Iris took the rooftops. It was clouded daylight, but even the trams were unpredictable in the snowed-down rush hour. Busy intersections, packed carriages, snow stoppage, risks she wasn’t willing to take.

She pulled the collar of her jacket as far up her face as she could and tucked her hair in, hoping no one had the time to crane their necks or convince themselves that they had just seen a girl fly across an alleyway. She wanted to be armoured, but against a grey sky, her jacket at least gave her a fighting chance at concealment.

Residential; at least it wasn’t the busiest Excala could get. But the house was large, too large for the cramped Eastern district. From the information handed over during the contract, Iris knew the family lived on the outskirts.

Her hair disintegrated and coagulated under her soles, the subsequent jet streams propelling her forward with a fraction of the effort. Not as refined as Evalyn's process, but it would have to do.

Iris sent forth two spiked limbs with an almost unconscious efficiency, digging them past the snow and into the terracotta tiles themselves. She soared metres above the concrete street below as mindlessly as riding a bike.

Over and over again while she chewed on her cheeks and gritted her teeth, the mad dash for Crestana's survival still not enough to satiate her anxiety. The one only made worse by the bleeding figure in the corner of her eye.

Run. Faster. All for nothing.

Iris ran. Iris ran as though it were her life on the line instead of Crestana’s. She ran like Crestana wasn’t a client, like there was something more to gain.

Money?

To prove. To prove something.

That she was more than what the Spirit said she was.

She slipped on the snow, stumbling forward and down the roof’s slope. Her heart skipped a beat, and her body formed her gauntlets out of sheer panic. The spikes along their sides extended into fangs, and Iris forced them into the roof with sheer force of will.

The tiles cracked, and her momentum stopped. She held in her voice. She wanted to scream.

Silently, she got up and pressed on. Now wasn’t the time to concern herself.

Eyes forward. Like Evalyn. How she was supposed to be.

She dropped from a nearby rooftop in the narrow space between two city blocks. Beyond the boundary street, the skyline had shortened to single residencies and indulgent mansions, rooftops too segmented and disjointed for Iris to traverse reliably. And so, she put her legs to work instead.

The minutia of street names, maps and directions weren’t a luxury Iris had left the house with. Sifting through each street, each residence would take her hours of combing on foot. But along with the address was another piece of information, jokingly tacked on by Crestana’s aunt’s wry smile. 'The biggest house for miles.'

And knowing her family, Iris did not doubt it.

Like a beacon, one mansion stood head and shoulders above the rest. Wider and a storey taller, its majesty did not quite match Evalyn’s Kestral Manor, but by a certain point, they were all the same to Iris.

She followed the streets, an infuriating maze of one cookie-cutter house after another, their lawns impossibly flat underneath a layer of white powder.

Rounding the final corner, the mansion’s grand exhibition came into view; grey stone walls hewn from fairytale quarries rose from a garden choked by snow, their windowed facades ending in five distinctly pointy roofs, each separated from one another by chimney columns. Dead vines crawled up the face of the structure, hopelessly reaching for the gutters as the cold sapped them of their life.

It greeted Iris, sceptically watching her every move as though she were an ant scurrying under a hovering foot. She pressed forward, through the hedge’s gate and onto the shovelled snow path, the gravel grinding underneath every nervous step she took.

She was nervous. When did that happen?

She looked up at the manor’s many windows, spread before her like the judges of an ancient tribal hearing, watching her with champagne glasses in hand and malice in their eyes. They were blacked out either by the disparity in light or by sets of scratchy, crimson red curtains accented by silver trimmings. She passed a frozen fountain, silent and drowning in snow where there might have once been life.

Something watched her, glaring into her soul with no pretext other than doubt. It saw her, and its cold stare wished to kill her. It had killed the garden long before winter ever fell.

Iris approached the front door, an ancient wooden piece that insisted one knocked by the gargantuan brass knocker, the ring hanging precariously from the mouth of some sort of Spirit.

Almost reptilian, but not quite. The scales glimmered, the snout curved gracefully, and the eyes seemed alive. Through the brass and its Verdigris, the Spirit seemed to move in Iris’s peripheral vision, waiting for the perfect moment to command her death.

Watching her. Recognising her.

Iris clutched the icy handle and knocked on the door, announcing the presence against her subconscious judgment. She waited, unable to tear her eyes away from the Spirit adorning the door.

The door creaked open, and a Beak in a tuxedo answered.

“Yes?”

“Uh,” Iris faltered. “Hello.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m…Iris Maxwell Hard…Hardridge-Maxwell. I’m a classmate of Crestana’s.”

The Beak watched her, his mask conveying no emotion in the absence of costlier luxuries and features. “A sermon has just finished. I doubt the mistress can afford to see you—”

“Please! It’s urgent.”

‘She’s in danger!’ Iris wanted to scream, but a sermon was underway. There was just as much a chance he was beyond the grey stone walls as at the Academy.

“How shall I announce you?”

“Uh…quietly. I don’t want to bother.”

“…your name. How shall I address you to the mistress?”

“Oh…uh. Iris. Just Iris is fine.”

The Beak nodded, closing the door behind him but not before slinking into the shadows first, a bone-white mask floating in space. She was greeted by the Spirit encased in bronze again, and another bout of staring ensued.

But Iris noticed a difference. The way people used words was alien to her, but facial expressions—animalistic displays of emotion—was something she could recognise. Even when etched into copper, its face abstract and divorced from human resemblance.

The door knocker was snarling at her, ever so slightly.

It swung away, and the mask of another Beak replaced it, level with Iris’s vision.

“Crestana!” Iris yelped under her breath.

“Why are you here?” Crestana asked from behind the door.

“You’re in….”

A bone white mask peered from the darkness beyond her.

“You’re in danger,” Iris hissed.

“What?”

“Is Caynes here? At the sermon?”

“No,” Crestana asked, stepping forward and closing the door. “No he’s teaching, so he can’t come. Why? Is he dangerous after all?”

Iris gently took Crestana’s wrist. “I think he’s the one that’s behind everything.”

Her client recoiled, a delayed reaction that started in her wrists and spread to her shoulders. Her head began to shake back and forth.

“But…but he was nice to me I—”

“He was nice to you because he needed something from you. Do you get it?”

Iris wanted to leave.

“No but he cared—”

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“He didn’t care. Crestana, he doesn’t care for you besides your part in whatever his plan is!”

Staying in the garden was not worth it.

“But—”

“Crestana, this place is dangerous now. I don’t know when he can get in and when he can get to you, but if he’s after you in some way, then we need to take you somewhere else—”

Too much time. Too much risk. The door knocker would eat her.

“I don’t want to.”

“You might die—”

“Stop.”

Crestana’s cold voice quaked underneath her mask. Her uniform hung off her shaking shoulders; her whole body looked animated with fear. “Stop. I can’t.”

“Can’t what? Crestana, I can’t afford to leave you here.”

“You’re wrong about this. I can’t just—”

“Leave the people who treated you like you’re worthless your entire life?”

Iris was dancing on the spot; the garden was nipping at her feet.

“They’re putting you in danger! Can’t you see that?”

She was wasting Iris’s time. Such a naïve life wasn’t worth the risk.

“Let’s go. Your aunt is waiting.”

Iris held on tight to Crestana’s wrist as she dropped a coin into the payphone and dialled her home, sandwiching the receiver between her ear and shoulder as she did so. She waited for the lines to connect, tapping her feet while she glanced outside the glass booth.

Crestana wasn’t looking at her. Face downtrodden, too afraid to look at anything.

“Hello?”

“Dad. It’s me.”

“Iris? You’re all right?”

“Yeah. I’ve got Crestana, but I don’t know when they’re going to notice she’s missing.”

“Where are you right now?”

Iris glanced at the nearest street sign.

“Boundary street at Heffernan Views. There’s apartments behind me and mansions in front.”

She waited as her father poured over the map he likely had before him, tracing his gaze with his finger until he pinpointed Iris’s location.

“All right. I’ll call a taxi there; it shouldn’t take anymore than five minutes. Tell them to take you to the Rhelik near the city centre. I’ll meet you there, and Crestana’s aunt won’t be far behind.”

“What about Caynes?”

“Talked to Marie about it, she said she’d talk to the Metro police. Even if there isn’t enough to nail him with terrorism, Al is making a case to nail him for stolen identity and accomplice in murder."

“Okay. We’ll wait here then.”

“Good. Kill the driver if he tries anything.”

“Dad what would—”

“You’ll get it when you’re older. Love you, okay?”

“You too.”

Iris hung the phone up and turned to Crestana. She let go of her wrist and took her hand instead.

“I’m sorry.”

Crestana did not budge.

Iris stepped out of the car and rounded the back, opening Crestana’s door and letting her step onto the curb. The city centre was past rush hour, but the coattails of its frenzy still coursed through the city streets. Witnesses if anything were to happen.

A double-edged sword, seeing that both Iris and Caynes stood to suffer in the public eye.

The Rhelik stood a head above the surrounding cityscape. One of the premiere hotels in Excala, even securing a seat in its bottom floor restaurant was a feat in and of itself, let alone a reservation at its pinnacle.

Iris walked side by side with Crestana through the rotating door, briefly reminiscing her last visit for her birthday. She looked at her client, but Crestana’s silence spoke volumes to her indifference. Iris gripped her hand, and Crestana was gripping back.

They continued forward before stopping at the reception, where a middle-aged waiter manned the lectern.

“Good morning,” he said through a greying beard. “Do you have a reservation?”

Iris tried to lead, but her words fumbled. “I…do?”

“For Mallorine. Janice Mallorine.”

“Mallorine,” the waiter whispered, his eyebrows lifting in surprise. He licked his thumb and flipped through the pages. Two, three, four. He stopped and began to run his finger down a list.

“Hurry up,” Iris hissed under her breath as she glanced over her shoulder.

“Here we are. Right this way,” the waiter smiled, beckoning them to follow.

They trekked across soft carpet and weaved through circular tables draped in white cloth. Few people occupied them, though they lay in wait for any potential customer.

Iris’s face lit up as her eyes fell on a sight for sore eyes, ones that had spend a lifetime in the matter of hours.

“Dad!”

Iris skipped over, brushing past the waiter and dragging Crestana close behind. She let go of her client’s hand and embraced Elliot instead, forgetting how itchy his coat was against her skin.

“Everything okay? Nothing happened on the way, right?”

Iris shook her head and buried it deeper into his shoulder.

“You sure? You aren’t acting like it.”

Iris nodded, squeezing his chest.

“Well okay then. But you’re still on the job, I’m watching your client grow bored by the second.”

Iris got a hold of herself and pulled away, awkwardly turning back to Crestana with uncommitting eyes. She was clutching her elbow, looking away.

Iris shuffled closer and put a hand on her shoulder. “Let’s sit down.”

Crestana followed the prompt, and they sat down to Elliot’s right as he leaned over, putting his elbows on the table.

“Crestana, are you okay?” Elliot asked. Crestana nodded, although with none of the high-class politeness Iris had grown accustomed to. Just a meek nod that the mask hadn't twisted into a formal greeting.

Elliot tried to soften his eyes with the best smile he could muster. “Now, your Aunt knows the whole situation. Iris mentioned that you’d rather this kept a secret from her, but unfortunately she is our client. How do you feel about that.”

Crestana fidgeted with her fingers. “I…I don’t know.”

Elliot reached halfway across the table in an effort to parlay. “You’re in safe hands. Being married to a Private Detective for almost thirteen years, some things rub off after a while.”

He leaned over and ruffled Iris’s hair with a calloused hand. “And this one has more experience than you could ever imagine, even if she doesn’t exactly have a way with words.”

Iris and Crestana’s eyes met for a moment, but it was Crestana’s that averted first.

Iris had only realised in the taxi how the Spirit inside her had borrowed her lips. At least following that logic was easier for Iris to accept.

It didn’t matter now. The damage was done, and the rest was just semantics.

“Did you have a hard time getting here, Crestana?” Elliot asked, and Crestana shook her head.

“What about recently? I heard you haven’t been coming to school.”

“No,” Crestana said. “No I haven’t.”

Elliot pursed his lips and readjusted his chair. “Crestana? I’m going to ask some hard questions now, but I’d really appreciate if you answered them. Can you do that for me?”

Crestana glanced at him, but despite his efforts, she remained unable to find it in her to look directly at him. She nodded again, fidgeting with her elbow.

“Temple of the Spirit of Spirits. Can you tell me why they worship the Spirit of Spirits?”

Crestana’s shutters lowered across her eyes as she curled into herself ever so slightly, the words repulsing her.

“The Spirit of Spirits is…they say its our saviour. The entity that encompasses our being, sharpens the lines of our existence and reaffirms our power. In division we will no longer find weakness, but renewal and evolution. Prayer carried through the Aether will fuel its renewal, a return to balance.”

As though a ghost had possessed her, Crestana shook free from the trance. “That’s what we…they worship.”

Elliot nodded. “And so he pretended to subscribe to this…philosophy in order to get close to your family. Do you know if he’s talked to your family about the attack? Given…suggestions or advice, skewed their perception in any way.”

Crestana shook her head, resting her restless hands in the lap of her school skirt. “I haven’t heard anything. Just condolences. And they don’t speak outside of sermons.”

“So as far as we know, Caynes isn’t staging these attacks to get the Mallorine’s to accept his council.”

He thought for a moment, scratching his unshaven stubble before placing his hands back on the desk. “Anyway, I need you to do something, Crestana. If that’s all right?”

“What is it?”

“It’s a little strange, but I’ll need you to go into the bathroom and check all over your body in as many places as you can for any sort of strange marking.”

Crestana shivered, and Iris watched as her skin crawled, the though a thousand times more unnerving than knowing there was a spider somewhere on one's body. She accepted and stood, her feet carrying her to the bathroom.

“Iris,” Elliot called. “Go with her. I’m going to find a pay phone somewhere.”

She nodded, followed Crestana into the vacant bathroom, where she took a place in front of the wall-spanning mirror and Iris leaned next to the entrance. Crestana began with her mask, taking it off and turning it over, scrutinising it before she placed it behind the sink. She undid her hair and moved it to one shoulder before pausing.

Iris, standing by the door, caught on much too late. Without a face, without a voice…without one they could openly communicate in, all that was left were gestures: ancient methods of communication.

Iris walked over and held Crestana’s hair in place for her. “There’s nothing here,” Iris concluded, only to be met with more pointing, this time along her client’s scalp. Iris began her work and—like a grooming monkey—searched through Crestana's hair while her client pulled at the skin along her empty face and neck.

Crestana’s hair flowed between Iris’s fingers as though weightless, retaining at least that intrinsic Beak quality. It made no rustle as Iris sifted through it.

She glanced up and into the mirror. The empty face before her was jarring but not out of place. The shutters and the voice made sense, but so too did nothing. Whatever was under the mask felt no less valid.

“I’m sorry, Crestana.”

Her client continued to look over her skin as though nothing had been said, but Iris could feel the small shifts in Aether, especially when they were so close.

“I don’t usually do the talking. That’s what my mum does….”

Crestana rolled up the sleeves of her blazer and silently worked her way along her arms. She was listening but refusing to show it.

“I don’t know how to say things in a way people will understand. I’ll just, say it, or I won’t.”

Iris caught onto the whisps of Crestana’s Aether as they floated past.

“Then why don’t you say it?”

“…but I don’t have anything to say. All I know is that I’m scared.”

“Why?”

“And…and I don’t know why I’m so scared. Part of me is scared of failing, but another part is scared…of even trying…no. Forget that.

“What are you doing this for, Iris?”

Iris stayed silent in regards to the final question, letting the oscillations of Aether pass her by. Crestana reached over and reattached her mask. She walked past Iris and entered a cubicle behind them, locking the door closed.

“What’s the ring for?” the familiar mechanical voice said, replacing the softer, intimate one Iris had heard a few seconds prior. “It doesn’t look like an engagement ring.”

“It’s not,” Iris rebutted from outside, her heart skipping a beat as she recalled the meaning of the symbolic jewellery.

“Then what is it?”

“What is it?”

“Yes. What do you think I said?”

“It’s uh…a tracker. A friend wanted me to have it.”

“So you can track them?”

“Yeah,” Iris said, bringing the ring to her face. The needle had not moved in years, forever pointing in the same direction like a compass that, unlike her pilot’s watch, stayed true to her own selfish north. “It tracks a friend of mine, or well…his brass knuckles. He does a lot of important things in the Vesmos Empire. Things that, you know, he’d proud of, and I’m proud of…Crestana?”

“…Crestana!”

Crimson lines bled from underneath the stall, burning themselves into the ground and invading the outside world.

“Crestana!”

Iris disassembled her hair and entombed her arm in purple matter. Pivoting around her hips, she obliterated the door’s lock with an armoured fist.

She sprinted inside and found Crestana on the floor, unconscious. Her mask had been knocked off her head.

Bypassing her conscious thought, Iris’s beast came to her aid, rearing its head into her palm and then forward to Crestana. Iris kneeled next to her client and heaved her onto her own lap. She searched across Crestana’s body, looking for the mark, but found nothing.

The beast nudged her and pointed to her right with its snout. Iris followed its glare and found Crestana’s mask at the end of it, the lines stemming from it as though that were its centre.

She grabbed the mask and turned it over again and again, searching it desperately as Crestana’s body grew more still by the second. The magic beneath her burnt her shoes and threatened to cook her alive.

Her eyes fell on the voice box, the small metal compartment at the mask's base. She reformed her gauntlet and pried it open, bending the screws and tearing them apart.

A Sigil on the inside of the lid.

“Go!” Iris commanded, no reservations of what collateral damage she might cause. The beast followed her command, snapping up the Sigil without hesitation.

But the markings etching themselves into reality did not fade.

Then came the gas.