Our assemblage of monsters and mortals is arrayed within what I can only really think of as the heart of the temple, its innermost sanctum. Murals line the stone walls, and the gnarled roots of the great tree twist down to gently grace the surface of a shimmering pool. I’ve been here once before, and much of the scenery still captures my interest, but there are more important things to pay attention to now.

Esha’s people have set up a quaint little conference for us: white tables and an exact number of chairs spaced apart just right to avoid lending a sense of undue importance to any one grouping–though the Myriad’s representatives are, of course, the ones closest to the pool of light. Avaya’ari and her pet husks are seated across from the priestess and her bodyguard, staring each other down.

Most of these people I’ve seen before, but one camp is new: a human and two kobolds (Cheshire whispers confirmation in my ear) that must be the Machinist’s people. The kobolds are both adorable little lizard-dog-people with floppy ears, one covered in red scales and the other in blue scales. The human is whatever, who cares, looks like a dude. They’re all wearing some kind of work uniform with a hammer and gear symbol on it, and the red kobold is disassembling and reassembling some little piece of clockwork while the human takes notes.

Once everyone has settled in, there’s a bit of preamble where Achaia introduces everyone and establishes that three of the groups present will be acting as proxies for their key-holding masters. Then, once that’s done, the priestess rises from her chair and starts the summit with a speech.

“I thank you all for making the journey here and choosing to treat with us in good faith. This is a difficult time for our city, and we all have a stake in what is to come. You have all seen the Beast’s proclamation, and you all know what it means: an end to the bitter feuding that has afflicted this Sanctuary for so many long years.”

I watch the others carefully and try not to give anything away through my own body language or facial expressions. This is a learning opportunity. The better I understand my opponents, the easier it will be to kill them all.

“But feuding has not always been our relationship,” Esha continues. “Before this conflict, before the dollmaker, before Contrition, the great powers of this city came together to forge the Fourfold Compact. We of the Myriad aligned ourselves with those of the Machinist’s Guild, the King’s Carnival, and the Coiners, and together we formed an alliance that was greater than the sum of its parts. I speak to you today in the spirit of that now dissolved alliance of peers, in the hopes that we may reclaim some semblance of what was lost.”

The werewolf and the hunter look bored. The imp of Glory rolls her eyes. The imp of Malice is still and unreadable, waiting patiently and watching the competition like I am. Our eyes meet for a moment, but neither of us betray our careful neutrality.

“Our people worked in harmony to make this city safer and happier for everyone, and it took the arrival of two great threats to disrupt the balance of power and see the old pact discarded. It has been some time since we stood together, but I believe that unity is still an achievable dream. It is my sincere wish that we may speak as peers and together find a peaceable resolution to this atrocious Game of Glass.”

Averrich’s followers seem skeptical of that wish, while the Machinist’s followers seem only half paying attention, but it’s Vaylin’s minion who seizes the natural pause to speak up.

“Peace,” Avaya’ari starts, voice drawling and full of mockery, “is a lie. There is only conflict. This is the first and most essential of the Adversary’s teachings. This is the truth of the Abyss that waits to swallow us all. How can you even begin to defy such a fundamental force of the universe?”

Esha’s face, serene and passionate as she spoke, tightens at the imp’s interruption. “You have been allowed into this conference on the condition that you behave, Avaya. Pray hold your bluster ‘till introductions have been made, at the very least.”

The defiler smiles, clearly enjoying herself. “Well, I would hate to be an unwelcome guest.”

Imlashi interrupts before either party can say more. “Unwelcome indeed. Why have you allowed her here, Esha? It is her very master who is half the cause of the rift between our camps. Surely, if this meeting is to be held in good faith, any representative of the Voidhearts should be excluded.”

“I understand your concerns,” the priestess assures her, “and I have many of my own. But Avaya has agreed to terms, and I will not throw away an opportunity to influence Vaylin through her lieutenant. Would your master not gain from insight into the machinations of that fiend?”

Avaya smirks, and Imlashi crosses her arms but doesn’t object further.

Kado, however, leans forward and says, “The defiler has a point, unwelcome though she may be. There’s no peace to be found here, Esha, much as you wish otherwise. Vaylin won’t surrender her shard, Averrich won’t surrender his, and I’d bet much the same about the wizard, the necromancer, and that demon you’ve taken an inexplicable fancy to. So why are we really here?”

Esha seems disappointed at that, but not surprised. “While peace is still my ultimate goal, I understand that some may find it… unrealistic. We can, however, work to make this horrible conflict less disastrous for this city and its people–including ourselves and each other. I understand that some of you are motivated by practical considerations moreso than moral ones, so allow me to speak to your sense of pragmatism: you cannot rule over ashes. If you annihilate each other in total war, you will leave nothing left for the victor. So let us be measured, if nothing else, and slaughter each other with some civility. Does that strike a chord?”

There is clear bitterness to the end of her speech, and a part of me can’t help but feel bad for Esha. Do her thoughts stray to the Beast’s prophecy of failure? Has she accepted that prophecy, or is she still struggling against the tide?

Avaya laughs under her breath, the sound almost too soft to hear. The Machinist’s followers seem more interested now, and the blue one nods. Kado and Imlashi share a look, and then Imlashi sighs and says, “Fine. We’ll hear you out, Esha, and we can talk terms. But that doesn’t erase the objections we have–not just to the Voidheart, but to the demon Alice.”

“One at a time,” I say with a smile. “I can wait my turn. I’m not really partial to all the details of your beef with the defiler, but I’ll raise no fuss if you decide to throw her out.”

The human at the guild table raises a hand and adds, “Proper procedure is important. We should process these in sequence.”

Esha looks between us all with her blindfolded gaze and says, “Very well. The King’s Carnival delegation may present its objections to Avaya’ari’s presence at this council.”

Imlashi opens her mouth to say something, but Gretchen cuts her off and pounds a fist on the table. “Her boss ruined your precious Compact,” the werewolf snarls, “and she helped.”

Avaya laughs, louder this time. “Please, you ruined that all on your own. Averrich jumped at the excuse to prey on his neighbors, and the Machinist crept into the corner and let it happen. You know I’m right, and so does she; it’s nothing that Esha hasn’t thought before, lying awake at night watching the city fall apart around her. Am I wrong, priestess?”

“We have all made decisions we regret,” Esha replies diplomatically, not explicitly denying Avaya’s claims. “But I am willing to forgive past transgressions by everyone in this room if it means charting a better course forward, and I would ask for that same grace from you.”

The defiler quickly adds, “Besides, I was a signatory to the old Compact. It’s only right I attend this spiritual successor.”

Kado clears his throat and says, “Let’s set aside the imp, then, and talk about the bigger threat: the demon that sits comfortably in our midst.”

Avaya leans forward with a grin and rests her chin on her hand. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t that one of the two cheaters castigated by our dear Beast? Ah, it’s funny, I can’t quite recall who the other cheater was.”

Kado, Gretchen, and Imlashi are all clearly annoyed at that and itching to fire back, but I don’t let them. I say quickly, “When I was taken into Averrich’s lair, he practically confessed his foreknowledge of the death game to me, and the existence of his patron. In fact, he called Kasumi by name. I knew nothing about the Game of Glass before my encounter with Averrich, I’ll swear that by the Weaver. Can your faction say the same? Will any of you take that oath?”

Imlashi evades my question and insists, “That’s not what this is about. We’re not objecting to your knowledge, we’re objecting to the deal you made with a faerie of Summer. You sold your name to Eirdryd Lewellyn, and he still has that leverage over you. Will you swear against that accusation?”

Shit. They have me there. Okay, pushing the oath line was a big mistake. My silence is answer enough, and Imlashi pushes further.

“Eirdryd is a known contact of Invernus, the Lord of Grandeur and Shame. Given that Invernus has sponsored Maven’s entry into the Game of Glass and has been accused of interfering with the integrity of the event, I believe we can infer what interference he really performed. She is compromised.”

Avaya takes an interest at that, musing, “One Noble holding the reins of another, how intriguingly unprecedented. Can glass be tamed, or has Invernus unwittingly betrayed himself to a fresh rival’s wrath? Either way, what spectacular fireworks.”

But you know I’m not aiming for the shard, not really. You’re counting on that. How do you feel about our bargain, now that you know the sword hanging above my neck? I suppress a shiver of uncertainty.

Esha seems troubled, even sparing me a glance, but defends me to the others. “I will remind you all that little is known about the transformation to Nobility. It is entirely possible that it would free her of the name’s binding, as Avaya speculates. Even if it does not, a name is not an insurmountable shackle.”

Avaya raises an eyebrow. “Is that a risk you’re so willing to take? My, you must have quite the interest in seeing that demon lose her shadow.”

Imlashi narrows her eyes. “It does seem that you’ve staked an endorsement, Esha.”

I tap sharpened nails against my table and curl my lip. “None of this matters, understand? My conflict with Eirdryd and Invernus is a matter for another day, because I have no intention of claiming the Beast’s shard. Sorry, Esha, but I think now you understand more of my reluctance.”

Esha slowly nods, expression still tumultuous. The Averrich camp give me skeptical looks.

I turn to Dante—who has so far been trying very hard not to get involved—and say, “Here, I’ll show you.” I hold out my left hand, the hand that the Beast marked with my fragment of the shard’s key, and I focus on that memory to draw it out. The rune of light hovers over my hand, and then I grasp Dante’s hand and will the key fragment to travel into him. The rune moves, the light traces itself on the back of Dante’s hand, and then the key is gone.

My gaze darts across the room, hunting for reactions: Avaya’s satisfied smirk, Esha’s disappointment, and the surprise of Carnival and Guild. Only once I’ve logged all their faces do I actually look at Dante to see how he’s faring. The poor boy seems very uncomfortable with the fresh attention, for which I can’t blame him (also, it’s kind of my fault).

Before he can crumble under the pressure, I step in to take back everyone’s focus. “There, now my bargains are of no concern to the rest of you. And, if you care, I’ve demonstrated that key fragments can be passed on nonviolently. Doesn’t that seem relevant to our little conference about minimizing harm? So go on, get to talking.”

Avaya leans back in her chair and comments, “Well, there’s a sight. I must say though, if you’re not a keyholder and you’re not representing a keyholder, why exactly should you be part of this meeting? Unless you want to officially declare yourself in Esha’s pocket, that is. Because otherwise, you really have no part of this meeting.”

She’s projecting hostility to disguise our budding alliance, and she’s trusting me not to take it personally, either by judgment call or just following my lead from earlier. Interesting.

Outside my thoughts, I glare at the imp and respond, “I’m here as Dante’s bodyguard, actually, if you want to take that route. Dante?”

The boy coughs and nods. “Yes, uh, yes, that’s right.” Man, you are not making a good impression on these people. Maybe that’s a good thing though, if he seems weak they’ll go for him and I can eat them up.

For good measure, I add, “I’m also the only scion in the room, which makes me the strongest person here. If you have your doubts about that, just ask Averrich’s pets. I’m part of this.” Kado and Gretchen look uneasy at my comment, while Imlashi gives me an ugly look.

Esha claps her hands together and says, “I’ll have no further debate of this. Maven was invited and has every right to be here as an independent.”

Imlashi pushes back. “It’s a farce to let her declare herself as an independent, her and the boy, when we all know you’ve got your hooks in them.”

Avaya yawns. “Is your best argument pedantry, Imlashi? My, how you’ve fallen. Let’s just get to the point of all this, shall we? We’re all here and we’re all taking part, so let’s talk terms. What restrictions are you seeking to put on us, Esha?”

That marks a distinct shift in the conversation, and from there I start to lost interest. They delve into details of definitions and locations and people, and I just can’t bring myself to care. My attention wanders before my mind can glaze over.

Off to the side of the room, slurping along the ground, I see Bubbles the soap slime! Their blobby form oozes and undulates as they dutifully slide over every inch of the chamber, leaving behind a sparkly sheen of fresh cleanliness. They are a fascinating creature to watch, and my thoughts stray to the implications of their existence (because I am a dumb nerd who overthinks things).

From my first talk with Esha, I know that Bubbles is considered “kindred,” which is a type of retainer like imps are for the Throne of Shadow. Bubbles used to be an ordinary human, but they renounced their humanity and made a pact with an eidolon, a kind of small god like the Myriad hold allegiance to. In their life before the Labyrinth, they spent all their time cleaning public infrastructure, and now they spend their time cleaning this “community center.”

There’s something compelling about ambitions that run so contrary to my own. Here is someone who sacrificed their humanity not for great power or authority but to become a servant for all of time. Their form is optimized for performing a specific task that helps others, and seems distinctly not optimized for taking advantage of normal human interests. Is that a cost they paid, or something they sought out?

Bubbles, from my limited interaction with the slime creature, appears to be very shy. They also appear very content with their life of endless cleaning, something I would personally find abhorrent and soul-crushing. I wonder if I would find most of the Myriad to be… upsettingly content. How can they find meaning in a life like that? How can anyone?

Avaya’ari sold her soul to a monster for an eternity of violence and blasphemy. Bashekehi hates his lot as an imp of Indulgence, but that’s because he’s an idiot who can’t appreciate getting what’s usually the best type of fiend in fantasy. And Imlashi, well, I don’t know much about Glory’s imps, but she has a “worship me” spell so that’s pretty damn appealing. Compare that to being a slime forever.

It probably says something very obvious about me that despite having nearly entirely negative encounters with shadowtouched and nearly entirely positive encounters with spiritbound, I still find the horrible monsters more attractive to think of becoming. But then, I guess that’s why Nyara offered me a geist rather than an eidolon.

…Am I a bad person?

Yes, obviously, comes the immediate reply. This isn’t a fucking debate, we have an entire personal history to draw a conclusion from even before you decided that eating people was poggers and based.

I roll my eyes. Aggro much? It’s just a question, chill.

Don’t ask the question if you’re not prepared for the response. I get you’re trying to do your philosophically contemplative thing, but there’s no room for ambiguity here. You’re a selfish, petty, megalomaniacal asshole.

I slump a little in my seat and sigh under my breath. The cleaning slime oozes along. I just want to be happy. Is that so wrong?

Yes, I reply bluntly. I think we’ve established pretty solidly that you do not deserve happiness and never have. Now stop moping and do what we came here for.

Right, yeah, the meeting. I probably shouldn’t be tuning it out, and normally I’d be all over weird legal bullshit, but it’s just so hard to care when I don’t expect any of this to go anywhere.

I do a quick sweep of the room. Esha and Imlashi are arguing about something, Avaya is egging them on, Achaia looks grumpy, Kado and Gretchen look bored, the husk-dolls look mindless, and why the fuck are there only two people sitting at the Guild’s table?

“Cheshire,” I whisper, “where did the red kobold go?”

“What? When did—something’s not right.” I hear an edge of panic creep into my geist’s voice. “I should have noticed if they got up and left, they must have used a spell or an artifact.”

I tense up, all sloth burning away. I was so focused on the threats I knew about, I didn’t even think about the Guild being the ones to stab first. What are they hiding? What’s their plan?

I flicker on soul sight and immediately I’m met with a terrifying sight: the human and the blue kobold are both streaked through with lines of black lamentation. Except, they’re not exactly like Esha’s lines, or Averrich’s lines, or any of the Reveler’s minions.

They’re close in substance to the lines of lamentation I saw in Esha, cold-burning and miserable, but they’re somehow darker and more painful. They’re close in form to Averrich’s lines, spreading like veins, but there’s an odd sense that they’ve grown over the host soul rather than through it, digging in with grasping roots but not properly integrating. And when I follow the lines, they lead deeper inside the soul, to a malevolent heart that pulsates like a sick, ugly tumor.

“They’re infected,” I hiss.

“By the pool!” Cheshire shouts, and mine isn’t the only gaze to travel there; everyone in the room must have heard that, because they all turn and look.

The red kobold is at the edge of the glowing pool, that clockwork device in hand, twisting gears and pushing in pieces. On instinct I reach out a hand and call up my summoning spell, but I cut myself off at a sudden terrifying thought: the truce. If I attack the kobold before they do whatever they’re about to do, will the Beast retaliate?

Achaia doesn’t hold any such reservations, the warrior woman surging from her seat and lunging for the kobold with outstretched hand, but she freezes in place just inches away. Bright blue electricity crackles around her in patterns reminiscent of chains, and a swift glance to the side sees the other kobold, the blue one, holding a second device, this one sleeker and with an azure gemstone set in the center of it.

The red kobold finishes their work and the mass of clockwork condenses into a cube of bronze that then blackens and disintegrates, and from the collapsing cube emerges a wave of dark energy. The wave passes over me and for a moment I feel despair clawing at the edges of my thoughts, a dark and terrible hunger that repulses me and snags my attention in equal measure, and then it’s gone. The wave moves past me, past everyone, and vanishes beyond the walls of the chamber.

Avaya is already sprinting for the blue kobold before the wave has even left the room. The imp draws her black blade and shouts, “[Killing Edge]!” with a jubilant tone. The sword is wreathed in red light and she brings it down on the kobold, carving through flesh and bone like it isn’t even there. The two halves of the kobold fall to the ground, gore steaming. Avaya swings her sword around and smashes it into the device the kobold was holding, shattering the gemstone.

The stasis breaks around Achaia and she reorients herself, the red kobold having darted away as soon as the wave went off. Esha points her staff and cries out, “[Restraining Light]!” and bands of golden energy manifest around the running kobold and bind their legs and arms. Achaia moves toward the kobold, but Avaya gets there first and beheads the red with another brutal swing.

Two corpses on the ground, and the human is nowhere to be seen. Silence reigns, and there’s a moment of tension, bated breath as the hunters and the Myriad both look at Avaya expecting a bolt of divine retribution.

But it doesn’t come.

Avaya laughs at our confusion and rests her blade. “That wily bitch. Haven’t seen the loophole yet? It’s all in the wordplay: ‘any keyholder, subordinate, or ally against any other.’ The Guild doesn’t have a key fragment, and they’re clearly not your ally anymore… so they’re free to attack and be attacked by any of us, truce be damned.”

Esha rubs her forehead. “But why this? Why now? And what did—”

A terrible, awful, familiar wail crashes through the building and silences the priestess. It’s a wail that carries the anguish of a lost child, the solemnity of a funeral dirge, and the despair that precedes a knife turned inward.

This is the call of the Mourner, and it’s close.

Immediately, everyone else starts to panic. Esha practically stumbles over herself getting to the edge of the pool, Achaia right beside her with a terrified expression. Imlashi, Kado, and Gretchen back away with looks of horror, though Kado spares me a single glance of uncertainty. Even Avaya looks concerned, her gaze darting to the nearest exit.

Esha slams her staff down at the water’s edge and shouts, “[Sanctuary]!” A barrier of light springs to life around her and shields both the pool below and the roots above, sectioning off that end of the chamber. “Please, you must keep it from reaching the well or we are all doomed! It will kill this entire city.”

I can taste their fear. It wafts from Esha and Achaia like a bouquet of dread, deep and pungent. It spills from Imlashi, Kado, Gretchen, Avaya, and some from poor Dante beside me, though he doesn’t truly understand what he’s meant to fear. They’re all terrified of the monster that broke the Contrite, a foe that none of them know how to fight.

But I’ve killed its cousin, and I’m hungry for more.

A grin splits my face, and manic energy bubbles in my chest and out my throat in wild laughter. I pull Vorpal from my soul and twirl the blade as I push out of my seat and step into the center of the room, looking around for any sign of the Mourner’s approach. Revenge. It’s time for revenge. It’s time to make you pay.

“Cheshire!” I call through fits of laughter. “Contagion protocol. Merge with me and be ready.”

New scents join the aroma of fear: the Myriad, unnerved by my laughter; the hunters, facing confirmation of what happened to their pet monster. Avaya watches me with the most intrigued expression on her face.

My geist, my changeling, my other half flows into me and fills me, and once again we are one being, one demon, one wonderful monster. The sensation of her soul mingling with mine is a high as good as any drug, and I exult in the strength and power of our union. We are powerful, and we are hungry, and we are not going to let this worm humiliate us again.

The wail echoes again, closer, almost here, and I’m salivating from the fear in the room. They’re like frightened children. I laugh—we laugh—and drink it all in.

We call to the others, “Run, if you’re scared. Stay and watch, if you want a show.”

The eagerness is boiling in our veins, that lovely manic energy magnified by the euphoria of our gestalt form. This will be a slaughter. Almost a game. We can kill it, and it can’t kill us.

So let’s play with our food.

We banish Vorpal and let the essence of change flow through our body and awaken our true potential. Last time was a simple wolf, but we are capable of so much more. This is our grand debut, after all. We banish our hat and shades, our boots and leggings, even our dress and underclothes so that none of them can be damaged by the transformation. We stand in the hall naked and unarmed, but our body is smooth like a doll and we feel no shame.

The change starts at the tips of our limbs and spreads upward. Hands become claws and feet become talons, twisting into seamless killing instruments, both composed of fine porcelain sharpened to a lethal edge and strengthened to be as steel. Bones lengthen and doll-like skin cracks and tears at the joints, shard edges exposing glistening red flesh. Our limbs were delicate before, but now they’re too long, too thin, almost skeletal.

Our torso stretches, porcelain shattering to reveal meat and bone like teeth and bloody gums. Our jaw cracks and unhinges, grin widening and new fangs filling our mouth. A crown of white horns pushes through our skull, bloody at the base, and white hair falls loose around our face, stained red at the roots.

When the Mourner bursts through the far wall and comes swirling into the chamber, we are ready in all our glory.

We pounce on the diaphanous mass of pale blue fabric, our laughter echoing around the room. Our claws grasp at a thousand ethereal ribbons, each point of contact sending fresh waves of contradictory sensory information: grief and sloth and despair like poison in my veins coursing through my thoughts and—blinding pain ripping into my chest my lungs my very core—ecstasy and relief and the warmth of—failure and misery, hope stolen and snuffed—agony building and building and building—deep, blissful satisfaction like—unfit to breathe, unfit to feel—fire in my veins, my breath—bright ecstasy, exultation—all my fault, all my fault, all my—it hurts it hurts it hurts make it stop make it—more, more, I need more, give me—

Cloth tears and I’m thrown from the Mourner—the dark, the deep, I’m drowning—to slam against the wall. The mural cracks—I can feel it splintering, I’m in so many pieces—and I hit the ground hard, breath stolen from false lungs—the thrill, the joy, the hunger—and head full of fog.

Despair, pain, euphoria. Despair, pain, euphoria. Too much sensation, too overwhelming, too all-consuming. We’re laughing, we can’t stop laughing. A scream, a wail, that horrible thing. It’s still alive. It needs to die.

I—we—rise on claws and talons, feral, animalistic. The Mourner is reduced, dwindling, but it still has enough of itself to wrap ethereal fabric around Dante, the only person in the room too paralyzed or too brave to stay in reach of the monster.

It has him caught and bound, arms unable to reach his sword. Its theater mask leers down at him, those eyes of pitch and frowning mouth. I can see his face growing dull, eyes fluttering, shoulders slumping. He doesn’t have much time.

We leap again, going straight for the mask, teeth bared and biting. Contact—despair—pain—euphoria—and our fangs tear at the back of the mask. Black mist envelops us—despair, pain, euphoria—and rots away the monster’s last essence.

The Mourner collapses, slain, and drops our companion. We yearn to rip and tear and take our fill, but the boy is too important. We need his wish, and we made a deal. We will not let him die here.

“[Feast or Famine]: scalpel the rot.” We bound over to the fallen Dante and press a clawed finger to his chest, porcelain easily tearing through cloth. Black mist gathers at the tip and flows over his skin as we carve a clean line. Pain and satisfaction bloom once more within our mind, but it is a far lesser concoction to the maddening elixir of the Mourner.

Through soul sight, we see the taint spreading, visible through his witch’s shroud. With sight and spell we carve the rot wherever we find it, cutting with care and precision, splinters of sacrifice and surgery. Little by little, we excise the corruption.

When the last trace is gone, we sigh and sink back. Cheshire flows out of me, my body returning to its doll-like state, and I am just Alice once more, exhausted from the constant oscillation of feelings. To flow through pain and satisfaction like that so many times is maddening, and I need to breathe. My lungs are obsolete, my form not sustained by oxygen in any way, but I just need to feel the air.

Dante breathes too, lying on the ground in front of me. His shroud is frayed, and I catch glimpses of pain and fear and cold reality. Now he understands the true horror of this world we’re all trapped in.

The others step forth, finally daring to approach. First Avaya, keen-eyed and smiling, with Esha and Achaia close behind, the hunters last and still brimming with delectable fear. It’s Imlashi, though, who asks the question they must all be wondering: “How did you kill it? How can you kill those things without being corrupted?”

I laugh at her and grin. “‘Cause I’m better than you.”

Esha kneels at Dante’s side, pensive. “It’s hard to perceive, something blocking me, but… I don’t sense any corruption on him, either.”

Avaya towers over them both, looking down with those red eyes gleaming. “Not a trace. Completely clean.”

Dante starts to sit up and has to steady himself but manages to look around. “What happened? What was that? I—I’ve never felt anything that awful.” His voice is a little blurry, he sounds scrambled.

“They call it a Mourner,” I tell him, “and it’s a piece of a piece of Katoptris. A cast-off incarnation of lamentation that drives people mad with despair. Usually, its touch is inescapable poison to anyone. But, I’m not a very usual girl. I can kill them, and their Reveler cousins, and I can cleanse the corruption from the freshly infected.” I turn my gaze on Esha and tilt my head. “Can’t do anything about late stage, though. Sorry, priestess.”

Esha stiffens, and the hunters look at her with sudden shock. Dante still seems confused, and Avaya’s expression is inscrutable, but Achaia puts an arm protectively around the priestess.

“Then you didn’t know,” I say at Imlashi and her helpers, “that Esha’s soul is stained with some of the same corruption as your boss?”

Imlashi’s eyes go wider and she steps forward, speaking with a mix of anger and panic. “What did you just say?”

“Oh. Oh, that’s interesting. So you didn’t know about him, either?” I grin at the imp with fangs bared. “Well, this is all kinds of a day. Yes, your master’s soul is shot through with euphoria, and Esha’s is laced with both that and lamentation. Though, I will say, she seems to be managing it much better than Averrich is.”

Esha looks pained at that, and she lets out a weary sigh. “This… is not how I wished for that information to spread.”

Imlashi stares at Esha with dawning horror. “So… it’s true. You and he… you’re both corrupt.”

I tilt my head. “How have you not noticed? You’ve got sight, you’re around him all the time.”

To my surprise, it’s Achaia who answers: “The marks they bear cannot be seen by a mere retainer. Only a scion can perceive this form of the stain.”

“Fascinating,” I murmur. “Well, time for the next relevant question: how long have you been like this? You and Averrich, and I’m going to stab in the dark and say the Machinist is also corrupted, given the horrible shit I saw on his minions.”

Esha leans against her staff. “Since we struck a bargain with the Beast to rid ourselves of the Contrite.”

Aha! That’s why she looked guilty about the Mourner! I grin and lean in. “You’re responsible for the thing I just killed, aren’t you? You summoned it into being.”

Esha slowly nods, and I can see the hunter group growing more and more shocked and horrified. Avaya is enjoying the scene, and doesn’t look particularly surprised. Esha says, “We were afraid. Averrich, the Machinist, and I all went to the Beast and asked for its aid. We each gave of ourselves in exchange for the summoning of a Mourner inside the Contrite stronghold, where it would be told to stay. As part of the cost of the bargain, we were each infected with a… more controllable form of the madness that afflicts the Lost and the Celebrants. I had thought that my contemporaries were handling the corruption like I have handled my own, but… it would seem I was wrong.”

Gretchen growls and moves closer. “You knew their boss was Lost and you let them in anyway? You let this happen?”

The priestess grits her teeth. “Such devastation was not my intention. I put my trust in the Machinist—just as I put my trust in your own master, who is just as influenced. I am sorry for that mistake, and the pain it has caused. We came close to calamity.”

Dante raises a hand. “Hi, uh, I don’t mean to get in the way of this, but what calamity? What was going to happen?”

Oh good, he asked so I don’t have to.

Esha looks back at Dante and answers, “If the Mourner had reached the wellspring here, the heart of the city, it could have infected all of Sanctuary at once. In a matter of hours, everyone would have become one of the Lost, maddened by despair and rotting in the streets.”

“Holy shit,” I say. “Did not realize what a close call that was.”

The priestess smiles at me. “Well, thank you for stopping it. I… truly, I am grateful for that much. You have saved so many lives today.”

I scratch my neck awkwardly and look away from her. “Yeah, well, I had a grudge to settle. I’m just happy it’s dead.” I glance over at the remains of the Mourner, all those scraps of torn fabric no longer floating.

…Hey. Where’s the mask?

Fuck. “Where’s the mask?” I ask aloud. “Did anyone grab that thing’s mask? The frowny face, the theater mask, where the hell is it?”

Cheshire materializes beside me and swears. “Damn it, the human must have grabbed it while we were focused on Dante!”

The others look at me with confusion. Kado asks, “What’s so important about the mask?”

I growl and curl my fists, infuriated at getting outplayed by a stupid invisible asshole. “It’s a powerful material component. With the right toolset, you could turn that mask into all kinds of awful magic items.” I conjure the Reveler’s mask out of my throne world and wave it around. “See this? You could make a bomb out of this, or worse. The Machinist is the head artificer type at the Guild, right? If he could make the device that lured the Mourner in, I bet he could turn its mask into a replacement for the effect he was trying to enact.”

I banish the mask at everyone’s nervous glances. I climb to my feet and pull Dante up, then take a few steps back and lean against a nearby table.

Esha looks extremely worried now. “This… this is an existential threat. If the Machinist succeeds at making such an artifact and is able to sneak it past our defenses, that would be disaster. An apocalypse.” She looks to the others, to Avaya and Imlashi and their followers. “You must agree with the gravity of the situation. This is no time to be killing each other.”

The imps share a look, and then Avaya spreads her hands and says, “Well, if the Carnival will agree to it, I’m sure I can convince the Voidhearts to call a ceasefire of sorts. Say, we all stay out of each other’s way until the Machinist is dead? Excluding the wizard and necromancer, of course.”

Achaia glares at the defiler. “Do you intend to sit back and watch while the city falls to ruin?”

Imlashi hesitates, then says, “Perhaps our masters could be convinced to lend aid. Perhaps. But that’s not the kind of decision I’m willing to make on Averrich’s behalf.”

I laugh. “Coward.”

Avaya smirks. “A ceasefire, then, and aid to be discussed. I’m sure Vaylin will agree to part with a handful of her dolls, so long as the request is worded right.”

Kado gives Imlashi a careful glance before saying, “Whatever else is going on with the boss, I know he doesn’t plan to rule ashes. The Machinist has to be stopped. But even if we set out now, I don’t think we’re catching that mask. I think we have to bet that it’ll take time for the Machinist to craft it into an artifact.”

Cheshire, who until now has been mostly lurking in my shadow, says, “It’s a safe bet. Kobolds are prolific crafters but they’re not usually quick. We’ve got at least a day.”

Imlashi slowly nods. “A day, then. We’ll speak with Averrich and return at dawn with word and help. Volunteers to hunt down the Machinist.”

“I’d like to help too,” Dante says beside me. “I don’t know how much use I’ll be, but I want to help.”

I pat him on the shoulder reassuringly. “You’ll be fine. You’ve got me, and I’m pretty great.” I glance over the others. “Send whoever you think will be useful and won’t slow me down.”

Imlashi frowns at me. “Shouldn’t you stay at the temple? In case they find another Mourner to unleash?”

Esha shudders, but shakes her head. “There’s not one for them to find, not that I’m aware of. And, if they do, they’ll most likely do it overnight. Besides, I intend on staying up to erect a more proper barrier. With prep time, I can keep a Mourner out. I think Maven is the right call to take on the Machinist.”

“Then it’s settled,” I say cheerfully. “We march at dawn.”