Juggle still liked her job, but really hated her saloon.

It had been build to welcome foxes and other wealthy patrons in the booming city of Red Crescent. Then the sangrite vein had dwindled, not enough to doom the city but enough to leave her a locked shelf of bottles no one could afford and a saloon too big for the entire town’s needs by half. Juggle was sure she was getting rusty at the bottle tricks that had earned her the name - nowadays, the young bucks thought she was named Juggle for her drunk-throwing technique…

...but worst of all was the routine.

Juggle was cleaning a glass when she heard a pair of worn but solid boots make their way to the bar, the smallest wooden sound on the right step. Some other patron mumbled a greeting to the newcomer, and Juggle poured a double brandy without looking up as the man struggled to get on top of his stool.

“Good morning, Andy,” Juggle greeted him with her practiced smile.

“It’ll be good when I’ll see the bottom of that glass,” grumbled One-Leg Andy.

Juggle hummed noncommittally, feeling faintly guilty. She had spaced out and cut Rob off too late earlier that week. Which meant he had come home and beaten his wife. Which meant she had taken out her frustration on her younger sister, Andy’s wife, who tended to bring back her husband’s outlaw past when she was upset. Which wasn’t to say Juggle was responsible for Rob’s temper, for his wife not stabbing him in the eye with a fork, or for Andy’s wife not seeing what a rancid hag her sister was, but still.

Juggle considered, not for the thousandth time and certainly not for the last, to just grab her savings, pick the oldest bottles from her locked shelf and leave Red Crescent for good. Wits honed to entertain people who considered reading an actual pastime, wasted to keep up on the gossip of a half-dead town...

A series of unfamiliar footsteps shook her out of her soul-crushing boredom. They had seemed an acridian’s stride at first but no, they were claws. A vash in Red Crescent?

True enough, a large viashino entered the saloon with an oafish smile on it snout, wearing a shirt that strained to contain their bulk and a pair of above-knee trousers. The vash must have thought that they could seem civilized by wearing clothes, but the grossly wrong shirt size and the hasty sewing of the trouser’s hem just looked sad and ridiculous. Even worse, the vash literally smelled the air before approaching the bar. The few morning patrons eyed the newcomer silently, with the attention that only the spectacle-starved could muster.

The curious silence turned into hushed dread when the vash strolled to Goldie’s stool, sniffed the air once more and casually sat on it. They picked a small and tidy roll of bills from the shirt’s front pocket – another terminally stupid habit. “Good morning, ma’am,” the vash greeted jovially, leaning on the bar, “a double whiskey, please.” They proudly showed the money to Juggle, who was fighting not to cringe.

“Good morning, stranger,” Juggle replied with strained friendliness. “Before I serve you anything, I’d strongly advise you pick another seat.”

The vash slowly turned their head one way and the other, looking at the other empty stools, then met Juggle’s gaze with polite confusion. “Why’s that?”

Juggle heard the too familiar jingle of a certain pair of true horsehide boots outside the door. “Because that’s taken,” she whispered hurriedly. “Now jump down before-”

“That’s my seat,” came Goldie’s icy voice from the entrance.

The silent dread became louder, if such a thing was possible, and Juggle mentally said farewell to the vash. Goldie walked to the vash’ side with deceptive calm, letting the spurs on his boots tinkle with each step. His spotless shirt had gold-like decorations that matched his golden mane of hair, his thumbs hooked on the belt where his gold and baloth ivory gun rested. “Did you hear me, lizard?” Goldie was the kind to wake up with racist insults on his lip.

“So this seat’s kept for you? I think she was just telling me that,” the vash said, pointing to Juggle.

Goldie’s lips curled in a vicious grin. “Did you tell the vash who I am, Juggle?”

“I was getting to that, Goldie,” she replied. Despite all respectable bartenders’ time-honored policy of neutrality, she felt the urge to do something for the vash. Paying for their funeral, maybe.

“Let me spare you the hassle,” Goldie spat. “They call me Snakeshot Goldie, lizard. Do you know why?”

“No,” the vash replied amiably, oblivious to their imminent death.

“Because I duel rattlers for sport,” Goldie explained. “I’m the fastest shot in the Wastes, lizard,” he hissed, but the vash had no reaction to the insult.

Juggle felt the urge to roll her eyes, because she had seen Merritt duel. Yet she didn’t, because she had also seen Goldie angry before. The only reason why Goldie was still alive, in Juggle’s opinion, was that his hand was faster than his temper was short, which admittedly was no easy feat. She was starting to really feel bad for the vash.

“Good for you,” the vash said cheerfully. “Still, I’m sure you can just stop bothering me and let me use your seat for a while, right? I’ve come a long way and I’m mighty tired.”

Goldie’s nose twitched, and Juggle saw the last chance of him dusting the vash outside the bar vanish. “I’d normally challenge you to a duel for that,” Goldie spelled slowly, each syllable drenched in venom, “but you don’t even have a gun. Any last words?”

Juggle’s fingers closed around the blackjack she kept under the bar. One blow to Goldie’s gun hand, one to the face. It was easy, in theory. Two swift hits, then it was just a matter to pick up her things and make sure Goldie wouldn’t wake up before she got on the first train. With time, Juggle would convince herself it had been the right thing. But missing meant death, and that made her hand sweaty.

“But I have one,” the vash replied, tilting their head.

“...No you don’t,” Goldie blurted. In fact, there was no place on the vash to keep a weapon. Juggle’s instinct, on the other hand, picked up something in the vash’ tone.

“Well, not right now, but I’m gonna have one soon,” the vash insisted, and the corner of their mouth twitched ever so slightly.

A shiver ran down Juggle’s spine. Decades of experience at spotting troublemakers came back running. She noticed how much of the vash’ bulk was muscle. The sharp stare concealed by the lazy smile. The roll of bills forgotten on the bar. The arms held a hair above it.

The vash was a trap waiting to spring.

“A thing of beauty, my next gun,” the vash continued, “with an ivory handle and gold inlays, you should see it.” Their oafish smile turned into a predatory grin when Goldie’s eyes widened. “What, sounds familiar?”

Goldie went for his gun.

The vash tapped its barrel under his chin.

Juggle blinked. She hadn’t even seen the vash move. Goldie was clutching his gun hand, breathing through his teeth, white as a ghost.

“A thing of beauty, as I said.” The vash’ grin turned back into a placid smile. “It would almost be a shame to fire it, don’t you think?”

Goldie slowly retreated with uncertain steps. The silence accompanying him to the saloon’s entrance was pure astonishment. Every soul in Red Crescent had seen Goldie angry, but nobody had ever seen him scared. His footsteps broke into a dead run as soon as the door closed behind him.

Juggle felt all the stares in the room focus on the vash first, than on herself. She blinked again. With Goldie gone – there was no way that someone like him remained in a town that had seen him humiliated – she was the only vaguely charismatic person left in Red Crescent.

She could change things.

Juggle fetched the small key from the chain around her neck with calm deliberation, and opened the locked shelf. She picked up the second best whiskey from there – she wasn’t that grateful – then slowly poured one for her and a double for the vash. “On the house,” she declared, putting the glass in front of the viashino. “What may I call you, stranger?”

The vash was engrossed in the gun, tapping and sniffing its components. “The name’s Sharaka,” they replied absently. After a minute, they reluctantly took a hand away from the gun to pick up their glass, and their gaze met Juggle’s. “Where’s the nearest pawn shop?” They asked with a mischievous grin, and took a long sniff of the whiskey. “I hear tickets for Daiko are pretty expensive.”

“Makes sense, Nails. Alright, we’ll put half a dozen snipers on the crest,” Jackie concluded, tapping on the map. “That takes a bit of punch off me and Dazie, but we can work around that.”

The wiry human nodded nervously, chewing on something. Certainly not on his famous nails, that were so ruined they were barely visible at the end of his ever-fidgeting fingers.
“Especially if Presto’s toy works,” Dazie commented.

“And if it doesn’t, we’ll have some decent cover fire. Back to the top we go,” Jackie declared, and took a deep breath to try to give new eyes to the plan. “Brax’s train leaves Daiko at high noon and goes east through the Whistling Valley on private rails.” Jackie traced the rails on the map, then tapped on a specific point. “Our best opening is here, where the rails bend to get around a big crest. Deep Wastes, but not deep enough for the really bad sandstorms.” Jackie tapped on a point down the line. “The train will slow on the bend, and will find a scary amount of sangrite on the tracks.” She eyed her deputies to see whether there where new observations.

There were none, so she continued. “From what we know of the train and its load, they should be able to stop the train just past the sangrite, who will attach to the front of the train and attract all the metal to itself, making guns stick to walls and in general disarming the muscle. We come from around the crest and take the train with our de...” she looked at Presto.

“Demagnetized,” the artificer supplied.

“Weapons,” Jackie concluded. “Snipers will cover us and take down runners. After we sweep the whole train, we will have Presto remove the sangrite and we’ll take as many weapons as we can carry. That’s if all goes well.”

Nails leaned forward on the table, drumming his fingers on it. “Contingencies,” he said around whatever he was chewing.

Jackie nodded. “The machinists shouldn’t be so eager to risk the train and their lives through the sangrite. But if they do, a second more discreet cask of primed sangrite will explode on contact two dozen paces down the line, severing the rails and probably opening the engine as a rusty can. If they manage to brake before the magnetic sangrite and the sangrite doesn’t jump to the train...” She spared another glance to Presto.

“Could happen,” Presto insisted.

“...shooting the primed cask will send the magnets flying into the train anyway. If the train stops but the magnetic sangrite doesn’t work well enough, we shoot the cask and test the nerves of Brax’s people; we’ll play it by ear. Each of ours approaching the train will carry a bone knife in case the sangrite works too well. If there’s a storm, we stick to the plan – snipers excluded - unless it’s so bad we can’t see the sangrite bulk through the sand.” Jackie took another short pause.

“Everyone aboard – machinists excluded, maybe – belongs to the worst scum of the Waste, each trusted to kill for Brax without hesitation,” Jackie concluded. “So don’t worry too much about any of our well-worn consciences if we have to dust some of them. We’ll only spare those who surrender immediately. Keep your eyes peeled and take no chances: we need those weapons, but we need our lives more. Understood?”

Jackie looked in the eyes of each of her deputies. They all nodded.

“Good. Let’s take this train.”

There was no hint of an approaching storm; if anything, the sun hit like a hammer, and even the worst show-offs had gone under the shadow of the rocky crest. When Nails whistled, Jackie started climbing without a word, finding him on the sun-scorched top of the crest. He looked for all the world like a victim of the Waste, lying perfectly still on the hot rock, a stark contrast with his usual fidgety self. A pair of binoculars peeked out from under his hat as she crouched beside him.

Jackie took them and looked west, waiting patiently. A drop of sweat fell from her chin, sizzling on the rock. Eventually, a glint of metal appeared on the horizon.

“It’s them, isn’t it,” Nails whispered as soon as she spotted it, without so much at glancing at her; he could have been the curse of any gambling house, if only he could bluff for his life.

Jackie nodded thoughtfully. The train had two cargo carriages and three passenger ones, one more than expected. Did Brax need the muscle elsewhere, or did he reinforced security at the last moment? Jackie signaled the rest of the team to prepare themselves.

Presto’s sangrite worked as a charm. Jackie led her team to the last carriage from an angle, but it proved to be an unnecessary precaution, as all the visible weapons – and quite a number of belts, some with their owners still attached – were stuck to the front of the carriage. Jackie’s weapons just felt a weak tug from the sangrite, as did the bullets Jackie’s body had been gifted in her career. Some uncomfortable grunts told her that others felt that too, but fortunately Presto’s preparations prevented his sangrite from doing unconventional surgery on them all. Jackie tried not to think about that particular image.

Except two idiots, Brax’s muscle proved smart enough to know their odds and let themselves be tied, despite all the glaring and snarled threats. Sounds of commotion ahead made Jackie frown. Where they mounting some kind of defense, or fighting among themselves having found some imaginary traitor?

Soon, roars and agonizing screams joined the racket. Jackie and Dazie exchanged a worried glance, and they felt most of their team shift nervously. Who, or what, had the train been carrying in addition to the weapon crates? They heard snipers taking a few shots, but from the following swearing it was clear they were just crippling runaways.

They were tying down the occupants of the next carriage when a minotaur and two humans barreled in from the door ahead, slamming it behind them. No less than a dozen guns raised instantly to greet them, but the panic in their eyes and the frantic breathing told in no uncertain terms they had no intention of fighting. Quite the opposite, judging by the wetness of their trousers.

“Start talking,” Dazie commanded, not lowering her shotgun. The three just grimaced and pressed against the nearest corner.

The next roar sent a cold shiver down Jackie’s spine. The three runaways fell to their knees whimpering, hands to their ears. From the amount of jagged scars on their skins, Jackie wasn’t eager to face whatever scared them beyond words.

By the time the three were tied, an ominous silence had fallen, and people were wiping their foreheads from sweat that had little to do with the heat. Jackie saw Dazie meeting the glance of the others, steeling their confidence with her intense gaze, then she nodded and prepared to open the door.

Two men lied face down in the third carriage. One, motionless, had his whole left arm missing, the other had a quickly spreading pool of blood under him. From the trail of blood, they both had dragged themselves from the next carriage.

“I don’t like this one bit,” Dazie muttered with a deep frown. “The arm looks ripped off.”

Jackie grimaced. "Brax had added a whole carriage of grunts to keep this from happening, apparently." She upturned the bleeding man with her boot, revealing a ravaged throat and a glassy stare. Jackie spared him a few minutes of agony. "Didn't think I'd say this, but I almost feel sorry for them."

Jackie’s mouth went dry at the sight of the fourth carriage. She counted at least a dozen bodies, most of them with shattered limbs or large gaping wounds, and the floor was covered in blood. The crates lining the entire left wall of the carriage and most of the right also carried crisscrossing red smears, and some had corpses stuck through them.

Dazie swore under her breath and gingerly stepped in, shotgun leveled at the opposite door. “Someone got creative in here… or something,” she added, eyeing the broken chains hanging horizontally from the wall, then took a closer look of the corpses. “No, definitely someone.”

Jackie heard some quiet, astonished swearing behind her as more of the team caught sight of the carnage. “What do you mean?”

“I know of no animal able to fit in here and do this kind of damage.” Dazie knelt, careful not to dirty herself more than necessary. “I see marks of claws and teeth. I’d say viashino, but...”

“...with the strength of a baloth,” Jackie concluded.

Dazie nodded and slowly stood up.

“Maybe they’ll be grateful for our accidental assistance,” Jackie hazarded.

“Crossing my fingers,” Dazie replied, hands solidly wrapped around her weapon.

The next carriage was no less bloody. Most bodies were piled face down in the second half, as if they had been fleeing. The door to the locomotive had been left open. The silence was only broken by some runaway still swearing through gritted teeth outside the train. The crates left to room for hiding, so Dazie stepped in, glaring at the open door.

Jackie saw a drop of blood fall from the ceiling on Dazie’s shoulder.

Jackie reached forward, but too slowly. Something fell on Dazie and dragged her to the ground into a blur of hide, scales and ruined clothes. Jackie leveled both guns at the tangle of limbs, finding no clear shot. Dazie was slammed against the door frame with a grunt. She began slipping down. She slid back up.

As everything went still again, Jackie took stock of the situation. Dazie’s bulk was blocking most of the doorway. Her breathing was rough but stable, her shoulders slumped, her head swaying. She had some blood smeared over her clothes, but it didn’t seem hers. Stunned, but not seriously wounded. Jackie gestured for everyone else to lower their weapons; she trusted no one else to take the shot, should the opportunity arise.

“I believe we started with the wrong foot,” Jackie said with hollow cheer, her guns ready. “Let me introduce myself. My name is Jackie, and my interest in this train starts and ends with the crates you see around you.” She took a pause to let that sink in. “The one you’re generously helping to stand is Dazie, my deputy. You may want to unhand her before something unfortunate happens.”

“Jackie?” Asked a raspy voice. “As in Jackie DeCoeur? The Red-Eyed Woman?”

“The very same,” Jackie replied evenly. “And you are…?”

She heard sniffing. “Call me Sharaka.”

Jackie raised an eyebrow. “Like the gun-stealer?”

“Sounds like I earned some reputation on my own,” Sharaka chuckled. “I heard we have a common enemy, Jackie.”

Jackie stared at Dazie’s back, noticing her even breathing. “How so?”

“Dear Brax is looking to put tracks down the Yerakee Basin,” Sharaka explained. “Problem is, a bunch of people I know live there, and Brax was pretty unpleasant about that. I don’t think I have to get into details.”

“Yerakee? Never heard the name,” Jackie replied, seeing Dazie slowly flex her fingers.

“I don’t doubt it, it’s far from here,” Sharaka said breezily, “all that gun-stealing business was to pay my way to a place where I could do some damage without being hunted down like a rabid jackal. It actually went rather well, until it didn’t.” Sharaka took a pause, apparently to sniff the air again. “Good morning, Sugarhorns! How are you feeling?”

“I could do with those claws off me,” Dazie croaked, like she had something pressed against her neck. Jackie cursed under her breath, remembering the ruined throat of the man in the third carriage.

“I truly apologize for that,” Sharaka replied, a manic edge to her cheer. “It’s just that I don’t like guns, especially in the hands of someone who might want to use them on me.”

“Then I believe I already told you, Sharaka, that I have no interest in harming you,” Jackie pointed out, but she didn’t lower her guns. “As long as you don’t try anything funny on me or mine.”

Sharaka sniffed the air again. “And you can vouch none of yours will “try anything funny” as long as we remain civil.”

Jackie turned to look at her team and nodded. “Yes.”

More sniffing sounds. “What about you, Sugarhorns?”

“Depends on how long it will take,” Dazie replied.

“For what?”

“For you to take those **** claws off me,” Dazie snarled.

Sharaka laughed, then sniffed again. “I appreciate the honesty,” she chuckled.

Jackie heard Sharaka step back. Dazie stood up straighter, rolling her large shoulders, then turned so Jackie could see the viashino. Sharaka’s forearms and mouth were dripping blood, but she didn’t seem to mind. Her eyes had an unnerving shine to them, and her neck scales were scratched and bent in a ring.

“Where to, then?” Sharaka asked cheerfully.

Dazie glared at the viashino. “Why the hell do you think you’re coming with us?”

“We have a common enemy, Sugarhorns,” Sharaka replied breezily, grinning as Dazie bristled at the nickname. “It’s obvious to me that joining forces is the best option.”

“With someone like you? Fat chance.”

Jackie eyed Sharaka, hoping the viashino wasn’t about to lash out. “You methods do seem… messy.”

Sharaka looked at them both, unimpressed. “I was kept without food for two days of “questioning”, and they were taking me to the bastard who’s planning to slaughter everyone I care about just to turn a profit. What would you have done differently, if given the chance? Even if I could shoot, it’s not like that was an option,” she added, looking at the guns stuck against the wall.

Jackie nodded thoughtfully. “What about the machinists?” She asked, nodding in the engine’s direction.

“The ones taking a nap there?” Sharaka replied with a naughty tone. “What about them?”

“You didn’t kill them?” Dazie asked, skeptical.

“Why, to make it back to Daiko on foot?” Sharaka replied incredulously.

“You’re a little smarter than you look. How impressive.” Dazie’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

“Wish I could say the same,” Sharaka said with an innocent smile. Dazie rolled her eyes, but didn’t reply.

Seeing Sharaka unfazed by Dazie’s jab, Jackie signaled the others to start removing the sangrite. “You still didn’t tell me why should I want you working with us,” she pointed out, as she led the two women to an empty carriage. Dazie went back to retrieve her weapon first.

Sharaka glanced at the corpses behind her. “Aside from the obvious, I can smell a bunch of useful things, for starters.”

Jackie tried to remember the last time she had a bath. “Such as?”

“Magic and emotions,” Sharaka answered. “I didn’t just take your word that you wouldn’t attack me.”

“Magic? Are you a slinger?” Dazie asked despite herself.

“That means a mage, right?” Sharaka replied. “Yes, I can use magic to boost my strength and speed, to spit fire and, simply put, to change other’s emotions.”

“We felt some of that as we got through the train, I believe,” Jackie said. “I have another important question: can you follow orders?”

“It sounds like a trick question. Can you give good orders? Those I can follow,” Sharaka replied. “The jackals I put down on this train obeyed any order. Would you recruit them?”

Jackie’s gaze met Dazie’s for a moment, an entire silent conversation taking place between the two. “It kind of was, I like to think I do, and no,” Jackie replied, flashing her gold tooth. “Dazie, anything to add?”

Dazie took a good look at Sharaka, who appeared to finally notice she was covered in blood and made a token effort to clean herself. After a minute, Dazie sighed. “Two things.” She held up a finger. “One: you will drop that stupid nickname.”

Sharaka appeared genuinely crestfallen at that, but nodded.

“Two,” Dazie said, and punched Sharaka so hard the viashino went flat on the floor.

Sharaka blinked slowly a few times. “I probably deserved that,” she drawled.

“Now we’re even,” Dazie said with a slight smirk, and offered Sharaka her hand.

Jackie saw a few strange expressions cross Sharaka’s snout before she took Dazie’s hand, and wondered how much would change with Sharaka in their ranks.

Beryl ran into the room, screaming her little head off. Behind her, her sister Astria gave chase, pinching Beryl’s arm and pulling her pigtails. Beryl was much smaller, and could occasionally weave out of the way, but Astria was bigger and faster, and was intent, for whatever reason, on tormenting the younger child. Finally Astria caught Beryl around the shoulders with one arm and started rubbing Beryl’s head with her free knuckles. Beryl shrieked like she was being murdered.

“Leave her alone, Astria,” a strong, young woman’s voice sounded from the doorway through which both girls had entered. “She didn’t do anything to you.”

“She wrote in mother’s book!” Astria responded, reluctantly letting go of Beryl. As she did, the younger child spun around and stuck her tongue out at Astria. “And I was using it!”

“Were not, were not, were not!” Beryl screamed, then looked up to the source of the other voice. “It was on her shelf! She wasn’t even looking at it!”

“You only wanted it because I had it,” Astria said, folding her arms in front of her.

“Nuh-uh! Mother told me that I could write my name in her book.”

“Sure,” Astria said with a smirk. “And did she say you could write it on every page?”

Beryl turned a little bit red then. “Well, she didn’t say that I couldn’t!”

“Look,” the third young woman said. “None of that is any reason to fight. You’re sisters, after all, and nothing is more important than that.”

“But Margot…” Astria began. But Margot cut her off by moving fully into the room and throwing her arms around Astria. And while Astria was several years older, and therefore much bigger, than Beryl, Margot was the eldest, and easily held Astria in place.

“We are all sisters,” she said again as she hugged Astria. “We need to take care of each other, watch out for each other. Okay?”

Astria grumbled, but a slight squeeze from Margot got a brief smile out of her. “Alright, Margot. I get it. Beryl? I’m sorry I pinched you and pulled your pigtails.”

Beryl moved in to hug her sisters. “And I’m sorry I took the book without asking.”

Suddenly, from the other room, there came the excited yell of yet another young girl. This time, the voice just kept calling Beryl’s name over and over and over again as it grew nearer and nearer. Finally, through the door came Elise, who was looking very pale, and very excited. As she entered, she nearly bowled over Margot.

“Oh!” Elise said. “Margot! You’re here, too! And Astria! This is great. I wanted to show Beryl something, but I can just show all of you!”

“Do you want to wait for Brigitte?”

Elise shook her head. “She’s downstairs listening to Papa play violin. She could be ages! And I really really really want to show you my spell!” Elise was the middle sister, older than Beryl but younger than Astria. It was an odd happenstance of birth that the middle three sisters wound up with a talent for magic, like their mother had, whereas the talents of Margot and Brigitte fell more in line with their father.

“Okay,” Beryl said excitedly. “Show me your spell!”

Elise smiled widely and bowed her head. Then she started moving her hands in a complex pattern. Beryl was mystified, but Astria, being a bit older and having more formal training in spellcraft, knew that for what Elise was doing, they were completely unnecessary. She debated telling the younger mage such, but having Margot standing right there kept her quiet. This was Elise’s moment, after all.

A few short moments passed before Elise’s spell began to take effect. It started as a slight drop in the room’s temperature. This was followed by a few gossamer waftings of fog just along the floor. These quickly expanded, however, until the floor itself was not visible through Elise’s fog. She kept her eyes closed as she cast her spell, but a broad, genuine smile on her face showed how proud she was of herself.

Suddenly, Astria had an idea. She started to encourage Elise to ramp it up, asking her to fill the entire room. Margot said that that was perhaps not the best idea, but Astria shook her head. “I bet you can do it, ‘Lise!”

Elise was unsure, but wanted to try. Astria was, by virtue of both her age and her natural talent, at least for now, the best of the sister mages, and the thought that Astria might be genuinely impressed with Elise’s spellcasting meant the world to her. Elise concentrated, and the fog expanded, eventually becoming as thick as soup-aux-pois. The four sisters could only see one another as vague outlines.

Astria leaned over to Beryl excitedly then. She whispered, “Beryl, do you remember that thing I taught you last month? You know, the fire thing?”

“Oh!” Beryl said, then continued more cautiously. “Yeah…”

“Well, how cool would that look in ‘Lise’s fog?”

“Oh!” Beryl said again, realizing what her sister meant. “Yeah, let’s do it!”

“Okay, but remember, Beryl: control. Nothing is more important than control. These spells can really hurt someone if you’re not careful.”

Through the fog, Astria could just make out the shape of Beryl’s head, nodding. Then, the two sisters began to conjure flames in their hands, lighting up the fog without dissipating it. Then, Astria and Beryl made the fires change hue, and they put on an impromptu light show in the magical fog. Elise, having finished her spell, opened her eyes, and stared, amazed, at the way the colors changed the look of the mist.

“Now what exactly is going on in here?” Suddenly, Moira’s voice cut through the fog, and Beryl yelped. Her fire momentarily flared up, but Moira, with an infinitely patient smile, waved one hand, and just as quickly, the fog and the fires vanished. She then stepped into the room, looking reproachful, but only a bit. “Now, my memory might be fading in my old age, but I distinctly remember saying that at your ages, none of you should be practicing magic without me in the room.”

“Sorry, Maman,” Elise said quickly, hanging her head. Moira moved to her and put her hand around her shoulders.

“Sorry, Mom,” Beryl said next. “I thought it would be okay if Astria said so.”

Moira laughed pleasantly. “Beryl, that is precisely when it is the least okay.”

“Mother!” Astria said with a pout. “I wasn’t trying to cause trouble.”

“Yes, I know, Astria. But spells are dangerous even when you have years and years of experience. So from now on, I don’t want anybody playing with magic, especially fire, without me there.”

“I’m sorry, Maman,” Margot said. “I should have stopped them. This is my fault.”

“Oh, it’s not anybody’s fault, Margot,” Moira said. “And no harm came from it.”

“What happened?” Brigitte’s small voice sounded from the hallway beyond. “I wanna see too!”

A moment later Brigitte entered the room. Or, more accurately, her father Robert entered the room carrying the youngest of the sisters in his arms. The little girl was wide-eyed and grinning, anxious to be a part of whatever was happening. When nobody answered her question, Brigitte spoke again, turning her head toward Elise.

“Did you show them your fog thing?”

Moira turned to her youngest daughter and raised an eyebrow. “Her ‘fog thing,’ you say?” She turned to look back at Elise. “Have you been practicing with your little sister?”

Elise hung her head again, and Brigitte clasped both of her hands over her mouth. Robert simply laughed his fatherly laugh and shook his head. “Well, dear, they would hardly be your daughters if they didn’t practice their crafts.”

“Yes, and they would hardly be your daughters if they didn’t regularly do precisely what they have been told not to.”

Robert smiled warmly and set Brigitte down, then moved over and kissed Moira softly on the lips. She returned the kiss, placing her right hand softly on his chest as she did.

“I’d tell you two to get a room,” Astria said, “but I happen to know that you already have one.”

Margot nudged Astria gently in the ribs, and the younger sister was kind enough to quiet down. After Moira and Robert were finished, Margot cleared her throat.

“So, what’s the plan for the night?”

“We could have a game night!” Elise said quickly.

“Or dancing!” Brigitte added. “Margot owes me a lesson!”

“Oh, I owe you one, do I?” Margot laughed.

Brigitte nodded. “Yeah, remember last week when I styled your hair for you!”

“Is that why your hair is cut shorter on the right, Margot?” Moira asked. “I assumed it was a fencing incident.”

“No, Maman,” Margot said, shooting a quick look at Brigitte. “This style is, um, all the rage in the Queen’s court these days. Brigitte was helping me be…stylish.”

“Well, regardless,” Robert said, “your mother and I thought we would have a bit of a special dinner tonight.”

“Yes,” Moira said, then turned toward Beryl. “And we thought we would invite a few people over. Like, the Hartleys, for instance?”

Beryl’s face lit up. “Aloise is coming over?!?”

Astria and Elise both giggled at Beryl’s reaction.

“That’s the plan,” Robert said.

Elise pointed at Beryl and tried to suppress a laugh. “Beryl’s got a crush!”

“Elise!” Beryl said, turning bright red.

Moira smiled. “Elise, we will also be inviting the family le Douce.”

Elise gave a sharp intake of breath and, in more a whisper than anything else, said, “Henri!”

The other sisters laughed, even Margot, although her laugh was a bit more reserved than the others. Elise turned an even brighter red than Beryl had, although it may have just been the stark contrast between her usual, whiter shade of pale.

Robert smiled. “Margot, Astria, and Brigitte, if there is anyone you would like to invite, just let me know and I’ll get the word to them.”

“So, what’s the occasion, anyway?” Astria asked.

Moira shrugged, then wrapped her arms around Robert’s waist. “We’re a family,” she said with a wide smile. “That’s occasion enough.”

"The so-called Fire-Hand? Nothing but street ruffians with some fire tricks," the greengrocer says sagely, putting my next three days of fruit in a bag, "brainwashed by the Vedalken Cabal."

I blink, confused. "Vedalken Cabal?"

"Never heard of them? Poor girl," he shakes his head as he takes my money. "They freed the slaves so they could turn into criminals and make our country go bad." He taps his nose knowingly.

"Again with the vedalken conspiracies, old windbag?"

I turn to see a robust woman, big arms weighted down by grocery bags.

"Even you can't deny the truth about the Fire-Hand massacres, Julie!" the man snaps.

"Can, did, and will continue to do so to the end of time," the woman replies, unfazed, before placing her order. Miles grumbles under his breath as he starts to gather the food. It looks like it's not the first time they have this conversation. Julie glances to me with a sly smile as she laboriously fishes out her wallet. "Walk with me? I feel the need to repair at the damage Miles might have done to your young mind."

"Pah! The youths should listen to the salt of the earth, pencil-pusher!" Miles says as he helpfully hooks Julie's groceries on her left arm.

"Ever tried to sow salt, old goat? Went well, I bet," the woman said as a goodbye. She steps away, inviting me to follow with a head gesture.

Well, she offered to answer my questions. What else am I to do? "What do you think of the Fire-Hand, then?"

The woman thinks hard before answering. "As a citizen of Algiam, I'm alarmed that such violent actions could be carried in the whole country without anyone the wiser. As a decent person, I could not be happier - slavery is an appalling cruelty, no two ways about it."

"So you approve of the Fire-Hand."

She looks clearly torn. "It needed to be done," she says in the end. "The synod has been dragging their feet on the matter of abolition for years, all because of their connections with the slaver aristocracy, but every year of inaction is an indefensible atrocity laid at all of our feet."

"But not everybody agrees."

"Of course not," she makes a face, "and most of them have appalling or idiotic reasons to do so, as you have seen." She sighs. "Unfortunately, if I have to be completely honest, I think the Fire-Hand's methods are hard to reconcile with civilized society - destruction of property aside, freeing slaves in and of itself has no downsides unless you lived off exploitation, but throwing dozens of people in the street with no support?" She grimaces. "That's how gangs are born."

"Isn't that just what Miles said?"

Her lip curls in distaste. "I hope you're not saying I sound anything like that hillbilly loon. Not even pigs would eat his brains, as they say."

I quickly change topic. "I heard there are benefactors that opened their doors to a lot of freed slaves."

"I heard that too," she scoffs, "why would they do that, though?"

"...to help fellow citizens?"

She chuckles and shakes her head. "Optimist, are you?" She sighs. "Someone well-off enough to house a dozen ex-slaves has the connections to leverage the dependence of their "guests" into an advantage of some kind. Best case scenario, which already happened in Vanira, they get cheap legitimate workers and just replicate slavery with a nicer facade and possibly some governmental oversight, laughable as it is." She stops to politely greet a passing guard, waiting a moment before resuming with a slighter lower tone. "Alternatively, they could turn the freed slaves into a personal gang or militia, depending on the criminal or political leanings of the "benefactor". Proper weaponization hasn't happened yet, not to this extent, but you can see some worrying signs here and there if you know where to look."

I carefully don't point out that she's still sounding a bit like Miles. "So you disagree with the methods?"

She tilts her head one way and the other. "Not necessarily, despite the grisly murders - I will deny ever uttering these words, just so you know," she's quick to add with a cynical smile. "A more lawful and ordered process would have offered all kinds of openings for the slavers to tweak things their way - half of them are old money and most of the rest are also filthy rich. As it stands, the slave market's back is badly broken and the main players have no clean way to return into business barring a war that nobody wants - with the contracts up in smoke there's no proof of ownership, since no synod faction has even dreamed to update slaver laws in the last century - too politically fraught of a topic - so no insurance will pay a single scepter," she says in a single breath, with the tone of someone who knows all too well what she's talking about. "The synod could step in to help the slave-owners, but with the current malcontent it would be a suicide - and possibly not just in a purely political meaning."

I tap my chin in thought. A very complex situation, to be sure, but... "It sounds like this was the best solution, when put like that."

She sighs and tilts her head all to her right, eliciting a loud crack. "Maybe you're right - as an insurance clerk I'm a glorified professional worrier, and I've had a near-permanent migraine since the attacks started, so this story doesn't put me in a good mood, as you can imagine." She shrugs as much as the weigh on her arms will allow. "As I said, it's a thing that needed to be done and I stand by it - I'm just wary of the new problems that will replace the old."

I nod - that makes sense, I guess. "Do you think they the Fire-Hand will attack again?"

She purses her lips. "That's the million-scepters question - and in my line of work, that's not necessarily a figure of speech. Sixteen attacks in just under two months, all successful; if you had asked me at that time, I would have told you nobody with that kind of power would have resisted the temptation to do with the country what they wanted - again, professional worrier and all that." She makes her kinda-shrug again. "But they disappeared since, and nobody has seen neither hide nor hair of the creatures survivors report to have seen, so who knows."

"You live pretty close to the target of the last attack. Didn't you see the Fire-Hand yourself?"

"Ah, that. No, I was at work at the time - ironically, investigating the previous Fire-Hand attack."

I deflate a bit at that. "...oh. Who do you think could have been around at the time?"

"Crazy Thea, for sure," she replies without hesitation, nodding toward the square. "She's the owner of the bar across the ruined building. Nothing happens without her catching wind of it - she's not the most refined company, mind you." She stops, nodding at a nearby building. "Well, that's me. Have a good day, girl - and try not to worry too much, alright?" She winks.
"You too," I reply with a smile.

"Never!" She laughs, and we part ways.

* * *

"I don't care if it was a ten-story fire-spitting lizard or a vedalken statue made of diamonds and snot," Crazy Thea says, opening two beer bottles with each other's cap and setting them in front of two patrons, "this Fire-Hand fella's a **** menace. Felt the earth shaking from here, yes I did."

"Did you went to see what was happening?"

"I'm not that crazy," Crazy Thea says, flipping one of the patrons off for a rude remark. Her knuckles have the rough marks of a pugilist. "I've got a bar to run. I got a good enough look from here, thankyouverymuch."

"And what did you see?"

"Fire and smoke, at first," she says, taking a pause to count on her fingers, "then the help - the free workers, you know, cooks and cleaners - running out, then the guards running out, then the guards limping out, then the slaves running out - from the blood on their hands, I took a guess about the guards that might have wanted to come out crawling - then a bit more fire just to be sure then bam!" She slaps her palm on the bar. "Whole building comes down like trousers when it's two-for-one hour at Josie's." From the widespread snickering, I take a wild guess about the type of establishing she's referencing.

I frown. Did the Fire-Hand hop from there then? "Was there a back door?"

A rough voice calls out from the depths of the bar. "Still talking about Josie's?" I feel myself flush, but I keep my eyes on Thea.

"Sweetie's talking about the building, Rowan, keep your belt buckled," she sneers, but she's dead serious when she meets my gaze. "No use for another escape route, now was there? Boxed on three sides by other buildings, it was sheer dumb luck they stayed up - shut up, Rowan."

I nod. The story is familiar, as is the moniker, but I want to make sure. "Do you know anyone who worked there? Or... well... lived there?"

"Few decent folks had friends there," Thea shrugs, "slave-driving's a nasty business."

"So you're happy the slaves got free, then."

"Mixed bag," Thea shrugs again, "you have to keep in mind most slaves are - were, whatever - orcs and goblins, people that need honest folk with their head screwed up right to keep 'em out of trouble." She turns to call out a middle-aged goblin carrying an empty tray at the other side of the bar. "Am I right or am I right, Rak?"

"Yes sir of course sir!" He replies smartly, bringing the tray back as fast as his short legs allow.

"E-xactly." Thea punctuates her remark with an emphatic punch to the bar.

I point at the goblin's scarred shoulder. "Isn't that a slave brand? Didn't you say..."

"I've only been hiring him, sweetie - you won't find chains in my cellar," she says dismissively, to the exaggerated disappointment of some patrons.

How is that any different, I scream within my mind.

"Don't worry about him - Rak's harmless, practically furniture," Thea shrugs, completely misunderstanding my appalled stare. "He's been around longer than a few tables here, in fact."

Looking around, I can tell that's a genuinely remarkable feat. "Can I talk to him?"

"No chatting with the slaves - well, the help," she rolls her eyes, "when they're on the job."

My eye twitches. "When does he gets off work, then?"

"He leaves to return to whatever rat's nest he sleeps in when I kick the last good-for-nothings out of here," she drawls. "I don't work by clock, sweetie."

"Thank you for the information," I reply stiffly with a polite nod, fists balled at my sides.

"I wouldn't recommend hanging with a goblin after dark, though, sweetie," Thea warns, "they're like magpies, and you've got a shiny pair of eyes there."

My face is a porcelain mask. My face is a porcelain mask. My face is a porcelain mask. "I'll... keep that in mind."

* * *

"Oh, I hear of Fire-Hand sir," Rak nods. He sticks to the half-light of the square's street lamps, refusing to step in the full light.

I tilt my head. "Aren't you one of the goblins they freed?"

"So you know sir." He scratches his head. "Goblin like no change sir, because alive goblin can change into dead goblin sir. No change, alive goblin is still alive goblin sir."

"But now you are not slaves anymore," I insist. "Doesn't that mean you have the same rights of everybody else?"

"Yes sir, of course sir," Rak nods, and I get the feeling he's resisting the urge of rolling his eyes.

I recall the other conversations I had today. Right. "Um... do you get paid more, at least?"

Rak's eyes go wide and he shakes his hands, gesturing me to lower... my voice? "Oh, no change sir, no change at all sir! We no like change sir!" He says out loud, half-turned toward Thea's bar, then leans in conspiratorially. "We ask same wage as before sir - but now boss gets no cut sir, so more coin for goblin sir."

I tilt my head. "Isn't Cr- isn't Thea your boss?"

"Good one sir," Rak chuckles. "Work-boss gets no cut from work-boss sir. Chain-boss gets cut sir. But now no more cut."

"Ah." The slaver. Time to get back on topic. "You were there when the Fire-Hand attacked, then."

"Maybe, sir," Rak says carefully. "I hear guards attack back, sir, and I hear fire and screams."

"You didn't see the fighting?"

"No fighting sir, goblins like no fighting," he says hurriedly. Seeing the smooth scars glinting in the dim light, I don't doubt it.

"Did the other slaves... open your cell, then?"

Rak scratches his head, confused. "No sir, all bodies forget about goblins sir. All but Fire-Hand, sir."

"You saw them, then," I insist. Staying up to this ungodly hour was worth something at least. "The Fire-Hand. You saw what they look like."

"Yes sir, but nobody believes silly goblin sir."

"I do."

"Yes sir, of course sir," he nods, again with no intention of expanding further.

I sigh. "Did they look like a very tall humanoid reptile, Rak?"

Even now, they still hesitate before answering. "I know "human" but not "reptile" sir, and "tall" and "very tall" are small difference for small goblin sir... but Fire-Hand looks like a very very big lizard sir."

"Did they talk to you?"

Rak snickers naughtily. "Good one sir! Nobody wants to talk to goblins sir."

"I'm talking to you."

"Yes sir, of course sir," he nods again, and this time I can hear the sarcasm. "Fire-Hand opens our cage and we're alive sir, that's what matters sir."

"Your cage?"

Rak looks at me like I'm not very bright. "Goblins kept in cage in the cellar sir," he says slowly, "not the good cellar with salami sir, that one has windows sir."

I don't know what to say to that. I fish all the local money I have on me and offer it to him. "Thank you for speaking to me, Rak."

His eyes narrow slightly, but his grin doesn't falter. "Who is that many money for sir?"

"You," I say, confused. I lower my hands so he can reach it more easily. "It's for you, Rak."

This time he squints in open suspicion. He gingerly extends a hand, eyes stuck on mine, and lightly taps a coin. "For silly goblin," he says slowly.

I just nod, and wait.

This time he picks up another coin, glances at it and puts it back, all the while looking like he's a twitch away from bolting. When I keep completely still, polite smile stiffening a bit, his hands dart to mine and take all the coin in a single swipe. He holds it in front of his eyes with both hands, staring suspiciously at it.

I... just stay there, hands still extended. I've never seen quicker fingers, and I'm no slouch myself.

Rak wraps his scarred hands around the money, looking around with comical suspicion; he then brings it to his ear and shakes it. His eyes go wide. "Silly goblin talking, paid with silver instead of lashes sir?" He grins ear to ear, and the money vanishes in a flick of his bony wrists. He winks. "I like this change sir!"

Rak runs away, lightning-fast on his short legs, and he's gone before I can say anything else. I massage my temples, still punch-drunk from... everything as I search for a suitable alley.

A minute later, I'm gone too.

"You understand I am a detector, not a storyteller," the houndfolk says, idly drumming his fingers - claws? paws? - on his desk.

"I know, mister Donagut," I assure him as I sit opposite him, "I just happen to be interested in one of your old cases."

"Just Donagut," he says reflexively. "Which one?"

"The Red Hand."

His eyes narrow warily. I fish a bottle out of my pack and set it on his desk. His eyes dip down toward the label, and I can see the point of his tail as it straightens up, but he doesn't roll over just yet. "Who sent you to me?"

"A nice minotaur fellow," I reply, setting the second bottle beside the first. I stifle a smile as I spot his tail starting to wag. "I think his name was Officer Burkes."

“'Course it was,” Donagut grumbles, but without real venom. "Why do you want to hear about the Red Hand again?"

I shrug and causally move my pack, making the third bottle within clink. "I like stories," I just say.

"There are easier stories to stomach, Talya," he says, clearly torn.

I push the first bottle toward him, holding his uncertain gaze with determination. "I saw my share of bloodshed, Donagut. I don't need anybody to coddle me."

The detector considers me for a long moment. "Very well,” he huffs in the end. He opens the bottle and takes a long swig from it with single fluid movement - practiced, one might say. He squints, but I can't say if he's overwhelmed by the proof or enjoying the drink. Possibly both. "The Red Hand was a nasty killer," he begins, "not that there are nice killers, but most murderers don't burn their victim’s lungs from the inside out." He stops to gauge my reaction, but I just brace slightly - it's going to be one of those stories, then. "It started some five months ago, I think - I'm not too good with dates, not in-between cases. The Red Hand mostly targeted street muscle, thugs and pit fighters and the like, beating them to a pulp before killing them with fire. The Enforcers thought it might have been a small group at first – some muscle and a pyromancer - but the rumors said it was a disembodied arm made of fire, taking vengeance for some gruesome crime."

"It was neither," I guess.

"Yes and no," he makes a face. "I took a few hits from the Red Hand - it certainly felt like being hammered by an entire construction crew. And the fire arm was certainly there and plenty distracting, although it was attached to a flesh-and-bone body."

I nod thoughtfully. "You saw them up close, then. What did the Red Hand look like?"

"I fought them in the dark," he replies, glancing away, "I can't say I had the time to take a good look at them."

"You must be very strong," I point out, "You said the Red Hand usually targeted - and killed - street muscle."

That seems to be the wrong thing to say - he stares me warily for a long while after that, massaging the small bald patches on his throat. "I was lucky," he says cautiously, "and I wasn't one of their targets. I woke up covered ears to heels in bruises, but alive."

I nod, hiding all traces of doubt from my face, and look at him expectantly.

"I managed to get that night’s victim to the maggie - the magixaminer - before the magic on the body faded completely." He takes another swig for a dramatic pause. "There were many traces of pyromancy - surprise surprise - but also a faint sign of "corrupting magic" - an ominous-sounding clue that explained absolutely nothing."

“Better than no clue at all,” I argue.

He gestures at me with the bottle. “You could say that, sure. From her victims and a couple of frustrating nights, I figured out she was tracking down a magical drug – one that had been recently making its rounds in the arenas. The odd victims were either dealers or unusual users.” He grimaces. “I was then informed, over the course of a very painful evening, that as… unhappy as the established drug lords were about the Red Hand trimming their numbers, they were even more unhappy about their new competitor.” He takes a drink after that, ostensibly to forget.

“An outsider.” I tap my chin in thought. “Is this new drug so dangerous?”

“Oh, it was a lot of trouble alright,” he grumbles, lips curled in distaste. “It wasn’t a big stretch to guess the Red Hand and the drug lords had the same target – the head of the whole operation.”

“What happened then?”

“I tracked down a few dealers, but they were utterly loyal to their boss – they preferred to risk the Red Hand’s ire or the Enforcers’ cells rather than snitch. I kept at it a few more days, hoping to find a new angle for my investigation, but…”

“But?”

“Both the drug and the Red Hand just… disappeared overnight. Luckily, my report about the victims the Enforcers had never found and the links I found between the Red Hand and the aspirant drug lord were enough to get me paid – even if the official report paints the Red Hand as one of the other drug lords’ assassin, which is daft but also none of my business.” He celebrates the end of the story with a another hearty swig.

I'm not done yet, though. “What do you think happened?”

“Well, the way I see it, the Red Hand got their eyes on this ambitious businessman,” he shrugs, “and whoever survived figured it was better to lay low for a long while.”

I consider this story for a while, fingers steepled against my lips. “Was the drug itself… new? It sounds like it was unusual.”

The detector eyes me warily. There’s more behind this, something he doesn’t want me to know. “Why do you care, Talya?”

“Why would the Red Hand care?” I reply. “It’s part of their story - their case - after all.”

“In a manner of speaking,” Donagut concedes with a dismissive wave. “I don’t know for sure. About the motive, I mean.”

He looks a bit more relaxed now that the topic has circled back to the Red Hand. Interesting. “What would be your best guess, then?”

Donagut takes a swig as he ponders the question - to clear his mind, surely. “The Red Hand almost always killed their victims in the street,” he explains, “sometimes they dragged the victim in an alley at some point before they finished. The first time, from what I understand, was different.”

“Different how?”

“It went down in a small apartment.” His stare gets lost in the distance. “I only managed to get in at the very end of things. There were seven bodies thrown around – the Red Hand's highest body count for a single night, though not by far – and two of them were small. Children-small. All seven were burned beyond recognition.” He grimaces, clearly reliving the grisly memory, and pours more alcohol down his throat.

That gets a shiver out of me, I have to admit, but the detector seems to approve, so I don't keep the trace of horror out of my voice as I ask: “Why would the Red Hand kill children?”

“That’s a good question,” he nods with an owlish stare to the wall behind me, “that would deserve a good answer... which I unfortunately lack. However, there was also a strange coincidence.”

“I’m not a big believer in coincidences,” I reply idly.

“You’d be surprised at what kind of wild circumstances end up having perfectly innocent explanations,” he objects, waving the near-empty bottle around. He's apparently surprised by the faint sloshing sound the gesture elicits, so he upends the bottle over his open mouth - damn, those are sharp teeth - to drain the last drops. He clicks his tongue appreciatively before continuing. “But yeah, it pays to be wary of them. The man who lived there, single father of two, was killed a few hours before the seven were – in a pit fight against a guy who would become the Red Hand’s first “street victim” the next night.”

Donagut eyes the second bottle hungrily - well, thirstily, more like.

I tap my chin, carefully keeping the thought of the dead single father away from my mind. A small apartment with two children… and five more people. “Did the children die before they were burned?”

“I can’t know for sure,” Donagut warns, clearly finding it hard to take his eyes from the bottle. “but the scene does paint a certain picture.”

“The rumors were right, then,” I nod. “the Red Hand killed out of vengeance.”

“Maybe,” Donagut half-shrugs, then he looks perplexed by his own gesture for a short moment. “In my line of work, it doesn’t pay to jump to conclusions... but that would be my guess as well.”

"Thank you for your time, mister Donagut, it has been a pleasure," I say as I stand up and give him a polite nod, "dog-I mean, good evening." I quickly set the third and last bottle on his desk to distract him from my slip-up - with resounding success, I dare say.

"Just Donagut," he blurts, then gestures vaguely toward the door, eyes stuck on the new bottle. "Good evening to you too, Tayla."

There's a strange inflection on my fake name, but I don't worry too much about it. Between the crime rate and the squalor of the lower districts, both distressingly familiar, I don't plan to return to Nuwar anytime soon.

Even after I got the hang of traveling across worlds, following the Fire-Hand - one of their most frequent monikers - has never been easy. She - I'm pretty sure it's "she" - doesn't travel in any consistent pattern I've been able to recognize; she tends to stick to close distances, as far as proximity makes sense in the madness between worlds - that part took me years to figure out - and as far as I can tell she doesn't double back for long, if she ever does. Past that, it's all trial and error - and there were a lot of errors, especially at the very beginning.

Having to quickly scout many worlds - and having to make way more frantic escapes than I'm comfortable with - forced me to learn to world-hop pretty fast. Like, dodge-a-thrown-knife fast. I also developed a bit of a knack for homing to cities - the Fire-Hand might enjoy her wilderness, but I do not. Luckily, the stories of her exploits usually flow to and through cities quickly enough, so I don't need to get too outdoor. Usually. Kinda.

Case in point, I land in the shadow of a town wall - and thank goodness for that, because the heat hits me like a physical force despite the cover. I shield my eyes from the fierce sun and blink, waiting for my eyes to adjust. I'm in a desert-y place, in the shadow of a town whose low, hide-covered wall looks more like a formality than a line of defense. When I get to the town gate - a massive wurm jaw, easily five times taller than me and almost as wide - I spot several camels resting in an approximate half-circle near the other end of the gate, all kinds of tents and equipment scattered among them.

My breath catches when I see a clear viashino majority coming and going from the caravan.

The Fire-Hand's best firsthand accounts come from viashino; she gets closer to most inhuman races, and she goes out of her way to help goblins even though she rarely speaks to them, but she clearly has a soft spot for viashino. Between the rough descriptions I've been able to get and the fact viashino are the ones that stick most consistently to the same (feminine) pronouns for the Fire-Hand, I would bet my own left arm that she’s a viashino herself, or something close enough to be mistaken for one.

The caravan is well-worn and in need of supplies; I still have some golden bits stashed in the false bottom of my boots - I need to make another "shopping spree" soon - so it doesn't take much more than a quick trip to the town's small bazaar to get a viashino girl talking. Her name is Miliri, and she was wandering aimlessly around town with her little brother Tishka.

"The caravan had just stopped at the Topaz Oasis, and we were preparing to cross the Hungry Dunes - the wurms' hunting grounds," she explains, noticing my look of polite confusion, "when she casually strolled in on foot, no camel or anything, fresh as dew."

I have to play up my surprise a bit - wouldn't you know, the Fire-Hand seems to have an incredible resistance to heat. "Crossing the desert on foot?"

"Right?" She shrugs, adjusting my gift - several pounds of goat meat wrapped in "najarin leaf", whatever that is - on her shoulder. "We took her for a mirage at first – we even called her Mirage, because she never gave us a name. She politely went around us to get to the water and didn't speak a word until she had her fill."

"Did she say where she was going?"

Miliri shrugs again. "She never said, and we weren't just going to let a fellow viashino wander off to her death, weird-scaled mirage or not. She was surprised at the offer to join us, the big oaf," she shakes her head in disbelief.

"Hey!" Tishka pipes up from her side. He can't be older than twelve. "The Phoenix-Mirage's not an oaf." Phoenix-Mirage? That's new.

"Of course she's not," Miliri smiles fondly at the boy.

“Do you welcome mirages in your caravan often?” I joke.

“Stranger things happen in the desert,” she shrugs with a faint smile, like there’s a heavy shroud over her amusement. "Anyway, it's not like the next stretch of our path would have been an oasis swim - any lone viashino would be as good as dead, but even a good-sized caravan like ours needs all the hands it can get."

I barely keep myself from drawing attention to the Fire-Hand's anatomy. "Was she of help, then?"

"You could say that," Miliri says casually. "She was more than familiar with wurm-dazing - she went farther than anyone to lead them off and was always the last one back. The elder had already noticed this is an unusually active wurm mating season, so we weren't going to tell her to slow down - she clearly knew what she was doing."

There's a clear undercurrent of anticipation in Miliri's words. "It gets worse," I guess.

"It gets a lot worse," she nods. "They start to show up in pairs, meaning double the dazers on the ground and twice the danger." Miliri takes a deep breath, gaze lost in the distance. "Then a full spawn of four attacks us." Tishka huddles against his sister's leg.

"Bigguns," Tishka whimpers, small hands holding fast onto Miliri's vermilion dress.

I glance at the town's massive gate-jaw. "Four adults?"

The older girl just nods. "The elder was already asking for forgiveness to the sun," Miliri continues in a faraway tone, "for being unable to complete the sacred journey. I never saw him cry before." Tishka presses his forehead into his sister's dress.

Four massive wurms closing in and no way to flee. I shiver despite the heat, and wait in respectful silence.

"Then she – Mirage - just jumps off and charges." Miliri gently shakes her head. "I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes. She roars, and all wurms round on her. A phoenix heeds her battlecry, swooping down to make them back away from the caravan, then..." she shakes her head again in astonished disbelief.

"She fights them off," I conclude.

Miliri's eyes snap to mine. "She slays them."

My wide eyes return to the massive wurm jaw, then back at Miliri.

“We are running away - so her sacrifice wouldn’t be in vain – when the first wurm falls. That’s when I look back and I see her, flying on burning wings over the snapping wurms.” There’s a challenge in her eyes now. “The others don’t believe me, but I’ve got the best eyes in the whole caravan and I know what I saw.”

I think my astonished face speaks for me better than I could. “No, I… I believe you, Miliri.”

She nods curtly. “We only slow down when the fourth wurm falls dead. The first thing the Phoenix-Mirage tells us when she catches up is not to worry,” she shakes her head again, “because she burned the wurm-blood smell off herself so they won’t follow us.” She huffs in subdued humor. “Then she passes out where she stands.”

I stare into the distance for a moment to let that image sink in. “Was she unconscious long?”

“Just until next morning,” Miliri says. "She just vanished that same night," she shrugs, "no footprints, no nothing."

"A mirage!" Tishka pipes up.

"Like a desert mirage, yes," Miliri rolls her eyes fondly. She flicks her brother's snout, he takes her fingers between his teeth and lets out a soft play-growl.

I can't help smiling at the fond exasperation on Miliri's face as she frees her fingers and cleans them on Tishka's tan tunic. I softly clear my throat - this is my best bet to get a hint about where she has gone next. "She didn't say goodbye or anything?"

Miliri gives me a faintly amused look. "Do you expect mirages to announce their departure?"

"I don't expect mirages to kill four wurms dead," I point out.

Miliri shrugs. "Stranger things happen in the desert."

"Fair enough," I concede. "Who did she talk with last? Before disappearing, I mean."

She thinks about it for a while, expression slowly darkening. "Might have been Kruno," she says eventually, somber. Tishka's face crumples.

"Kruno?" I nudge gently, voice soft.

"Our father," Miliri says, holding her brother close. "He went out with the hunting party the day after the Phoenix-Mirage killed the wurms - she was weary from the fight, we wanted to pay her back with a small feast... we were out of the desert proper by then." She shakes her head dejectedly. "Not far enough, apparently."

"What happened?"

"A thrice-damned ebonscale viper happened, that's what," she breathes, closer to a sigh than a hiss. Tishka scowls at the ground. "He's still breathing, but the elder is gathering the herbs for his Sending as we speak. To give him peace in his last moments."

I nod somberly, feigning understanding. In Miliri's eyes it's a foregone tragedy, but a certain world comes to my mind - one I know the Fire-Hand is also familiar with. "And the Phoenix-Mirage left just after talking to him?"

"I think so - I don't blame her for not wanting to see him die." She sighs, eyes on the ground. "The Phoenix-Mirage wasn't around for long, but she and dad... grew close fast."

"She was like mama," Tishka offers, hugging his sister's leg.

"Yeah, she was," Miliri smiles faintly, scratching the small spikes on her brother's jaw. "People like them... they never stop fighting."

I lower my gaze. I shouldn't say anything, but... Tishka is about to lose his father. Just because the man wanted to return a kind gesture. "Don't lose hope," I blurt.

Miliri narrows her eyes at me, as if deciding whether I'm making fun of her loss. "Nobody survives the week after getting bitten by ebonscale," she hisses, “he’s been unlucky enough to have lasted three days so far.”

Three days. "I know," I lie, already looking for a hiding place to world-hop from. "Just... stranger things happen in the desert, right?"

"But we're not in the desert anymore," Tishka replies, confused.

I glance sunwards and pretend to realize I'm late, which I kinda am - three days. "I'm afraid I have to go," I say, already backing away. "Best of luck, and safe travels!"

"You too," Miliri replies absently, and I can feel her sharp eyes on my back as I walk away.

I arrive on Sanvi - Uhubi's biggest city-state - already wearing the curly blond hair and cheerful smile of Callie Ophain, a young researcher of exotic relics that came to life the day I realized Uhubi would become a frequent stop in my travels. The plane has the most advanced knowledge about medicine I ever encountered, a knowledge that saved my life more times than I care to remember.

I quickly make my way through the winding streets and enter a familiar apothecary - the renowned guild symbol hangs well-worn above the door, acting as both a guarantee and a sign. I immediately spot a familiar tangle of gray braids in a corner, bobbing as its owner restocks the low shelves. The man's broad back is turned to me, completely absorbed in his work. I just can't resist. "Good afternoon, Diovi!" I greet him, quite a bit louder than strictly needed. "Say, do you have anything for ebonscale viper bites?"

The robust apothecary jumps and whips around to face me with narrowed black eyes and a wagging accusatory finger, both leveled at me. "Callie! How m-many times do I have to tell-" he freezes, eyes going wide in panic. "E-ebonwhat? Viper?! Did you get bitten? When? How? Whe-"

"Nothing of the sort, Diovi, calm down," I giggle as I gesture for him to slow down. "I heard I might find all kinds of weird vipers where I'm headed next, so I just thought it wouldn't hurt to be prepared." My stock excuse, and one that never failed with him so far.

"Thank goodness," Diovi sighs in relief, wiping his brow. "Your expeditions really lead you to the wildest places, d-don't they? Your tutors work you way t-too hard, I keep t-telling you..." he drones on for a minute, half to me and half to himself, before remembering the topic at hand. "Anyway! viper, yes! W-we do keep opalsong kelp in stock - of course that's not an antidote for t-the snake you mentioned, nobody keeps anything specific far from the beast's habitat - but the kelp it's a potent, broad antivenom, it just stops most toxins in their tracks so the body can naturally heal from any lingering damage - a generic healing elixir at that point-"

"Thank you, Diovi, I think I get it," I interrupt him, smiling warmly so he doesn't get cranky. That's all good to know, but I need a source – the Fire-Hand doesn't trade with humans if she can help it. "And you get it fresh, do you?"

Diovi brings a chubby hand to his chest, scandalized. "O-of course! I bring it down from upriver every w-week with my own two legs! Do you d-doubt me so?" Upriver, huh?

Due to Diovi's age and build I, in fact, doubt that he personally retrieves his supplies from the merfolk - but it's only natural to take credit for one's "good-for-nothing" errand boys, is it not? "Of course not, Diovi! Say, how much would the kelp cost me?"

He worries his long gray beard in thought. "Fifty crowns an ounce," he then says smoothly, no trace of stutter in his voice.

I don't need to play up my wince at the price. Not that I actually planned to buy it myself, but... damn. I smile as endearingly as I can. "Even for me, Diovi?"

"Only for you, Callie," Diovi says, deflating, "M-market price is sixty-two." His eyes dart around nervously, looking for a solution. "However, that should count as f-four doses for a girl your size. If you don't think you're going to stay in the desert long - I never heard of that viper in the plains - I could portion just one or two doses-"

"Thank you, Diovi," I reply with a grateful smile. Diovi is a strict taskmaster with his help, but he doesn't lie about money - according to him, numbers are too serious for that. I tap my chin in thought. "I'll ask my tutor for more budget or some other kind of protection, I think."

Diovi nods, disheartened. "I... I might c-cut on the price a little more, but n-not by much," he mumbles, "let me know how it goes."

"Hey, don't worry about me!" I chirp, warm smile back at full force. "I always find a way, don't I?"

"Of course you do," Diovi replies softly. It takes some more idle chatter, but by the time we part ways he's able to muster a weak smile. He has a good heart - I wonder how that translates to asking for money in exchange for people's wellbeing, honestly, but that's a question for another time.

Luckily, there's not many places where merfolk do business with humans upriver - just the one, actually: a place called, with mind-boggling creativity, the "trading pond". With names like Opalsong Kelp, I bet the merfolk have a way cooler name for it.

The trek is three hours long - I've begrudgingly come to consider it "short" over my years on the Fire-Hand's trail - but it's an early autumn afternoon and the weather is still pleasantly warm, so the time passes quickly enough. I'm painfully aware I have no way to contact the merfolk, but that has never stopped me before - I, like Callie, always find a way.

That doesn't mean it can't take a damn long time, however.

I probably waste half an hour by the deep pond, trying all kinds of greetings and calls to the smooth surface of the water - nobody can spot a merfolk hidden deep in their element - with no apparent result. I cross my arms, biting back some choice insults that might attract the wrong kind of attention. I pinch the bridge of my nose and think. I'm good at thinking, right? I wouldn't have lasted seven years through dozens of worlds with no training if I wasn't. Right.

Well, what do I know about Uhubi merfolk? They're ruthless traders - and I have nothing of worth I can barter without giving away way too much about my story. That sucks. What else? They never lie when talking business - which is good, but not enough. There was something else... yeah! They are curious and sometimes playful - well, I might be able to work with that.

I kneel by the edge of the pond and lean forward, looking at my reflection. I shouldn't give away my identity completely, that sounds like a bad idea. But somebody curious and playful would be interested into... I let my illusion go, light brown hair now framing my face, and barely keep myself from tucking them under my ear nervously. "Good afternoon," I say instead, staring purposefully in the water with a polite smile, "are you having fun?"

The water surface breaks just to my left, and two smooth scaly arms extend out of the pond to gracefully cross on the grass at my side. The merfolk softly puts her small oval face - undoubtedly feminine despite the mustache-like catfish whiskers - on her forearms and smiles mischievously at me, the bright scales on her cheek glittering in the mid-afternoon as she does. "Immensely," she says. "Good afternoon, pretend-girl."

"I figure a fine entertainment like that is worth a few questions," I reply, carefully keeping the surprise out of my reaction - if the merfolk wants more entertainment from me, she can pay in advance.

"Perhaps, perhaps... depends on the questions, depends on the answers," the merfolk girl warns, voice lilting in a musical accent - accepting my trade in principle. Good. "What is your first question?"

Well, no point in wasting time. Well, more time. "Did a large viashino come here to barter for opalsong kelp lately? Her left arm is either missing or on fire." Luckily, viashino are not unheard of on Uhubi - but still rare enough to draw attention.

"Either missing or on fire?" The merfolk giggles. "Why not both, or neither?" I fear she's just making fun of me for a moment, a last joke to humiliate the silly human before disappearing back in the pond, but she eventually nods. "Someone looking like her has been known to trade with us from time to time, that is true. What is your second question?"

I keep my smile polite and my voice level, doing my best to curb my anticipation. "How long ago did she last came by?"

"That's a very different kind of answer you want, pretend-girl," the merfolk chides her, "that will cost you an answer in return, so listen well: who are you?"

I know my smile turns a bit stiff at that, but I can't help it. That's not a question I'm going to answer. Not to this merfolk girl. How can I still give her enough to be satisfied? "I can tell you I'm not Callie Ophain, young seeker of ancient relics," I try with a mischievous wink.

"That's good to know," the merfolk replies, unimpressed, "but not what I asked. So all I shall give you is an answer you didn't ask for: my name is not Gilly."

I take a deep breath. Damn. "A pleasure to meet you, not-Gilly."

She nods, a hint of smug satisfaction in her smile. "Likewise, not-Callie. Let me try another question, let you try another answer: why do you ask after that woman?"

I should not lie to merfolk. Probably. But I need to know if I'm still chasing her or I'm finally ahead - I need that answer, and the truth won't get me there. I open my mouth, and I surprise myself at how easily the story spins out of my mouth: "I know why she needs the kelp," I begin, and that's where the truth stops. "She had promised to visit me last week, but things just keep happening and we keep missing each other. If I know when she left I can have an idea of when she'll make it back to my place, so I can surprise her with a warm meal and a good bottle." Let it be enough. Let it be enough.

The girl tilts her head back and forth, eyes wandering as she digests my story. "Before I answer, I have something for you," she says, and disappears with barely a splash. The merfolk resurfaces after a couple of minutes, smoothly as ever, offering a small pouch that's perfectly dry by the time it's in front of my face. "Here it is - itching powder," she says with a mischievous smile, "rarely amiss in a prank. Depths know that woman could use a distraction."

I smile gratefully - not that I have any plan to put itching powder on the Fire-Hand, but you never know - and put the pouch in one of my pockets. "Thank you, not-Gilly."
The merfolk nods, satisfied. "The woman you speak of last came to us yesterday, close to noon, and left in a hurry not long after that," the merfolk simply said. "Goodbye, not-Callie - may you find what you need in your travels." She seamlessly disappears underwater once more, this time for good.

"Goodbye, not-Gilly," I reply to the smooth surface of the pond. Then I leave the small clearing, forcing my steps not to be too hurried, and fish the smelly pouch out of my pocket to bury it deep in my pack. As soon as I am outside hearing range of the pond I hide behind a large enough tree and hop back to the jaw-gate town - I may be still in time to meet the Fire-Hand there.

I am not.

Both Miliri and Tishka are giddy with joy this time around, and the former is graceful in accepting my felicitations in learning about her father's recovery. She doesn't tell me anything about the Phoenix-Mirage's return, however - she's nervous at her mention, as if she's suddenly worried for the Fire-Hand. Why would she be? Luckily, it doesn't matter - I can feel something, a trace to which none of my senses respond but I can still say for sure it's there. It's a matter of a minute to find a hiding place and world-hop after it.

I am close.

I am so close.

I land on a beaten path, deep within a forest. Not near a city, which is... ultimately good. It means I've stuck close to the Fire-Hand's trail rather than following my city-homing-sense.

On the other hand... which way did she go? There are no clear footprints on the ground - not that I'd be able to recognize hers - and the path is wide enough that she could have gone either way without disturbing the flora.

How am I supposed to track a person that hasn't left her mark on this plane yet?

Okay, this is... bad, pretty bad, but don't panic. Don't. Panic. Think, girl, think. She probably knows little of this world as well. What path would the Fire-Hand choose? Why would she pick one over the other?

I look both ways. There is no difference in the path itself, not in the plants on either side - as far as I know. What if-no. No point in speculating on things I can't even notice. Hm... it's late afternoon here, no time to start long treks; the sun filters through the trees... nobody would travel with the sun straight in their eyes, right?

Except it's kind of a thing in Jakkard, where riding toward the sunset is seen as... romantic, I guess? Not that the Fire-Hand strikes me as much of a romantic, but... ugh. What else can I-

I freeze as something sharp nudges the small of my back. My back starts to feel warm, as if I had a bonfire lit behind me.

"Don't try anything," a deep voice warns, casual and firm. Not that I planned to. I slowly raise my hands in surrender, but I hear a dismissive huff. "You can keep your hands down." It doesn't matter, it's the loud unsaid, and I tend to agree. The voice breaks the silence again after a minute. "You are following me." Not a question. She knows.

Despite the circumstances, I feel a knot in my stomach unwind - I found her, one way or the other. "Miliri," I say absently. No way she didn't tell on me.
"Good guess," the Fire-Hand says, but she sounds unimpressed. "You also have a pretty unique smell on you - the Uhubi merfolk jokingly call it Liar's Bane."

I bite my lip, and my nails dig in my palms as I clench my fists. I knew it. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

"Why are you on my trail?" She doesn't sound bored, exactly, more like... detached, even as I feel her burning gaze on my neck. I am acutely aware of how close I am to a swift death. "Don't bother to lie," she adds as an afterthought. Again, I didn't plan to.

"I have two questions for you," I just say.

"Two questions," she repeats, and this time mildly surprise colors her husky voice. "Well, first I'll ask a few myself, if you don't mind. Are you alone?"

I hang my head. "Yeah," I breathe. It hurts to say it out loud.

She takes a deep breath. "Do you expect you'll end up liking the answers?"

I shake my head. "I don't care. I just want the truth."

"Just the truth," she chuckles with dry, bitter humor. "Ambitious, are we?" She sighs. "Ground rule: if you want things to remain civil don't run, don't planeswalk and don't use magic. I have no reason to harm you right now - don't give me one. Got all that?"

I nod. I don't understand what "planeswalk" means, but it's probably a word for world-hopping.

The sharpness against my back is no more, and the radiating warmth also stops. "Good. We'll walk a bit before I hear your questions. Come."

I turn and finally look at her.

She is... big. I knew she was tall, but I expected the stories to exaggerate. She towers over me without trying to, easily eight feet tall, and her good arm is wider than my torso. The green of her eyes is duller than mine, but her gaze feels sharp as a razor as she sizes me up. I find no sympathy nor judgment in her eyes, only idle curiosity. I realize I'm staring, but she shows no signs of impatience or wariness as she just stares back in silence.

Then she gestures for me to move with her empty right hand - I try my best not to look at her left stump - and the moment is gone.

She leads me straight out of the path, around wide trees and across gnarly roots until I suspect we can't be seen from the path anymore. That should probably be scary, but it isn't. She gestures toward a flat space that's too small to be called a clearing, making it clear she doesn't care if I sit or stand. I sit down on the uneven grass when she leans against a tall tangle of roots. "Let's get it over with, then," she says, not unkindly. "Two questions, you said."

I nod and nervously clear my throat. "What is your name?"

She tilts her head and gives me a searching gaze for a long moment. "If you followed me for any length of time," she eventually says, "you know that's not something I share lightly."

I nod - it's not like I don't understand. "My name is Kimberley Talon," I begin, the name almost foreign in my throat after all this time. I can see it's not familiar to her. I'm not surprised.

Her piercing gaze is still nailing me on the spot. "Do you intend to share my name with others?"

I shake my head. "No," I simply say. "I just wanted to know for myself."

She thinks about it for a minute. "I'll hold you to that, Kimberley," she eventually says, carefully even. "My name is Sharaka." I only realize how little of an accent she has when I feel the foreign syllables thrum deep in her throat. "That is not my full name, but it's all you're gonna get."

I nod, gaze dropping to my lap. Sharaka. It sounds... small, without the veil of the unknown, but that's still a precious secret so few people know.

"What was your second question again?"

I meet her gaze again. "Why did you kill my father, Sharaka?"

She doesn't move nor stiffens but her gaze hardens, and it feels like a cold claw gripping my spine.

I take a deep breath. I waited a long time for this moment. As Sharaka stares right through me, I tell her my own story. “Once, there was a young girl. She had a father who loved her very much.” I begin, voice steady. “Her father said he was good to her. But he was not so good to others. The young girl knew that her father loved her, and would never let her go.” I pause to gather myself. “And he never did.”

Her eyes narrow for a split second. Suspicion or something else, I can't tell.

"The father did all kinds of things to provide for his daughter. And though it is not until many years later that she understood what her father was doing, she was still scared whenever he came home smelling like metal and blood. And yet again." I take a deep breath. "The girl was even more scared when one night her father didn't come home."

The slightest tilt of her head. I swallow.

"The girl waited. She waited, because her father didn't want her to leave the house when he's away. She waited, even as hunger tied her stomach in knots - her father wanted them to always eat together. But when her father didn't come home for a full day, the girl sneaked out." I take another deep breath, closing my eyes and steeling myself. "She found her father not far from home, broken and abandoned in an alley like an old toy, a big hand-shaped burn across his face."

She lets out a soft huff. Maybe an acknowledgment.

"The girl wept as she knelt beside her father - such a strong man, crumpled on the ground like a ragdoll. She cried, and cried, and cried until she had no tears left in her eyes." I force my breath even. "She swore, kneeling on her father's dried blood, that she would find the person who killed her father. She swore she would find out who, and she would find out why. She swore, and with such hatred in her heart, she found herself somewhere else entirely." I take a last pause and meet Sharaka's sharp, steady gaze with defiance. "It took seven years, and I still have a question left unanswered." Now that it's all out, the story leaves me... empty. I only manage to keep my back straight out of stubborness.

Sharaka looks away in the middle distance, brow slightly furrowed in thought. "When I was younger, I jumped into new planes teeth first, eager to get it over with any resistance people might have to a giant talking lizard." She shakes her head slowly. "As I grew older and collected more close calls that I was comfortable with, I figured this newfangled thing called caution didn't sound so bad, actually."

She huffs to herself, showing no interest in my lack of reactions. "So when I find myself in a new city nowadays, I find a dark corner where I can just... take it all in. I get most information thought smell - racial makeup, common foods, general mood, the list goes on - so sometimes I even rest my eyes as my snout does the hard lifting. Sometimes, individuals with more guts than brains see a big napping lizard and try their luck." She half-shrugs, only moving her stump's shoulder - a familiar gesture. One that a detector did despite himself. "I can ignore a mugging attempt, and I can tolerate a weapon pointed at me. But at an armed attack... I do not hesitate to respond in kind. No matter whether they are an actual threat or not, mind you - my reflexes are trained to stop attackers in the most effective way possible and I don't resist them. Nothing more than that."

I just nod, feeling a bit lost - it feels traitorous to even think that, but a part of me expected way less.

She huffs in bitter humor and half-shrugs again. "I say all this, but in all honesty I don't remember killing your father. That mugger rant was just the most likely explanation, just as the burned hand on your father's face means I'm by far the most likely culprit. That's not the truth you were in all likelihood looking for, but that's all I can give you."

I nod again.

Sharaka snorts; humor or frustration, this time I cannot tell. "Mission accomplished, then. You found your father's killer; you asked two questions and got two answers, lackluster as they were." She tilts her head and meets my gaze again, expression unreadable. "What will you do now?"

All facts are here, plainly laid before me. I only have to say something - something I've been wanting to tell her for years. I blink away tears. I open my mouth, but I choke up. "I... I will thank you," I manage after a few tries. "Thank you, Sharaka, thank you, because t-that man..." Tishka's eyes flash in my mind, filled with joy and relief after his family was spared from death - I remember my own sunken eyes, full of dread in my old home's mirror as I waited for him to return. I cover my face with my hands as I start to weep in earnest. "That man was no father."

The words break something deep inside me, and I suddenly feel Sharaka's presence in my heart, a steady warmth just brushing against me. I messily wipe the tears off my eyes to look up and I finally see her - a warrior worn beyond her years, a woman that doesn't hesitate to share my pain even if she has no idea how to relate to it, another orphaned daughter - and for a single, unforgettable moment, words and names and lies and stories don't matter.

I am not alone.