By the time we leave the Flower District, the practitioner squadron has put an end to the chaos. Despite our combined efforts, the district is an unrecognizable warzone: of the scarce flora still alive, most is uprooted or partially destroyed. The formerly-verdant lawn has entirely turned into a blackened mud pit, while the shops on the main boulevard have all sustained critical damage.

Thankfully, Aunt Julia and I seem to have been able to protect most people on the surface, though I do notice one or two corpses off in the distance. Below, though, on the lower level...I’d rather not think of what kind of damage the corrupted plants sowed, how many lives they reaped. I briefly consider going down to investigate and amass Death energy, but table the idea for the moment.

One of the six practitioners, an officer named Eugenia Frasia, takes us to the consulate for a debrief. As a wind elementalist, she’s able to move agilely through the city. I assure her we can keep up, and so we quickly proceed to the consulate building.

“Since you both were at the scene before anyone else, you’re valuable witnesses. I’ve been instructed to take you both to the Captain.” She leads us through the consulate gates, the doorman bowing his head in deference to our party. Eugenia stalks through the pathway leading to the front door with purpose: it seems like she’s eager to leave and search for the culprit behind the Flower District attack.

“Come in,” Conningway’s familiar voice calls out, muted behind the closed door of her office.

Eugenia turns around and gestures for us to enter. “Again, thank you both for intervening when you did. You’ve both doubtlessly saved numerous lives.” She gives us each a meaningful look before proceeding back toward the exit.

Aunt Julia and I meet eyes, then nod; I open the door and step through the threshold. Conningway is waiting in her chair, her eyes puffy, as though she hasn’t gotten much sleep.

“Good morning,” she says, gesturing to the two empty seats in front of her. “Take a seat.”

“Are these seats new?” The words pop out of my mouth before I can stop them. I’ve seen Conningway’s office enough times to be surprised by new furniture.

She gives me a look. “They are, yes. Like them?”

I clear my throat. Not particularly. “They’re quite shiny.”

When we sit down, Aunt Julia kicks me lightly under the table.

“Captain Conningway,” Julia begins, her hands clasped in front of her. She exudes the aura of an executive, her voice clear and refined. “I believe you have questions for us.”

“Yes. First off, I want to know what brought you foreigners to the Flower District at such an early hour.”

After interacting with Conningway in the past, I see no reason to be completely dishonest.

“We’ve been tracing a necromancer who we suspect has been using his affinity to torture and kill people for their souls. We have reasons to believe he has been hiding in Menocht and are also fairly confident he’s behind this morning’s attack in the Flower District.”

“A necromancer?” Conningway repeats, bristling. I figure that if she hates decemancers so much in the Menocht loop, she must hate necromancers all the more.

“Yes, a necromancer,” Aunt Julia affirms. “As Julian here was explaining, we were investigating the whereabouts of the necromancer. We believed him to be hiding in the Flower District, and thus conducted our investigation there. Unfortunately, not only were we unable to find him, but he managed to activate a trap that encompassed the entire district, potentially facilitating his own escape, or destroying evidence of habitation and ritual practice.”

I hadn’t considered that the plant trap might have multiple uses as an attack, distraction, and evidence-eliminator.

“During the chaos of the ambush our companion disappeared without a trace,” Julia continued. “We’re still not sure what happened. We’d like to see footage of the Flower District during the attack, anything that might help us figure out what happened.”

Conningway nods slowly. “Hmm...very well. You wouldn’t normally be able to see the glosscam footage without first going through a few bureaucratic hoops, but Y’jeni, we’re living in crazy times: might as well go now.”

Conningway heads out of her office and down a long hallway, leading us into an unfamiliar room filled with old glosscomp workstations and several individuals in uniform. They salute Conningway as she enters, and soon the captain has made her way over to a glosscomp station in the middle of the room. She drags her glossY over the comp, unlocking it and pulling up a list of applications.

Conningway is quickly able to find the latest video clip. After a few minutes of trying to track down the moment the plants go haywire, she plays the footage in real time.

Her expression is unreadable as she watches Aunt Julia and I zip in and out of the camera’s focus, destroying plant monstrosities as we go.

“There,” Aunt Julia intones harshly. Conningway stops the footage two minutes into the battle.

“Please rewind five seconds, then play at a tenth of the normal speed,” she murmurs, eyes narrowed in focus.

The three of us are hovering stationary in the air while Aunt Julia and I dish out damage. Germaine, meanwhile, appears to be observing the battle, her eyes darting all around. I wonder offhandedly if even then, amongst all the chaos, she’s still searching for a lead on the necromancer.

Aunt Julia and I both see what comes next at the same time. The flash of a dark robe flits across the screen, careening straight into Germaine. Instead of headbutting her, however, the figure tackles her into an embrace before disappearing outside the glosscam’s field of vision.

Conningway pauses the video a few frames too late, and rewinds the footage again.

“It’s another vessel,” Aunt Julia breathes, shaking her head slowly.

“It probably came from the underground...and from Germaine’s direction. We were all facing away from her, so it wouldn’t have been outrageous for you not to notice. But I was controlling her armor!”

“I think that it was probably after you, Julian, but grabbed Germaine instead. The three of us were all wearing your armor and surrounded by Death energy. And if Germaine was the first person in its path...it might have taken her instead.”

I don’t find anything objectionable about Aunt Julia’s logic. However, she still hasn’t answered my question.

I say each word slowly and deliberately. “How did I not notice her disappearance?”

“That’s what I’m still trying to determine,” Aunt Julia sighs, her brow furrowed. I can’t see her use Beginning affinity, but the intensity in her eyes leaves no question that she’s running auguries.

Conningway looks between the two of us. “I have some experience fighting necromancers. From what I understand, the strongest among them can create vessels from the souls of humans. And if they take the soul of a practitioner, they can sometimes create vessels with unique characteristics.”

My mind immediately jumps to the obfuscation effect on the vessel. I’d thought it was the sort of thing a Dark practitioner would cast, but had justified that its power was the result of the array’s inscrutable inscriptions. But what if its power had come from elsewhere...perhaps, from the tortured, devoured woman herself?

“That’s it. If I factor in the vessel with the powers of a Remorse practitioner, what we observe is feasible.” Aunt Julia turns toward me. “I suspect that the array on this vessel isn’t one of obfuscation, but of confounding: interfering with someone’s perception to prevent them from noticing something abnormal. Even under the effect, you would’ve normally noticed Germaine’s absence after a few seconds, but since you were distracted by combat, it probably would have taken longer.”

Conningway continues to let the video play. Seventeen seconds later, Aunt Julia notices Germaine’s disappearance.

“Is there any other footage that might have captured the vessel’s path through the city?” I ask.

Conningway rubs her forehead. “Technically yes; but unfortunately, there’s no way for us to quickly process the camera footage when we’re looking for just a few frames showing a thin vessel slipping through the shadows. We’ll find out eventually, but it could take weeks.”

When the Captain takes us back to the office after watching the end of the clip, I sense a sort of tension that wasn’t present before. She asks us a few more questions, but I can tell her words are carefully chosen, as though she’s nervous how we’ll react. She didn’t show it while watching the video footage, but I suspect that she’s afraid of me.

Or, knowing Conningway, more likely disgusted.

—

After we make an appointment to report to the consulate the next day, Aunt Julia and I return to the hotel to reconsider our strategy. It’s quiet on the way back; while 7:30 am is early for a Saturday, I suspect people are staying in out of fear. The Flower District incident isn’t a secret, especially for people in the neighboring districts: They would have heard the screams, seen the smoke.

Aunt Julia dusts ash from her sleeve. “If I knew you’d be disconsolate, I would’ve told you to leave her behind.”

My head snaps up. “I’m not disconsolate. I’m disappointed.”

“Even if you prepare for seemingly every contingency, nephew, you might still fail if you don’t understand the enemy.”

I roll my eyes. “So there’s always a chance of failure, is that what you mean to say? It’s a high bar to understand anyone, let alone a hostile practitioner. Might as well just lock everyone I care about away, then, since I can’t protect them. Is that your advice?”

Aunt Julia snorts. “Stop projecting. First, I was going to point out the merits of surrounding yourself with keen allies, people who will round out your flaws. There are numerous practitioners who focus not on combat, but on intelligence-gathering. Second, I was going to remind you that family–and political connections–can help protect the people you care about. As a peak practitioner, it’s critical you internalize this point.”

I’ve already thought about her second point considerably, ever since meeting Euryphel. Just what would it mean to go to the SPU in the capacity of a decemancer?

“Sorry. I’m just–I don’t know how to explain it. I haven’t felt so antsy since I first entered the school layer,” I chuckle bitterly. “I feel like I should be doing something.”

“Going after her.”

I give Aunt Julia a sidelong glance. “Yes.”

She hums thoughtfully. “I don’t fault you for wanting to find her, but a few hours after disappearing, it’s most likely already too late.” She reaches out and gives my arm a squeeze, her fingers recoiling slightly at the ridges of my bone armor. “Don’t think I didn’t notice how tense you were in the beginning, when we first left with the officer for the consulate.”

I give her an icy smile. “Tense?”

“It’s not weak to want to go after her. Nor is it callous to stay behind.”

“I feel guilty: for letting her be taken, and for not following in pursuit.”

At this point, we’re nearly to the hotel. Aunt Julia tugs my arm in a different direction, extending our journey by a block.

“Nephew...you’re powerful, but not invincible. The more time I spend with you, the more apparent this becomes, no offense intended.”

“None taken.”

“Have you ever fought against a Remorse practitioner before?”

I consider her words for a moment. Would Ajun’ra intruding on my dreams count?

“No.”

She sighs. “I shouldn’t have assumed anything, considering your unique circumstances. Most everyone at your level will have trained themselves specifically to deal with Remorse practitioners. There are tricks to realizing when you’re being influenced, and items that can help to defend against attacks, if you find your aptitude for mental defense inadequate.”

“If I’d have had this kind of experience, would I have noticed Germaine being spirited away?”

Aunt Julia hesitates. “It all depends on the power of the practitioner, and your natural talent for mental defense. But considering that the enemy here is a vessel, rather than a live person...almost certainly.”

“Good to know for the future, I guess.”

We finally find ourselves facing the hotel’s facade.

“I’m going to change clothes,” Aunt Julia explains. “I smell like I’ve just returned from war, which isn’t altogether inaccurate. I’ll meet you shortly to plan our next move.”

—

I return to my room and collapse on the bed. Despite keeping myself artificially energized, my limbs feel like lead; I have the urge to sleep, as though after doing so I’ll wake to a world where the morning was just a nightmare. I should probably strip and take a shower, but don’t have the will to get up.

My gaze falls upon the deactivated obfuscation vessel. With a surge of hatred, I focus the Death energy I’ve accumulated into a churning ball of black, oily flame, flinging it towards the inscribed wood.

When my energy makes contact, the vessel seems to respond, as though revived from death by a fairytale kiss. It jolts to a seated position, its head hanging slightly limp.

I realize that compared to how much energy the vessel had when I captured it at the Bridoc Yacht Club, I have enough raw energy to fully fuel it four-times over.

There’s the question of morality involved: the vessel is the product of an unusually cruel ritual. Moreover, the key component of the vessel–its ability to channel an obfuscation effect–is only possible because of a direct and continuous use of the woman’s petrified soul, still embedded in the crook of the vessel’s neck. Repurposing the wooden construct for my own ends feels like I’m dirtying my hands by dipping them in someone else’s permanent stain.

I grit my teeth.

She isn’t real.

I repeat the words in my head like a mantra, to the point where I’m not sure if I’m saying them for the tortured woman, or Germaine, or both.

With each recitation, the vessel floods with more energy, its conduits seemingly filled to the point of breaking. It twitches and writhes as though shocked.

I barely notice the door opening behind me.

“...Should I have knocked?” Aunt Julia asks. I turn around, realizing that I probably look a bit crazed.

I cut off the stream of energy and cough lightly. “You cleaned up quickly.”

Aunt Julia raises an eyebrow. “On the contrary, it’s been almost an hour since I left. You need to wash up, then we can talk.”

I cover my face with my hands, massaging my eyes. “Fine.”

Taking a morning shower makes the new day more real.

When I look in the mirror and begin to comb back my hair, my thoughts once more wander to Germaine. I close my eyes.

Today...is a day of reckoning.