The orphan of Blightmarch is a creature born not of love, but of ash, gutter-water, and silence. By the time they can walk, they’ve learned to flinch at kindness and lie with their eyes open. Their prospects are as follows: conscription into the Flesh Guilds, indenture to the Bone Priories, or abandonment to the Gulch Pipes, where the plague feeds first on the weak and the watchful.

  Those deemed strong are sent to haul corpses for the Crematoria Barge. Those deemed clever are sold to scholars in the Pale Cloisters, where the brain is pickled long before the body. The gang-lords take the cruel. The brothels take the beautiful. The Ash Monks take the rest, and none return the same.

  They say a clever orphan may one day become a merchant’s clerk or an exiled baron’s scribe—but only if they survive the mines, the worms, and the nights that chew through the lungs.

  They also say the best-paying job in Blightmarch is hanging. One swing, and all your debts are forgiven.

  – From ‘The Orphan’s Almanac’, Written in ash on the walls of Saint Sallow’s Burnt Orphanarium

  The explosion was too loud. Too bright. And a bit too much.

  Evelyn’s legs felt like they barely belonged to her as she stumbled out of the warehouse and into a dark alley, barely registering the orange blaze roaring behind her. The ground shook beneath her feet, and a plume of thick, black smoke curled into the sky, swallowed by the poisoned mist hanging over the city.

  She wanted to turn around and look at what she’d done, but just a cursory glance behind her, and she already saw men bursting from the windows on the second floor, leaping over the balconies, trying to get away from the fire.

  Some dragged themselves out of the warehouse on their hands and knees, coughing and hacking. Others ran out screaming ablaze, stumbling blindly. The rest of the men with four arms and jagged tattoos stood around the square in front of the building, shaking their sawblades over their heads.

  “Find them!" one of them roared, spittle flying from his mouth. "Find the thief who dares rob the Repossessors!”

  She was going to die. She was going to die.

  Evelyn ducked her head into the alleys and ran. She didn’t have a plan. Barely even had a direction. Blightmatch’s streets were always a tangle of shadowed alleys, dead ends, and locked doors that never welcomed people like her, but tonight, she was especially confused. Her legs barely carried her as she half-ran, half-fluttered, her torn fly wings buzzing weakly. Pain lanced through her ribs with every step. She wasn't sure if it was from the heat, the smoke, or the sheer terror choking her—she ran, and she heard hordes of Repossessors swarming the streets behind her.

  She shouldn’t have been there. She shouldn’t have even touched that damn crate. She’d just wanted something small. Something she could sell, something that might last her and her dears a few more nights. A scrap of medicine. A bite of food.

  A horrible mistake that was.

  “Down this way!”

  “Don't let 'em get away!”

  The men’s voices thundered behind her, booted footsteps hammering against the ground. They were faster and stronger. They weren’t gasping like fish on land, weren’t wheezing with every breath, and they weren’t dizzy and lightheaded from the sheer panic choking their brains.

  She turned sharply into another alley and nearly screamed when she hit a wall head-first.

  A dead end. Nothing but a damp brick wall, a pile of broken crates, and a rusted gutter pipe in front of her. No way out. No escape.

  No.

  No, no, no!

  Not here. Not like this. The men’s footsteps were nearing her. There was no time to run out and pick a different hiding spot with her half-torn wings and trembling legs. She couldn’t even try to hop onto the roof and get out that way.

  She swallowed a whimper and pressed herself into the corner behind the pile of broken crates, curling into a tight, trembling ball in hopes they wouldn’t notice her as they ran by—but oh, she knew they’d find her. She knew what they did to thieves. What they did to people who crossed them. They'd flay her alive, saw off all her limbs, take what they could sell, and leave the rest to rot.

  The voices were right outside.

  “The two of you, check that alley! Don’t let the fucker escape!”

  She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed.

  Saintess Severin, take pity.

  Saintess Severin, take me not to the red vaults.

  Hide me in your veil, keep my breath soft, keep my bones whole.

  Let them pass me, let them not see.

  Let me stay unseen, unheard, untouched.

  I will lay wax to your altar, I will leave honey at your shrine, I will not defile your name with a sinner’s breath. I will—

  The alley erupted with snarls.

  Just as two men were about to swerve into her alley, her eyes shot open to see three great hounds shooting past her, barking at the men like their life depended on it.

  The men outside swore and stumbled back.

  “Fucking hounds!” one of them spat. “Leave it—keep looking!”

  The voices faded. The footsteps went with them.

  Evelyn’s breath hitched in her throat, her whole body locked in place as if moving might break whatever fragile grace had just been bestowed upon her, but the hounds slunk back into the alley. She flinched as their warm tongues pressed against her burned skin, the sudden touch nearly sending her scrambling away again, but then—she knew those paws.

  That scent of rain and blood.

  "... Bram?" she whispered, eyes widening at the hounds. "Luce? Rags?”

  The three hounds wagged their tails, their golden eyes gleaming in the dark.

  "Saintess keep me," she choked, sinking forward, her fingers curling into their thick fur. "What—what are you three doing here?"

  Bram, the largest of them, whined low in his throat and licked a cut on her wrist, his tongue rough. Luce nuzzled against her ribs, warm and steady, while Rags—always the impatient one—clamped his teeth gently around her sleeve and pulled.

  "Alright, alright," she murmured, dazed, letting them drag her to her feet. “You don’t hafta pull me.”

  She swayed. Her world still reeled from running too fast for too long, her chest heaving, her limbs burning. But there was no time to stop. She staggered to the alley’s mouth, peeking out.

  Left, then right. The streets roiled with smoke and screams, but no one was looking this way.

  Now.

  She bolted.

  The city twisted around her in a blur of broken cobblestones and iron-streaked mist, the hounds snapping at her heels, following her. She was almost out. Almost home. Just a little more and—

  She turned a corner and slammed into something solid.

  Something tall.

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  Glass shattered. Liquid splashed across both of their chests.

  “Ah, for fuck’s sake—my seventy percent!”

  Evelyn staggered back, her wide, terrified eyes meeting the blank lenses of a man in a crow mask. While he busied himself grumbling and wiping alcohol off his coat, the bespectacled lady in a dark dress beside him tilted her head at Evelyn, watching in silence.

  They looked like bad news.

  "S-sorry!" Evelyn gasped.

  And that was all she said as she bolted from the scene and kept running, because like most things Bharnish did, running meant life or death.

  Maeve ran beside him, all focused, all determined, but Gael was still preoccupied and scowling at the memory of the little street rat who’d bumped into him and spilled his drink. His poor, beloved drink. The bottle had shattered, wasted liquor soaking into the grime, and he hadn’t even gotten a proper look at the brat before she bolted. He remembered the tangle of scruffy hair, too-thin limbs, and eyes wide with terror—but then again, he supposed anyone would be terrified upon seeing his mask.

  He clicked his tongue, rubbing at his temple as if that would erase the annoyance.

  Then, suddenly—

  A flash.

  Blinding, even for the briefest of moments. A sharp pulse of light that licked at the edges of his vision before vanishing. He slowed, frowning as he looked up, expecting to see something—a lantern swinging, a trick of the fire’s glow, maybe even a spotlight from the floating City of Splendors cutting through the mist—but there was nothing.

  Just the same skeletal buildings, their soot-streaked walls barely visible in the thick, polluted fog curling through the streets. The hair on the back of his neck prickled.

  Maeve noticed him slowing down and paused herself, scowling back at him. “What?”

  “Thought I saw…”

  He hesitated, squinting.

  “Eh.” He shrugged. “Never mind.”

  She barely gave him a glance. “Don’t care. Keep moving.”

  And that was that. Gael let it go. After all, the fire ahead was massive, its glow clawing hungrily at the sky, reflecting off every wet surface in eerie, flickering light.

  As they turned the last corner into a wide square, the heat hit him full-force: it was a stifling hot wave pressing against his skin, filling his lungs with scorched air. Smoke billowed out in thick, rolling clouds, staining the night with an unnatural orange glow.

  This neighbourhood was pure chaos.

  About four dozen Repossessors—thin and lanky men with patchwork leather masks and grafted limbs—were sprawled across the square in various states of suffering. Some were still moving, groaning as they cradled burned flesh and shattered bones. Others sat slumped against walls, staring blankly at the inferno, their eyes glassy with shock. Blood dripped onto the cobblestones, pooling in the cracks, while the able-bodied men were doing their best to douse the flames.

  It was all wasted effort, of course. Neighbours and locals were cooperative, forming chains of water buckets quickly tossed into the blaze, but the three-story tall warehouse was the definition of ‘engulfed in flames’. It wasn’t going to survive the fire.

  Maeve slowed to a stop at the mouth of the square, her gaze fixed on the burning structure. Her face was tight, jaw set.

  “That’s… a lot of fire.”

  Gael didn’t waste a breath.

  “Hoist me up, Exorcist.”

  She turned sharply, brow furrowing. “What—”

  He was already moving. He grabbed her shoulder, stepping up before she could refuse, and climbed onto her like she was nothing more than a conveniently placed ladder. Maeve made a sound of pure disbelief, staggering as she tried to find her balance.

  Gael, of course, had no need to try. He may be swaying precariously on her shoulders, but hanging on by a thread was exactly what a perpetual half-drunk, half-drugged man was good at.

  Before the Exorcist could get irritated with him and throw him off, he cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled,

  “Oi! Anyone dying and don’t wanna?”

  The effect was immediate. Heads turned. Burned and battered gangsters lifted their gazes, blinking blearily at him. The few still capable of speech muttered curses under their breath. Somewhere in the back, one particularly crisp-looking fellow coughed up blood.

  Gael only grinned harder.

  “Got burns? Got broken ribs? Got your grafted bits falling off? Come on down to your friendly local clinic, Blightmarch Ward, Asphodel Lane Number Two, the rundown church at the end of the street! We’re open late, we don’t ask questions, and best of all—” he spread his arms wide, “—it’s cheap as dirt! Feel free to knock on the front door anytime you like!”

  A long silence stretched between him and the crowd of suffering Repossessors.

  Maeve twitched beneath him. “Doctor.”

  “I’m working over here.”

  “Doctor.”

  “Five more seconds. They need to see me and remember what I look like—”

  Maeve crouched slightly, then threw him off. He hit the ground hard, the cobblestones knocking the breath out of him.

  “You… witch.” He rolled onto his back, groaning.

  Maeve dusted off her dress, her face utterly unimpressed. “I’m going home.”

  Gael cracked his spine back into place and sat up, rubbing his ribs. “You could’ve been gentle about it.”

  But the Exorcist was already storming off back the way they came, so, sighing, he clambered to his feet and raced after her. He wasn’t about to get left behind—not when they were still ankle-chained together, and she was liable to start dragging him by the foot if he were too far away from her.

  A point could be made that Gael should do first-aid on the men in the square in order to earn their trust, but they were Repossessors. They sure as hell weren’t going to let a Plagueplain Doctor approach them under the guise of ‘assistance’, much less while they were still agitated, on edge, and looking bloodthirsty as ever.

  Nah.

  If I’m treating them, they have to come to me.

  An hour past midnight, and Gael was still waiting.

  Slouched on the bench right in front of the altar, legs stretched out, head tilted back against the Saint’s cold stone legs, he had but only one thought in mind: the prayer hall was way too brightly lit. Cara had bought bioarcanic lanterns that glowed warm orange perpetually, and those hung around the corners were honestly already bright enough, but then the glowing crystals added even more light—it almost made the clinic a little too distinct for this part of town.

  Still, it was only the inside of the clinic that was like this. He was sure the crystals outside the building were just bright enough to lead people to the front door, so he could remove a few crystals from the prayer hall tomorrow morning.

  Tomorrow.

  Right now…

  Maeve sat beside him on the bench, arms crossed, foot tapping idly against the floor. Cara, standing behind both of them with a mug of tea, was not idly waiting. She was glaring. Directly at him.

  “What’d you do this time?”

  Gael blinked up at her, slow and innocent. “I do many things. You’ll have to be specific.”

  Cara whacked him on the back of his head. “Who are we waiting for?”

  “A bunch of injured people. You’ll love them. We’ll love them. We’re gonna make loads from this.”

  That didn’t seem to reassure Cara completely, but she stayed quiet as time stretched and their eyelids grew heavier.

  The warmth of the clinic, the faint lull of crackling lanterns, the distant muffled sounds of Bharncair’s night crowd—Gael felt himself drifting. Maybe he’d miscalculated a little. Maybe those charred bastards had found another place to bleed out in. Or maybe they’d died. That’d be unfortunate and unprofitable.

  Then, at long last, there was a knock on the door.

  Gael jolted, blinking blearily. He rubbed his mask as though that would fix his exhaustion and called out.

  “Not locked! Just come in unless you need me to hold your hand too!”

  The door at the end of the prayer hall creaked open, and a shadow loomed against the threshold. The braided-hair man who stepped inside wore a patchwork leather mask that only covered his mouth, a heavy duty trench coat mottled with scorch marks, and sported six arms to boot. Two normal ones. Four more—spindly, chitinous—jutted from his back like a spider’s cursed afterthought.

  Gael barely reacted, but Cara did. She stiffened at the sight of a Repossessors, lips pressing into a thin, unpleasant line, while Maeve, ever practical, just exhaled sharply through her nose.

  The Repossessor’s cruel gaze landed on Gael, and the moment his eyes found the Plagueplain Doctor mask, he scowled.

  “Is this the clinic?” he shouted in a deep voice, rough with the wear and tear of smoke and fire.

  Cara sighed—as if this were somehow her burden to bear—then forced on her best ‘respectable receptionist’ smile and stood. “You must be the injured. How many are you bringing in?”

  The Repossessor stepped aside and gestured, inviting a party in.The able-bodied dragged the broken behind them: burned men, bleeding men, men who looked half-alive at best, their flesh torn, their bones bent wrong, their masks removed to reveal eyes sunken and dazed. About forty of them staggered in, the stink of charred skin clinging to most of them like a second layer of filth.

  The benches in the prayer hall filled almost instantly. The floor filled next. Blood smeared against wooden floorboards, sweat glistened in the lantern light, and through it all, the reek of burnt flesh thickened the air. Maeve turned slightly, her jaw tightening as though swallowing back nausea.

  Gael laughed. With a small flourish, he reached into his pocket, fished out a small glass vial, and smashed it over his own head.

  Perfume.

  The scent exploded into the air: cloying floral notes, something citrusy, something faintly herbal. It clashed violently with the odor of burned bodies, and while it didn’t turn the atmosphere into roses, it certainly stopped the Exorcist from choking as much next to him.

  Meanwhile, the man with the spider arms turned back around to stare at Gael. “I have thirty-seven injured men,” he said plainly. “Can this clinic help them or not?”

  Gael turned to the prayer hall, surveying the chaos. The benches were already filled, groans were already echoing off the walls—the only thing that was missing here was a doctor.

  “Thirty-seven men is too many men for a normal man,” he said, groaning and leaning on his cane as he popped to his feet. “Of course, except for me, Gael Halloway—”

  Cara whacked him on the back of his head again. “Shut the fuck up and just get to work.”

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