Brian Wildman

Lorna emerged from the plain hallway into a laboratory of some sort, though clearly not one meant for healing. Metal tables and lab desks crowded the room, and the air stank of alcohol and burned Arcane residue.

Along the left wall stood a row of man-sized glass vats. Clouded fluid streaked their insides, and narrow tubes hung from brass fittings near the top. Beds had been arranged beside them with the same care she had seen in the wagon: straps cleaned, sheets folded, trays aligned.

Lorna touched the nearest vat. It vibrated, and she snatched her hand away.

She moved to the nearest desk. Clinic forms and medical tools covered most of it, but a stack of leather folders caught her attention. Lorna opened one and found lists of names marked with dates, affiliations, and lineage notes.

“Family histories?”

She opened another, then another. Families that worshipped the True. Old Metharadan houses. Converts who had taken the Mark of the Six after the Empire came.

These weren’t records to investigate the sickness. They were selection lists.

At the next desk, Franz’s personal ledger sat arranged neatly beside several instruments. His writing was exact and elegant, with no emotion behind it. Just columns and conclusions.

The severe responses were strongest in dual-aligned subjects.

Lorna read farther. Franz had tracked dates of Marking against family worship. He noted which prisoners still prayed to the True, which denied it, which had children, and which responded to something labeled Harmonization. She set the ledger down, face grim, then a metallic gleam caught her attention.

A brass machine loomed in the center of the room. White rods glowed in housings around its frame, with conduits feeding into a central sphere of three metal rings. Beyond it, restraints had been bolted to the wall. Dark stains marked the floor beneath them.

Dragging her finger across the machine’s console, she knew immediately—this was the source of Lilith’s terror.

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Saint Orlan’s Rest had been built when Arthan still had dignity. Pale stone paths wound between clipped hedges and old family vaults, each one carved with names that once mattered. Marble angels leaned over tombs while iron lanterns hung from ornate black posts. Surrounding it all, moonlit cypress trees lined the outer wall, their branches stirring in the slight breeze.

It was beautiful. Proper. Still. As were most dead places.

Lorna lowered her eyes to the grave.

Mara
Beloved. Devoted Mother. Daughter of Metharadan.

A few dried leaves had gathered against the base of the headstone. They sat there in a crooked little pile, brown and offensive against the pale stone. Lorna stared at them for longer than she should have. Then, with a slow breath, she bent and brushed them aside.

Her body objected at once.

Pain snapped through her side, sharp enough to make her stumble. She gripped the edge of the stone until it passed, jaw clenched. A sensible person would have left the leaves alone. A sensible person would have remained in bed. A sensible person would have stopped before Tad bled his life across Estelle’s floor.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

The words vanished into the breeze.

She adjusted the small white flowers she had brought, nudging the stems until they lay straight across the base of the marker. Three blooms. Evenly spaced. The leftmost one had bent slightly during the walk. She smoothed it between her fingers, then moved the center bloom a hair’s breadth to the right.

Lorna closed her eyes. “I don’t know what to do.”

That, somehow, was worse than any other confession.

She had known what to watch, how to listen, when to smile, and when to strike. Every guarded door had a key, and every hold had a servant who knew more than they meant to say. Her mother had taught her that the world was a web of details. Patient eyes could follow any thread.

But every thread had led deeper into the shadows. And now Estelle’s house was burned to the ground. Lilith was still gone. Tad was still dead.

Her throat tightened as she stared at her mother’s name.

“I thought if I kept moving, I could stay ahead. If I was careful enough, they wouldn’t find me.” She gave a small, bitter laugh. “You would have hated that, I think. We weren’t meant to hide, were we?”

A faint scrape sounded behind her. Lorna hovered her hands over her waistband.

The breeze shifted through the cypress branches. Then came another sound. A careful step on gravel, too soft for a cemetery keeper, too clumsy for a proper tail.

“Don’t,” she said.

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Lorna grimaced and tried to sit up, but a surge of agony clenched her teeth. Bandages wrapped her chest, her arms, and most of her left leg. Everything hurt; even breathing was torture. With a sigh, she settled back and studied the room instead.

A dresser sat beneath a pair of faded sketches while floral curtains framed the windows beside them. Hand-knitted doilies covered nearly every piece of furniture. After a moment, memory caught up with the pain. The Warehouse. Franz. The fall. She was in Estelle’s house.

Her eyes drifted to the nightstand beside the bed. A plate of bread, cheese, and dried fruit sat tantalizingly close. Hunger stirred immediately, but it wasn’t what held her attention. The plate sat crooked atop its doily.

Lorna stared at it.

Then she cursed and reached for it.

A lance of pain shot through her side. Her arm shook. Sweat beaded on her forehead. It took far longer than it should have, but eventually her fingertips brushed the ceramic edge.

She nudged it square with the nightstand, then fell back onto the pillow.

Lorna closed her eyes and exhaled slowly. Somewhere out there, Lilith was still missing and Franz was still free. The Empire continued whatever horror it had begun while she lay helpless in a bed arranging plates. She hated the thought almost as much as she hated needing someone else to save her life.

She was still staring at the ceiling when the door opened. An elderly woman stepped inside carrying a steaming kettle. Her gray hair had been tied back with little regard for appearance, and her expression suggested she had spent most of her life disappointed by other people.

The old woman eyed the untouched plate on the nightstand and snorted.

“You nearly died getting that thing lined up, didn’t you?”

Lorna looked away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Nonsense.” The woman set the kettle down. “Your mother used to do the same damned thing.”

“If only she were here.” Lorna sighed.

“But she isn’t, is she?” Estelle leaned in with a crooked smirk. “At some point, you need to let it go, Lorna. No one loved her more than me. Well, your father might disagree. I caught them in my basement one time—”

“Estelle, please,” Lorna cut her off.

“Fine.” The old lady pulled a chair and sat down. “When she died, a part of me did too. But I let it go. That war caused a lot of misery. You can’t drive yourself into a grave over what happened.”

“It’s not like that. I just…” Just what? Just one more try to clean herself of the sin? One more mission to find the truth? Lorna looked at the plate, the doily. Her entire life was a prison made from the pursuit of perfection…and repentance. “I just have one more task.”

“What is it this time? I just pulled enough glass out of your pretty hide to start a new window shop.”

“Lilith.”

“So. This isn’t about your mother. It’s about your brother,” Estelle said, pouring a cup of tea with a blank expression.

“They’re all I have left. They have kids.”

“You could too.”

“Will you stop, already!” Lorna tried to stab a finger at Estelle and immediately regretted it.

“What? I’m just saying, get yourself a good man with strong hands. That’ll calm you right down.”

Lorna rolled her eyes. “How did my mother ever put up with you.”

“Whiskey.”

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Lorna was never one for subtle manipulation. In fact, she detested it. Veiled comments, the art of controlling people without sounding like that’s what it was. None of it sat well on her tongue. That had been her mother’s realm, amongst other things. Thankfully, tonight required no such political maneuvering.

“Forgive me for where I am about to go,” Lorna whispered to the sky. As her shoes drummed a heavy beat down the plank sidewalk of the dingy alley, she shook her head in guilt. If the True could forgive her other transgressions, surely He would forgive this.

The Singing Lily.

Aside from the connotations, the name was fitting. Patrons sat around tables laughing and swinging food and drink alike, all while a wave of upbeat tunes drifted from a band inside. Part restaurant, part bathhouse, and like most establishments in this part of Arthan—all dirty.

Lorna kept her eyes on the jovial proprietor as she weaved through the display of debauchery. He finished laughing with a guest, then slowly turned.

“Good evening, miss. Our tables are full, but if you’re looking for a man…” He trailed off when he saw her face. “Oh crap.”

“Where is Serik?”

“Lorna, I can’t. We have a strict anonymity policy.”

“So do I.” Lorna’s face could’ve cleaved stone.

It only took a few sweeps of his eyes, but eventually he sighed and merely shot a glance toward the back corridors.

“Thank you, Marcus.”

“I liked you better when you were a shopkeeper,” he mumbled as she pushed past him. “Just don’t kill anyone this time.”

She shot him a hard glare.

“Please,” he said to his feet.

Last time wasn’t her fault. Besides, she had no intent on anything but a conversation…mostly.

It only took a few turns of lazily decorated corridors and Lorna saw the bathhouse door ahead. A large man stood in front of it trying his best to not look like a bodyguard. He put up a hand to stop her and she halted, meeting his gaze.

“About time, he’s getting bored in there. You better be good.”

“I’ll keep him entertained,” Lorna said with a sultry smile.

The man relaxed and a crooked grin crossed his face. “You know, when you’re done, I’m a little bored too.”

“I’ll be right back.” She pulled her hairpins free and shook her head, letting her dark hair cascade over her shoulders. “Can you hold these while I’m gone? From what I hear, I won’t be long.”

The man snorted and grabbed the hairpins.

The instant Lorna let go, the man’s eyes shot open and a surge of blue light flashed through his arms, making his veins glow like a luminescent web. After a few seconds of shaking and grunting, the man toppled like a felled tree. Not dead. Marcus would be pleased.

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Lorna’s hand hovered inches from her face. The washcloth she held dangled, dripping, as she stared at the mirror. It wasn’t the grimy face looking back at her that captured her attention. No, it was the mirror itself. The left side hung lower than the right by perhaps half a finger.

She reached toward it, then stopped herself halfway.

“No.”

With measured breaths, she dipped a cloth into the basin and wiped at her jawline. The rag dragged across soot and dried blood. She frowned faintly, then scrubbed harder until pale skin emerged beneath the grime.

It was the small things. Always the small things. As much as she hated the constant swirling of details and anxiety over them, they mattered. Sometimes not enough, but sometimes more than anyone could realize until they were dead.

Yet another lesson from her mother.

“I miss you,” Lorna whispered as she finished drying her hair with a towel. It was a deep emerald with a golden hawk embroidered in the corner. Elegant for an inn, but this wasn’t just any inn.

With a curl of her lips, she lifted her mother’s hairpins from the counter and twisted them in her hands. The sight of them settled something inside her. Smooth edges. Polished steel and brass. She’d already cleaned them, of course. It was the first thing she’d done. Not a speck of dirt or blood. They were perfect.

With practiced ease, she pinned her hair in place, leaving strands partially concealing her face.

“There. Fit as a whistle,” she said.

Outside the room, muffled boots thudded through the inn below. Voices drifted through the floorboards in clipped bursts. Orders. Movement. The Eternal Order had swallowed half the district overnight.

Lorna pushed the thought away and looked into the mirror. The woman staring back scarcely resembled the spice merchant from yesterday. Black-and-red armor framed her shoulders, the Mark of the Six gleaming faintly upon the breastplate. The high collar hid the bruising along her throat while powder masked the exhaustion beneath her eyes.

“You can rest later,” she told herself. Despite everything, her contact had been clear; the target had been taken to the Emerald Hawk. Now, she just had to find it.

Lorna entered the main suite, her boots sinking into a thick green carpet. Despite the overturned furniture, the room still carried the faded elegance of old Metharadan wealth. Dark oak beams crossed the ceiling overhead, carved with weathered hawks in flight, while heavy emerald curtains framed the tall windows beyond.

It was wonderful in a way that touched Lorna’s sense of heritage and pride. She let out a satisfying breath, smiled faintly, then turned toward the corpse on the floor.

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Lorna’s lips curled into a satisfied smile as she swiped her favorite duster across the counter. Watching the specks of grime lift away and reveal bare, clean wood soothed her. She hadn’t thought her habit of tidiness would serve her much until this job. In some ways it had been a burden most of her life, but it was proving useful now.

A small case of Acada wood lay on the counter. It was tilted slightly, not aligned with the counter’s edge.

“It’s fine, Lorna. Let it go,” she whispered.

With a shift of her feet, she turned toward the nearby display of jarred spices. Her lips tightened and she froze. Before she could stop herself, she turned and adjusted the case back into alignment. She tapped it once, then held her finger just above it.

“One is enough. It’s in place.”

She tapped on it again. How else could she be sure?

It was there, but something still gnawed at her. She clenched a fist and stared. Finally, she let out an exasperated sigh, then tapped the case a third time.

“There. All’s well.” A chipper smirk spread across her lips and she moved on to the spice display.

Her mother had always tried to teach her to let things go. Perhaps one day. There was always tomorrow, after all.

A small jingle and the stamp of boots pulled her from her thoughts. She didn’t react. Instead, she flicked her eyes to the mirror on the rear wall of the shop. She never liked to greet a stranger blind. Yet another habit—but an important one.

Keeping her face toward her work, she saw two men had entered. One carried a wooden box; the other wore a blank look and shifty eyes. They both shuffled toward the counter with heavy steps. Five steps for the big one, six and a half for the smaller. By the lean of their gait, both were right-handed. Good.

With dignified grace, Lorna glided behind the counter and set her duster neatly in its place. Then she turned to the men with a warm smile and respectful nod.

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