《Law of Seven, Book 1: Blood Walker》 The First Movement: Illeara

The First Movement In the Perspective of:

Illeara

Autumn 297i, Week 1, Day 6, Brightening Chateau Illeara, Stormwatch, Miana, The Eltheiri Empire I feel it. I feel it like taste, touch, or sound¡­ Definite¡­ Real¡­ Yet it is none of those things. It is not something where experience might aid in interpreting it¡ªnor are there even words to help describe it¡­ even my thoughts prove useless. There just isn¡¯t enough context to use¡­ It is so damned unfamiliar. A gust catches my hair and I readjust my shawl at the cold. The fresh, autumn, coastal air does something, but also nothing. Lacking needed sleep as I am, the chill and a favorite shawl help regulate skin that keeps fluctuating between feeling too hot and too cold. Why is it that a lack of sleep makes the body incapable of keeping a regular, comfortable temperature? No matter. I close my eyes and lose myself to the breeze as it tussles my hair, soothing in its wild, gentle unpredictability. I take a deep breath and it spreads waves of icy prickles in my lungs, a sense of aliveness coming with every breath. Yet persisting¡­ reminding me despite the others senses¡¯ distraction¡­ I feel it¡­ I feel it while standing outside¡ªexposed¡­ This place¡ªthis place with a cool breeze promising a bit of comfort¡ªlies outside the magically warded protection of my chateau¡¯s walls. It was a trade: comfort for unease¡ªfreedom for exposure¡­ Feelings beyond feelings¡ªsenses devoid of sense¡­ they reach out and present themselves to me¡ªI detect them¡­ but don¡¯t know how. Even working with gon as I do¡ªspiritualism routine to me¡ªI¡­ I just don¡¯t¡­ I feel it. Damn, I feel it¡­ I should have merely opened a window for my coveted breeze¡ªopened several to create a draft, even. I could have¡ª But¡­ n-no. When Rhone, my well-intentioned and honest protector, gently suggested that rest might better suit me than venturing out and into the markets¡­ I just had to jump right into leaving the chateau even earlier¡ªexposing myself. I had to traipse out into whatever haunts this city a little early so I could watch Gon¡¯Kar bring out the agitopede¡ªmake a pretense at being strong. It¡¯s¡ªit¡¯s¡­ not for stage¡ªdamn, but I hate that vile colloquialism. That vile toad Fontassa and her self-serving, self-spoiling turns of phrase meant only to¡ª! ¡°Some nightmare consumes this city and you¡­ still¡­ wish to visit the markets?¡± Rhone asks¡ªverbally nudges¡ªagain, coming up beside me. I stand for a moment, letting the words draw me away¡­ calm me¡­ He is here¡ªI am safe. But reassurance¡­ It doesn¡¯t come¡­ Even though I know it should¡ªknow I¡¯m safe in the midst of Rhone and Gon¡¯Kar¡ªit doesn¡¯t come¡­ I turn my head a little, looking at him but not wholly committing¡ªnot in such a way as to indicate I want him to look back. No, I¡­ I just want to appreciate him for a moment¡­ lose myself in the distraction of someone I¡­ He stands, strong¡ªactually strong¡ªand stares out on the now relatively desolate city. He is unmoving in the way only a soldier or machine can be. It radiates a sense of confidence and safety, but I know the truth¡­ he told me the truth¡­ It is hours and hours of military drilling and parading. Nevertheless, real or not, the impression shines though. I draw on it. It¡­ strengthens me because I know, despite hours and hours of drilling and parading, he is strong. He is confident. He is¡­ safety. Even if I can¡¯t feel it¡ªeven if whatever this darkness is prevents me from drawing upon what should give me comfort¡ªI know I am safe with him. I face forward once more, following his gaze. Most Stormwatchers must be doing the sensible thing¡ªthat which I reject: keeping to the spiritual protection of their houses. I have a good reason to do otherwise, of course. The money from my coffers is needed by those who sell their goods. They depend on it. It is economics. Nevertheless, there is more to it. The assurance offered in going out amidst a mystical crisis is needed for the morale of the people, as I am known to be amongst those who speak to spirits. The example set by¡­ Yet¡­ deepest down¡­ I know in the secret room of my heart that it, as much as any benevolent aim, is just as much about my need to do that which others have insisted I do not. It is a flaw of mine¡­ a prepossessing rebellion against anyone¡¯s any directive¡ªanyone¡¯s mere suggestion¡ªbefore I even weigh the merit, rationale, or intention. Yet I am powerless against myself. It is as childish as it is automatic and, at almost thirty years old, I shouldn¡¯t¡ª ¡°Something has stolen your thoughts, I dare say,¡± Rhone murmurs, interrupting my journey into utterly self-absorbed distraction. His words are measured and warm, hinting of his genuine, amused interest¡­ his care. I have always loved the way he does that¡ªwoven intent with a tone so subtle that¡ª No. Must focus. I take pause to dissect the words¡ªneed to, because my mind is¡­ it is less acute and more achy than I would like, the beginnings of a migraine coming on¡ªat least a full migraine isn¡¯t complicating my life right now¡­ at least not yet. I really need sleep. But the words¡ª The words are more than just their plain meaning. Before mentioning my distraction¡ªmy utterly obvious distraction, evidently¡ªhe said something about the city and its state¡­ yes, my desire to go to the markets¡ªmy insistence on venturing out. That is the point¡ªthat is the fulcrum. He only casually masked his disapproval¡ªenough to make his opinion known, but not be forceful about it. Coming from anyone else, I would, of course, find myself interpreting that as a manipulation¡ªa calculated subtlety aimed at circumventing my little predisposition for defiance. ¡­but with him? This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there. Concern¡­ Concern that manages to overpower his own enduring willingness to not control¡­ Warrior¡¯s skill, trade, and history aside, I sometimes dabble with the notion that he has a greater skill for words than swords. Perhaps it is just me fancying his particular choice of rhetoric again. I¡ª ¡°Indeed, something has stolen you away most effectively,¡± he says, this time with a detectable grin in the tone. I turn a little, fixing him with a sidelong glare. It isn¡¯t the words, as I know they are true, but the way that his annoying little smile twists the sound of them¡ªthe way it betrays a growing amusement. ¡°Quite,¡± I reply through clenched teeth, looking back to the city. I can almost hear his smile grow. I cross my arms, annoyed at the way only he can simultaneously irritate and endear me. Yes, his particular finesse with words is like a favorite author, but of the spoken, conversational craft, rather than text. It is, in essence, due to his aims. He uses a skillset of methodical vocabulary and enunciation like many, but without that misleading persuasion or pompous bluster. Indeed, I find myself charmed to be met with¡­ with¡­ let¡¯s call it communicative inducement that lacks aggressive deception¡ªsomething based in genuine concern. Oh, for a world where disagreements are made plain, tailored with respectful, earnest concerns, rather than bitter selfishness concealed in the sweet trappings of verbal maneuver. Yet such is not the language of the world. Rhone is special. ¡°They have not yet located the source of¡­¡± Rhone trails off, re-centering my attention with a tone devoid of the previous amusement. The words draw me back to the whole crux of the moment: the thing¡ªthe nightmare that haunts the city. I notice him holding his hand aloft, twirling his wrist as if to conjure the proper term or description. Like me, he finds this present circumstance hard to describe. ¡°It?¡± I offer, unintentionally letting the ¡°t¡± bite a little and finding myself enjoying the way it changes the word¡ªadds a little harmless rebellion against the haunting nightmare or somesuch. ¡°It,¡± he replies, turning to regard me. The way he intones the single syllable manages to convey his lack of amusement with the state of the city, but also¡­ also a small glimmer of amusement¡­ with¡­ me. But I don¡¯t need to dissect the pronunciation of his word to get the message. His grey eyes carry a familiar¡­ a belovedly familiar¡­ twinkle of approval. It makes the girl in me¡ª ¡°What?¡± I ask and something in the way I say it makes his subtle approval shift into a more overt smile. ¡°What?¡± He sighs, staring out on the city; the sky is beginning to brighten with color, dawn approaching. ¡°It amazes me that you find yourself so vivacious and full of energy, sleep-deprived as you are.¡± A grin catches me, his smile apparently contagious. As his broadens and I begin to summon words to explain precisely how vivacious and full of energy I am not, he continues. ¡°Normally¡ªrent by such weariness, I should amend¡ªyou are fierce and unforgiving as a storm¡ªmood as ugly as the grey¡ª¡± ¡°Alright, Commander,¡± I say, glaring at him sidelong a little as I find my intent to playfully argue bested by a far more irresistible twinge of annoyance. ¡°If I knew your comparison would meander into something altogether this¡ª this¡ª¡± ¡°¡ªaccurate?¡± ¡°Objectionable¡­,¡± I correct, immediately pouncing on the word, ¡°¡­I might have roused a bit of stormy petulance.¡± ¡°Also like a storm,¡± he says, blithely ignoring my quip with irritating indifference, ¡°such a display is refreshing, when so many other women act like dolls with their true emotions, proclaiming fa?ades in gauche declarations best suited for stage.¡± ¡°I hate that phrase,¡± I blurt, unable to stop myself. He looks over at me, expression questioning. ¡°For stage,¡± I repeat, disgust in the words. Realizing I owe a measure of context, I continue: ¡°Fontassa says it¡ªminted it, if she can be believed.¡± ¡°Fontassa is for stage,¡± he replies as he returns his attention to the city, somehow managing to make that ¡°is¡± an absolute, epitomizing comparator. Coupled with the satisfaction of his unimpressed disregard, I find myself beaming, so utterly pleased. ¡°You, however, are better suited for parlor rooms and studies¡ªsomething treasured, genuine, and liable to endure.¡± I shake my head, fighting a smile. ¡°Do not presume I do not know the games you play with your words, Rhone,¡± I reply, amused and not. ¡°Oh?¡± Though I certainly possess the power to return the conversation to its proper course, I find his compliments¡­ I shift my jaw, smiling now and absurd for it. ¡°Why do I find your words charming, when I should be seeing them for the wily manipulations they are?¡± I ask, allowing my annoyed heat to cool into a more appreciative warmth. ¡°Why are you like lightning, your beauty liable to blind?¡± It is too much. ¡°Oh, hush, you! See here¡­¡± I shift my jaw again, annoyed with myself for not being able to come up with a retort. ¡°Rhone!¡± I mutter, the name a moment¡¯s curse. He chuckles. For my part, I raise my fan and use its motion to conceal a broadening smile; I doubt the effectiveness, air chill as it is. Even so, in my own well-pondered opinion, every lady is benefitted by the presence of a pleasant man inclined to praise her, even if the words are largely flattery. And should that man be so effective as to tempt one into believing that the words come not from a conniver¡¯s mind, but a gentleman¡¯s heart¡­ well¡­ It¡­ It has a way of ¡­ No. Indeed, no. I will not permit his silver-tongued distraction its purchase. I force my mind to regain my aim. I give him a withering, overt sidelong glance. ¡°So¡­ to the markets?¡± He sighs once more, a flavor of knowing defeat to it. ¡°And I had dared to believe you were effectively diverted.¡± ¡°Storms are ponderous, Commander, but tend to keep to their ponderous courses.¡± I grin, wicked, the gears in my mind finally seeming to get their stride with conversation. ¡°Tell me, how might one toil to alter a tempest¡¯s course and find anything beyond vain action?¡± ¡°Indeed.¡± ¡°I¡ª¡± I roll my eyes. ¡°You are trying to distract me again¡ªletting me distract myself, I should say.¡± ¡°Perhaps.¡± I let my turn in the repartee lapse as I peer at him, appreciative for all his attempts to dissuade me¡ªI would hate that in anyone else. He will accompany me, of course. One should think he would, being my bodyguard. Yet ours is something of a special relationship, lady and bodyguard: the bodyguard rarely outranks his charge. Even so, he is well contented to let me do as I wish, so long as I don¡¯t put myself in any real danger. But there is a danger about. There is a danger so mysterious, deadly, and illusory that the entirety of the city senses it like a storm on the air. And yet¡­ I go to the markets. Given Rhone¡¯s hesitation, my safety must be in question¡ªalbeit a question so insignificant as to merely give him pause, rather than coax out an overt confession of his fears or a more forceful protest. He is very honest that way, when the weight of it truly pulls on him. I like that. I feel the thought ripening my amused smile into something more genuine¡­ something deeper. I expect he knows that if he were to voice a real concern, I would heed his words. I do trust him, after all. He looks down, thoughtful. ¡°Why do you persist in this, given¡­?¡± He lifts his hand, once more to attempting to summon the idea with aimless twirls of the wrist. ¡°It?¡± I ask, giving the word the same biting ¡°t.¡± ¡°It,¡± he confirms, this time the amusement outweighing the stern drudgery. ¡°I don¡¯t know. Why must Gon¡¯Kar tarry so in conveying the agitopede from the garage?¡± I ask with false innocence. ¡°It has never taken so long to¡ª¡± ¡°Your point is made,¡± he says, giving me a knowing look. ¡°I suppose your mind is not as sleep-dulled as it had seemed to be.¡± Smiling at my little victory, I think for a moment for an answer to his question. Why must I go to the markets? Though my purpose is thoroughly reasoned, I nevertheless find my tired mind unable to give the ideas enough concise cohesion for a proper explanation. My moment of clarity has spent itself, it would seem. I muster what focus I can and wade in. ¡°I have a comfortable life in many respects. Chief among them¡ªin the context of this waking ¡®nightmare¡¯ you so aptly named¡ªis a sense of stability and safety. My chateau has stores and security and whatnot, but the people in the markets rely on people like me for their livelihoods, and not going to the market¡ªeven in such an inconvenient time¡ªmight have far weightier emotional consequences for them than any risk to me. When it only costs me the trivial sacrifice of a mere hassle, how could I not go?¡± ¡°I can certainly see your logic in that,¡± he says, putting thumb and index finger to chin in a somewhat overdramatic gesture of thought, ¡°but I fail to see why you must go.¡± ¡°I train spirits for my craft, Rhone,¡± I reply, raising an eyebrow to match his little for stage gesture¡ªdamn, but I need to stop using that damned phrase. ¡°If I am held up in my abode, that indicates a certain level of fear on my part¡ªor, scenario at its best, perhaps merely neutral endorsement of the fear and everyone else¡¯s actions. Yet if I go out¡­¡± ¡°I do suppose that might serve as a model of hope,¡± he replies, pensive. Having gained ground, I take the risk of addressing the matter directly, content with revealing my ignorance. ¡°How dangerous do you suspect it is¡ªin naked assessment?¡± He thinks for a moment. ¡°Very, I should say¡­ but only under specific circumstances, it would seem.¡± ¡°What sort of circumstances?¡± I ask, argumentative drive replaced with curiosity. ¡°¡ªanything we are liable to encounter?¡± ¡°I doubt it, no. From the reports I have read, the victims of¡­ well, let us not get into details on the matter¡­¡± he amends, tone filled with a concoction of different variations of concern. ¡°I should say, with myself and Gon¡¯Kar¡ªmostly Gon¡¯Kar, given the nature of this so-called nightmare¡ªyou should be secure. As a gon of the first order and protecting you as he is, I suspect there are few in this city more well-defended than yourself.¡± He takes a pensive breath. ¡°Even so¡­¡± ¡°Even so?¡± ¡°Even so, I should like to bring along more guardsmen,¡± he says with a deliberate slowness to the words. I open my mouth, but he continues, ¡°though I suspect¡­ that would sour the intent of hope you most magnanimously wish to sow, fields of optimism barren as they are.¡± I roll my eyes. He just shakes his head, clearly won over despite his little jest. ¡°So, it¡¯s settled, then?¡± I ask through a clenched smile as the agitopede finally lumbers up the drive. I try not to savor my little victory too overtly. He sighs once more, amusement flavored by the barest hint of the anticipatory annoyance. I am so very skilled at earning that response. ¡°Tired as you were, I merely wished to ensure your course was reasoned,¡± he says as he holds out a hand, gesturing to the vehicle. If it was anyone else, I would expect the words to be an attempt to save face. With Rhone, I know that he is earnest. ¡°Stubborn as you are, when is your mind even swayed?¡± I roll my eyes, giving him a lighthearted scowl. ¡°Oh, ha-ha.¡± He offers a mocking bow. I return with an equally derisive curtsey. The Second Movement: Rhone

The Second Movement In the Perspective of:

Rhone

Autumn 297i, Week 1, Day 6, Morning Stormwatch Thoroughfares, Stormwatch, Miana, The Eltheiri Empire The insidious creep of exhaustion finally draws my darling Illeara to slumber. I have watched it promise as much for hours now. To see that it finally fulfill its word calms me a little. The woman has more compassion than sense. The body needs its rest, no matter how stubborn its accompanying mind. And so, she sleeps. Yet, while she needs it¡ªso desperately that she fell asleep mid conversation, no less¡ªshe does not need it here. Though it really doesn¡¯t bear saying, one should not sleep in the presence of a nightmare. But what am I to do? Could I be so cruel hearted as to wake her? ¡ªdemand she keep herself awake now after I so earnestly suggested she rest? Distracting myself, I look out and see what I expect, finding no comfort in the confirmation. Crowds have waned, thinner and lacking the clamor such a morning would promise. The air has stilled, its texture cool and empty¡ªsomehow dry, despite the oceanic climate. Even the echoes of our agitopede¡¯s thick brass legs sound hollow as their lumbering, rhythmic gate draws us away from the markets. Yet the quiet does not offer peace. Illeara mumbles something incoherent and I look down, noticing her twitching a bit. I cannot imagine her dreams are anything kind. A flash of something catches my attention. I keep myself from any overt reaction, moving only my eyes to track it and hand nearer to my sabre¡¯s hilt, making a pretense of reaching into a pocket. I do not wish to not betray my interest with something more obvious. A second later, my mind has processed what I saw: a pedestrian bumped into another, and, tense as they are¡ªtense as everyone is¡ªthey had the beginnings of an altercation, only for it to quickly subside. Just the angst and pent-up worry of the greater situation finding momentary release. Nothing. Not of lasting interest. I look back to Illeara. War in the deserts honed my inherent sensitivity to spirits¡ªa most adventitious fortune when one fought the unholy monsters the Shen Leim shaman conjured. But by chrome and silver, Illeara speaks to gon professionally, and Stormwatch is practically a gallows¡¯ field for its gloom as of late. If this undefinable haunting keeps me awake at night, what must it do to her? And out here¡ªbeyond even what limited protection the chateau¡¯s thresholds offer? Should¡­ should I wake her? ¡ªwake her only if to get her back to the chateau? Would it even make a perceptible difference? We had both believed the thresholds and wards would shield us. This nightmare¡ªor, more accurately, some theorized, generic spiritual woe¡ªwere supposed to pale before a threshold¡ªmuch more so the robust protections the chateau offer. Yet Gon¡¯Kar made the matter plain in a metaphor. Much in the way a bug net will prevent mosquitoes from trespassing, so does the threshold with uninvited spirits. Nevertheless, even behind a net, one might still hear the metaphorical mosquitoes¡¯ buzzing. The same would seem to hold true for the detection of our present nightmare, whatever it is. Finally¡ªgiven that this so-called buzzing is sufficient to keep the entire capital on edge¡ªthis spiritual mosquito¡ªthis phantasmagorical bug¡ªmust be¡­ well, not something so insignificant as a bug. ¡­or perhaps it is like a bug and we are haunted by a vast horde of them¡ªa swarm of gnat spirits. ¡­or even conceivably something grander even than noteworthy¡ªmonolithic, yet distant¡ªthe type of thing years of old were named after in the days before the empire¡ª Year of the Cold Summer. Year of the Grey Sky. Year of the¡­ Very Notable Spirit Bug. But could it be? ¡ªcould we be detecting the tremors of some world-affecting spiritual quake somewhere? ¡ªperhaps even beyond the bounds of Eltheiri? Some monumental preternatural bug? But no¡­ such is wishful thinking, as absurdly depressing as it is for such to be the material of wishes¡­ Surely, we would have heard reports from near and abroad of other cities enduring this phenomenon, should that be the case. It must be local, and a local horror must be counted as a blessing when weighted against some globe-affecting monstrosity. That, at least, is some relief. Whatever its nature, though, it nonetheless feels¡­ wrong: an invisible groping that takes hold of the soul with wriggling fingers¡ªa haze that seeps into the lungs, deepening paranoia with every breath. And, despite the seeming universality of the effect, no one has the faintest notion as to what it is¡ªor at least not with any certainty. It¡­ it could be a bug. I need to stop fixating on this. I am reminded of the sensation of catching something in the corner of my eye, only to look and see nothing. Something looms, or so the mind promises, and the subconscious awareness demands a conscious rush of panic. It demands the eyes to twitch¡ªto turn and scrutinize¡ªonly to find¡­ nothing. Whatever it is disappears without having ever really been there. But it is there. Everyone knows it is there. This feeling is not one of sight, however, nor the sound of the aforeconsidered metaphorical buzzing of an insect¡ªa bug. Though I cannot discern the how or why that constitutes this ambiguous sensation¡­ this something is less a feeling and more¡­ an instinct, perhaps? The soldier in me wants nothing more than to join the night patrols and assist in determining what in the hells is going on. Yet Stormwatch has an entire division and more of guardsmen in garrason and more to draw upon should the need present itself. Yet nothing has been found¡­ nothing beyond the leftovers. But that is the inquisitors¡¯ domain. How is one meant to chase shadows whilst in the darkness? I doubt an additional man will help¡ªif anything, I suspect I will be more of an asset during the day. An Emperor¡¯s Own is best seen among the people, not not seen. General morale demands that much of me, at least. To that effect, both Illeara and I have made ourselves available to Inquisitor Kadir, should he need our assistance. We¡ª I sense something. The texture of the wrongness alters a little¡­ grows nearer¡ªbecomes more pungent. I covertly look around, inspecting. ¡°Gon¡¯Kar?¡± I ask trying to appear occupied. ¡°Yes?¡± the agitopede¡¯s spirit operator responds, the gon¡¯s voice coming through the speaker with a slight tinny buzz. ¡°Do you sense anything¡­ amiss? ¡ªanything singular?¡± ¡°Hmm,¡± he says, pondering with his unusually human-like way. ¡°Considering this city¡¯s present state, may I request a more specific query?¡±The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation. ¡°I suppose,¡± I reply, recognizing the point. Whatever the case, the answer is affirmation enough; the spirit senses the oddness as well¡ªwhy wouldn¡¯t it? I let the conversation pass, the opportunity to politely continue lapsing. My mind travels back to the feeling, senses trying to discern meaning in it. What was that? What was that? But as I try to recapture the sensation¡ªrefocus on the nagging little hint of a shred of insight¡ªI find¡­ nothing. I shake my head, distracting myself from my own frustration. Only three or so weeks have passed since the rumors began, but the city teeters on the edge of hysterics. Strange people lurk in the streets, clothing not quite right and behavior abnormal. Details vary. Some say they have queer voices and vernaculars. Others swear to a smell of dust laced with a foul twinge of excrement. The faces, though¡­ what few rumormongers who have witnessed these people¡¯s faces speak of a visage both mangled and haunting. Yet guards are unable to find them. They are gone before they can be apprehended or even assessed. Then there is the talk of the rituals. Wholly irregular and vile, one indeed hears of such things, but never here¡ªnever so close¡ªnever so¡­ real. But the rumors and their frequency¡ªthe strange pink liquid, the occult symbols, the stripped bones¡ªare here¡­ are close¡­ are real. Talk of that sort is supposed to die out¡­ not grow more predominant. We people with our walls and weapons take a justifiable comfort in the security they offer, but when something comes along that finds these unimpressive¡ªnot some dumb thing, either, but rather an entity intelligent enough to understand who and what we are, yet find us unimposing¡ªwell¡­ we lose our ease and confidence¡­ we become like animals¡­ like prey. But is that the case? Is some leftover abomination from the Era of Mantles stirring? Has some new horror found purchase in our world? ¡­our city? Perhaps. Perhaps not. Or perhaps it is just the city¡¯s indigestion as a new emperor prepares to take the throne¡ªbetter yet, some Purple¡¯s idea of publicity for an upcoming theatrical production, though I haven¡¯t the faintest notion how some artist would manage to bewitch such a city, or, more unrealistic still, suppress his ego this long in keeping the purpose a secret. The idea is absurd, optimistic, and fanciful¡ªtruly I cannot afford to believe that¡ªthat hope, when my every instinct knows it is a sanguine lie. Still, it might be something more sinister, but not quite as damning as reemerging scions or something of that sort. Maybe some aspiring chemist has developed a new narcotic? ¡ªsomething in the water? ¡ªperhaps a contagion has begun spreading? If only it is something that simple. Even so, drugs, contaminants, and diseases do not lead to ritualistic killings¡­ or at least not inherently. Illeara shivers. As I look to her, I catch something in the corner of my eye once more. ¡­something wrong. ¡°Gon¡¯Kar, mind her,¡± I mutter as take in details of the figure. Out of sight of it, I vault the agitopede¡¯s railing on the opposite to the side, letting the vehicle keep it from seeing what I am doing, trading distance for stealth. ¡°Goot, stay,¡± I say as I slide down the vehicle¡¯s armored sidings, hearing the telltale ticks of my little friend following me; the last thing I need is an inquisitive spider at the moment. The agitopede moves past me and I adopt a casual stride, attempting to look occupied by my own matters and not fixated on the strange figure. Reaching to adjust a button buys me a couple seconds. Looking at my pocket watch adds several more. Yet, behind a mask of distraction, I take in every passive detail I can while gaining proximity at an oblique angle. The¡­ person¡ªI hope it is a person¡ªleans out from being a corner, inspecting others. The figure has a masculine form, if gaunt and wiry. Wrappings cover him¡ªI think it is a him¡ªalmost entirely, a cowl hiding the face. Satisfaction aside of having discovered confirmation of evidence, something in the way he holds himself raises my hackles. The way he looks¡ªintent, but not confrontational¡ªspeaks to me of someone searching for someone¡­ inspecting¡ªlike an an undercover guard on watch. I try to make use of the few pedestrians between us for some measure of concealment, though have little to draw upon. I maintain my indirect route, but soon the individual¡¯s attention falls on me and the figure¡ªstill though he is¡ªsomehow manages to become even less animate. I attempt to deflect. Avoiding eye contact, I raise my hand to flag down someone a ways up the thoroughfare and call out an arbitrary name. Even so, I keep my periphery on the figure. It does not work. I can sense it does not work. A moment later, gaze now wholly fixed on me, the figure begins slipping back into his alleyway. I dash toward him, forfeiting my useless pretense as I draw my sabre. ¡°Stop! Emperor¡¯s Own!¡± I shout, not expecting or getting any cooperation. I whip around the corner, revolving pistol too now in hand. Evaluating the area, however¡­ Empty. No¡­ more than that¡­ Desolate. Searching with intent now, it takes me a moment, but I find some small piece of evidence of the figure. Far from reassuring, however, it sends a shiver down my spine. A small tear of fabric is snagged between two stones of a sewer drainage opening where the sidewalk meets the road¡­ A drainage opening far too small for a person to slip into¡­ A drainage opening with vertical bars, preventing access to anything larger than a rat¡­ Yet¡­ I squat down to inspect the drain, peering in from a short distance. Even if the very notion is absurd, I should at least¡ª Something catches in the light and I look closer. Two eyes stare back, red and sharp¡ªwide enough apart to be human. For half an instant the sight freezes me, but I react before the shock sets in. I point my pistol. I fire. By the time the smoke settles, however, it is gone. I am left with only the smell of filth and cordite. I return my sabre to its scabbard, finding my hand shaking. W-what¡­? Thoughts flood my mind, disorganized and fragmented. Should I pursue? ¡ªventure into the undercity? Would it even be there when I navigated to that grate¡ªcould I even navigate to it? Should I sound the alarm? Would it not just divine its way into some other fanciful hiding place, too small for pursuit? No, what I must do is return to the chateau with Illeara, then immediately seek out Inquisitor Kadir. If my eyes can be believed, the information needs to be considered and disseminated as soon as possible. ¡­if my eyes can be believed. Why am I so shaken? I have seen far worse¡ªfar more harrowing things. What I have seen¡ªwhat I have fought¡ªin the deserts is¡­ But that is the key factor, is it not? Context. Never had I suspected I would find such a thing¡ªsuch an inscrutable, malevolent oddity¡ªin Stormwatch, of all places. This is a place where such things should not be. A bastion. A haven. But no¡­ it would seem not. Nightmare having plagued the city for weeks now, that is a notion that I should have long since reconsidered. Unnerved, I begin a retreat toward the agitopede. Turning the corner, I see the agitopede had stopped sometime after I departed, scorpion-like body lowered, but eight legs primed to be off once more. My spider, Goot, waves and I cannot help but feel some small semblance of calm renter my mind; I scratch his head as I ascend the brass stairs. ¡°Discover anything?¡± Gon¡¯Kar asks, more conversational than curious. ¡°Yes,¡± I reply, noncommittal. ¡°The nature of it, however¡­ I¡­ I will need to file a report when I get back¡ªmore than file a report, I expect.¡± Seeing Illeara, I shiver. ¡°I should want Illeara back behind the threshold of the chateau before I depart, however¡ªthe trek back will afford me the needed time to think in any case,¡± I say, the first step of a plan falling into place. Feeling my heart begin to settle, I recount my observations to Gon¡¯Kar in the manner I grew accustomed to doing with the officers back when I was in expeditionary reconnaissance. As I finish the rather short account, I drape a thin blanket over Illeara, aware I am projecting my own chills onto her; the early autumn day will be warm soon, but the morning and shade yet preserve vestiges of the night¡¯s chill. Her mouth moves with silent words, and I can only assume some iteration of the reoccurring dream affecting her has come again. I have repeatedly asked¡ªlightheartedly pestered her, even¡ªbut she pointedly refuses to reveal the nature of these dreams, undoubtedly certain that I will find these fantastical visions as amusing as the books in which she so often buries her nose. Unfortunately, she assumes my jests are serious. The reality of it is I find her whimsical spirit nothing if not positively charming. I should really be trying to make sense of what I saw, but I push it aside again, mind averse to the perplexing experience. Sitting, as no guard should do, I gaze over to Illeara. She looks so very alone there, sleeping. The feeling defies explanation most flagrantly, but the sense of vulnerable fragility¡ªthe way she tucks her legs¡ªthe way she holds herself¡­. Her bodyguard I might be, but I am powerless against dreams. Sometimes I just want to hold her¡­ to¡­. ¡°What do you suppose it was?¡± Gon¡¯Kar asks, something indiscernible to the spirit¡¯s words. The question draws me back. ¡°I do not know,¡± I reply with mechanical rigidity, only having just realized I was completely distracted from the thing in the sewer grate and not relishing the duty of returning my mind to its station. I¡ª Something else hits me. It hits me with the force of storm. Something¡­ familiar. I find myself stricken with an uncomfortable alertness, panic lacing the feeling. I look around deliberately¡­ futility. My eyes prove as useless to me in tracking this mystery as my ears might be in locating the source of a smell. The sensation resonates with irksome familiarity¡ªlike a d¨¦j¨¤ v¨¦cu of the spirit¡ªand mental buzzing begins to bloom into the distraction of panic as it evades classification. It is as if someone has struck a tuning fork within a noisy gathering: the hum proves undeniable, yet beyond the ability to be traced as crowd¡¯s voices momentarily and repeatedly match the tone and disorient the ear. ¡°Gon¡¯Kar,¡± I say, renewing the conversation. I reason that, if nothing else, I can use him as a screening board to deconstruct my ideas. ¡°It feels familiar¡ªwhatever it is.¡± ¡°Oh Rhone, you honor me with your unerring specificity,¡± he says, mockery magnified by the dryness of the tone. ¡°I find it hard to describe,¡± I reply, ignoring his sarcasm. Pausing¡ªgrinding the gears in my mind¡ªI attempt, yet again and with similar futility, to manufacture an explanation. ¡°I do not think we have the words for what I am feeling¡ªor perhaps my vocabulary is insufficient.¡± ¡°Verbose as you are, I doubt that most sincerely.¡± I laugh, unable to help myself. ¡°I¡ª¡± It comes to me in a snap instant, something triggering the memory, and I shiver. The desert. Blood. Bodies. Haven in a dilapidated temple. I know what it is now. I sense an Ellestra Allmy nearby.