly quaffed to the vertical. Her jewelery seemed finer, cosmetics applied judiciously to kill any trace of lines or creases across her face.

Doubtless she intended to make way for Bârëi and see her husband as soon as the Sieve was over. Doubtless she’d forgotten that, with neither resonance tower or skyrunner, the journey would take her months.

“Would you care to hear the evidence, lady Balogun?” Lavastro asked the woman, challenging her with a look. “Or would you prefer to simply save time, leave this meeting and live secure that your own assertion, which I lack no certainty is far more researched and proven than my own, remains true in spite of what I might have brought to light?”

A fire burned in Balogun’s eyes, but she said nothing more after that. Seeming content to merely fix her glare on Lavastro as if it might send her withering where words had not.

Lavastro waited for the silence to become seconds old before she continued.

“Reginald Tamaias was, as far as I can tell, likely not killed by Bob Danielz as we have been led to believe. I have led an extensive investigation into Udrebam’s criminal class, and in mere weeks it has become clear that something has changed behind them to influence even the strongest of gangs from behind the scenes…”

She kept her explanation as short as was possible without compromising its depth, aided heavily by Balogun’s blessed silence. Lavastro fished one detail after another from the depths of her memory, presenting them as they became relevant and ensuring that every bone in her report’s skeleton was reinforced with steel.

It drained her to be so thorough, every word undoing seconds of the long-needed rest she’d gained the night before. Still, it was worth it.

When Lavastro was finished, she could see a deep fear nesting in the eyes of each face around the table. It pleased her, however well she hid it. Fear got things done.

“And you’ve no more details about this mysterious puppeteer than that?” Sorafin asked.

Lavastro shook her head, seeming to send the Jyptian into another depth of thought. He emerged just moments later, blue eyes falling back upon her.

Sorafin alone had remained unchanged since Lavastro had seen him last, as if the world moved entirely separate from him. His eyes were the greatest testament to it of all.

“I fear you are correct in your deductions. The involvement in a battle such as Tamaias’ speaks of an old and powerful intellect, though…”

The Jyptian trailed off, seeming somehow conflicted.

“It strikes me as being a clumsy effort, on this Immortal’s part, to cover their tracks as they have. With so many dead just days before being found, it cannot be so great a cognition that failed to see how that would create an ever clearer trail leading to its back.”

Lavastro nodded. She’d considered much the same thing herself, seeing a mind move as quick as her own was a refreshing change. And a sobering one.

She’d almost let herself forget that Sorafin was just as Immortal as the unseen enemy.

“This is a lot of speculation.” Mylif noted, not seeming to disagree in spite of his remark.

Lavastro studied the man . Trying to gauge his mentality. He seemed exhausted, as she was, but sharpened rather than diminished. Harder. As if the tension of their situation had made itself a whetstone.

His black hair had maintained its sheen, cut shorter than it had been. Harder to grab. If Lavastro didn’t know better, she might have suspected he were prepared for battle.

“Speculation is no inherent wrong.” Sorafin answered, still speaking as though his mind were in two places. “Provided there is reason behind it. I think we can safely deduce no small amount from what has been revealed here.”

“We can.” Lesifarz blurted out. “But there are far more pressing matters, a hostile Immortal is a magical threat before a mental one.”

It was strangely to the point for the drunkard, but then Lavastro had seen no trace of his usual, ale-addled demeanour. The man seemed to have shaken ten years from himself since she’d seen him last. Prouder, stronger, eyes bright with a previously unseen clarity.

He looked every bit the war mystic she’d heard tales of.

Even still, she found him a small distraction beside his words. Broaching the topic of battle had left the room chilled around them, matters suddenly darker and more fearful than any seated would have prepared for.

Balogun was the first to speak.

“If my life is in danger then I shall leave the city.”

She spoke clearly. As if her fellow organisers were yet more Írìsi to command and daunt.

“I am the mother of Bârëi’s heir, wife to its master. I cannot throw my life away on a skirmish over one of Unix’s countless cities, no matter its historic importance.”

“You are entitled to do so.” Sorafin nodded, even as all other eyes across the room grew grim and hostile. “But it may not be within your power. Don’t forget the reason we remained in Udrebam to begin with, if this enemy wishes to kill any of us, we only make it more easy to do by splitting up.”

Lavastro suddenly felt a stab of fear, like a dagger twisting where it kissed her heart. She’d considered that the unseen enemy might wish for the organiser’s deaths, but seeing it remain inactive even until the Sieve’s end had left that notion increasingly unlikely. If the enemy had wished to kill organisers in particular, it would be to disrupt the Sieve. There would be no cause to do so once the contest ended and their duties were complete.

That told Lavastro that, if any others were a target at all, it would be for their role in the world as a whole, not merely Udrebam. That Tamaias had been an advocate of peaceful relations between Taiklos and Unix was not lost on her.

For the first time since she’d come to Udrebam, she found herself terrified like a girl. Suddenly glad to know Kleidra stood waiting in the hall just twenty feet from her back. A foolish man, like the one who’d covered the tracks she followed, might have aimed to start a war with her death.

“So we stand and fight then.” Spat Balogun, convinced quickly, at least. “Like fish in a barrel.”

“Or soldiers in a fort.” Lesifarz noted. “The Crux is a well built building, there are far worse places to make a defence in. And we’ve already mustered quite a force, albeit one meant for Danielz.”

“But will it hold against this Immortal?” Balogun asked, scepticism dripping like acid from her tongue.

It was Sorafin who captured the room’s attention once more.

“A regular Immortal, possibly. But one capable of besting Tamaias, of wreaking the destruction we’ve seen in Udrebam, is another matter entirely. We will need an edge if we are to contend with such indomitable power as that.”

“What sort of edge?” Lesifarz asked, faster than any others. Martial nature showing with the quickness of his adjustment.

Sorafin waited a moment to speak, making a tool of the silence. He gave Lavastro long enough to think ahead.

“Rajah.” She said, voicing the answer just as it came to her. “You wish to seek the aid of the Immortal Rajah.”

Sorafin met her eye for a second, then nodded. His confirmation was the spark to ignite voices all across the room, soon burying thought with speech. It threatened to bring Lavastro’s headache back to haunt her.

Through the incessant barrage of conflicting voices and screeched demands, she heard Balogun’s tone cutting through all others.

“For all we know he’s the one responsible for all that’s been happening.”

It was a sentiment Lavastro might have expected, yet still she found herself appalled at the idiocy it displayed. She couldn’t imagine why an Immortal might publicly announce his presence in a city before laying siege to it.

That started Lavastro down a path of thought so deep and consumptive that even the room’s shouting became dead to her senses.

She turned cards as the background thundered around her, felt her mind strain for speed and clarity at the utter limits of its ability.

There was an alternative. A dangerous one, Lavastro thought, but perhaps one that there was no real choice in accepting. One that had become an option only in light of recent revelations.

“What if Bob Danielz were drawn into the militia?”

Lavastro spoke with a voice just shy of her orator’s tone, yet it still barely managed to pierce the cloud of sound drowning all else in the room. It was mere fortune that what she’d said carried weight enough to snatch the attention of all who heard.

Seconds in the silence were enough to make Lavastro consider whether she’d truly have preferred it over the din.