The chaotic peace of Ogefil Island shattered once more—another flame tossed onto the ever-burning pyre of its existence.
The Bald Thruston. Dead. Known as one of the strongest members of the Master's faction. Known as the right hand. The enforcer. The one who made problems disappear. Now a cold corpse. Cooling in the street where he fell.
But the death itself was not the shock. The shock was who killed him.
Toric. The rising fighter. The one who had stood in the fighting rings and dared to challenge both factions openly. The one who should have died a dozen times and somehow kept breathing. Now every shopkeeper knew his name. Every whore in every brothel whispered it. Every tavern owner, every labourer, every fighter—they all spoke of Toric like he was something new under the sun. Something inevitable.
"Hey! You there! Master faction, right?"
The accusation cut through morning business like a blade. The accused—a thin man with nervous eyes—found himself surrounded before he could run.
"You bastard. You still owe my cousin twenty bronze. And you think you can throw your weight around forever?" The speaker's voice rose, drawing more from the street. "Brothers! Let's teach this leech a lesson—then go join the Toric force!"
"NO! PLEASE! I'LL PAY—I'LL—"
The mob descended. By the time they finished, the man was unrecognizable. Broken ribs. Missing teeth. A cautionary tale written in bruises.
Events like this had become daily occurrences. The island's masses—crushed for so long beneath the Master's heel—had found their spark. An untold flame blazed through them, demanding blood for old debts, satisfaction for old humiliations.
The Mistress's people suffered too, occasionally. But the Master's faction bled daily. And strangest of all—the Master did nothing. No statements. No counter-attacks. No appearance from his hideout. Only his people, abandoned to the mobs, fighting alone.
.....
CRACK.
Branth hurled another bottle against the wall. Glass exploded outward, joining the carpet of glittering ruin already covering the floor. "THREE MONTHS!" His roar rattled the remaining bottles on the table. "THREE FUCKING MONTHS THIS HAS BEEN GOING ON!"
CRACK. CRACK. CRACK.
Bottle after bottle followed. Each impact a punctuation mark on his fury. Alcohol pooled on the floorboards, filling the room with the stench of wasted spirits. He grabbed his chilim. Took a long, shaking drag. Exhaled smoke like dragon's breath. Then reached for another bottle and drained it in one swallow.
CRACK. The room had become a graveyard of glass.
"What's our situation?" The question emerged through smoke, rough as gravel.
Dunstan kept his eyes on the broken pieces beneath his feet. "We've lost more forces. Some have... joined the enemy. Defected."
"FUCKERS!" Branth's chest heaved. "We shared bread with them! Salt! Blood! And this is how they repay?"
"If we had acted sooner..." Dunstan's voice carried something new—dry mockery, carefully veiled. "If we had killed Toric before the situation escalated..."
Branth's gaze turned to ice. "And be killed ourselves? Thruston is dead. Even if that bastard isn't from some organization, we couldn't just—" He stopped. Controlled himself. "We needed preparation. Information. Caution."
Dunstan's head dipped lower, but his thoughts ran free. Smoking. Drinking. Whoring. You've hollowed yourself out, old man. Like a termite-eaten beam—looks solid until someone leans on it.
If we had attacked together—three of us—maybe...
But it doesn't matter now. We can't win.
"Set up a meeting." Branth set down his chilim with finality. "With that whore. We're meeting the Mistress."
.....
While the island convulsed in its death throes, one room remained untouched.
Ashan worked. Hands stretched another membrane—thin, translucent, ready. But this time, the process differed. Instead of immediate molding, prana flowed from fingertips into the material. A low, steady trickle of energy suffusing every fiber.
Seconds passed. The flow ceased. A tight stretch—once, twice. The material responded with easy elasticity.
Better.
Beside him on the bed, finished condoms lay in a careful row. Five? Six? More. The pile of failures had grown too, but successes accumulated. The day after tomorrow. Solna. The presentation.
A hand reached into the material pile, emerging with a quill—rough, cracked, nothing like Yaren's gifted instrument.
I miss that quill. Storms know what creature it came from, but it never broke.
The quill's body showed hairline fractures along its length. It would serve. Barely. Ashan dipped it in charcoal. Began scribbling on the inner surface of the prana-imbued membrane. A trickle of atmic energy flowed through the quill, following the strokes.
The pattern emerged—a spiral, faintly glowing, taking shape beneath the charcoal lines.
If Yaren ever learns his charmcasting lessons produced this application... A ghost of amusement flickered. What expression would he make? Priceless, probably.
KACH. The quill snapped mid-spiral. The glowing pattern died unfinished. Ashan examined the broken pieces without expression. Tossed them aside.
Oh well. Many left.
Hands dove back into the pile, and the work continued, and the sun set, and the night came, and the thing that was happening and would happen and would not stop happening until it was done waited, patient, for the moment when it would be needed.