The world snapped into agonizing, technicolor clarity. One moment, I was a ghost, a wisp of a soul tethered by a thread of ancient magic, observing the slow decay of my former life. The next, my lungs burned, my knees threatened to buckle, and my new body, a stranger’s vessel, was hurtling through the humid, acrid air of Pelagosa’s lower canals. Neon reflections smeared across slick cobblestones. Alchemical steam-bullets, emerald tracers hissing like angry serpents, stitched patterns into the grime-stained walls beside me. “Keep moving, you fool!” a guttural voice roared from behind, too close. “He wants you alive, but I’ve got quotas!” Alive. Oh, right. Morovan. That backstabbing, perpetually terrified imbecile. He needed me alive, not because he cared, but because my continued existence was inextricably linked to his own. My death, triggered by his, would instantly snuff out this frantic, new life I’d been granted. What a perfectly inconvenient bind. My new body was a marathon runner’s nightmare. Every muscle screamed. My chest felt like an iron cage clamped shut. This was not the elegant, deliberate escape I’d planned from my spectral vantage point. This was pure, unadulterated physical exertion, and I despised it. I didn’t do physical exertion. My preferred method of problem-solving involved a plush chaise lounge, a glass of spiced wine, and a minion or three to handle the actual *doing*. Another steam-bullet ripped through a dangling power conduit, showering sparks. The canal-city hummed with the ceaseless thrum of industry, a symphony of gears and churning water, now punctuated by the frantic staccato of a chase. Enough. This was ridiculous. I skidded to a halt, sending a cascade of loose pebbles scattering. The sudden cessation of movement was a shock to my pursuers, whose heavy footsteps faltered, then stopped. My lungs burned, but a perverse satisfaction settled in my core. Let them catch up. Let them think they had me. “Finally tired, little bird?” the voice sneered, closer now. Kaelix, Morovan’s most brutish enforcer. His silhouette stretched long and menacing on the flickering wall. I didn’t dignify him with a reply. Instead, I glanced over the rusted railing of the footbridge I stood on. Below, a sleek, black luxury barge, its polished brass trim gleaming under the low-hanging lanterns, was gliding smoothly along the canal. Its deck was empty, save for a lone figure seated at a small, ornate table, a goblet in hand. Davorin. The city’s most formidable underworld kingpin. Morovan’s sworn enemy. And a man who owed my original self an old, steep debt from an age ago, when the cartels were first forging their ruthless pacts. The choice was clear: continue this undignified sprint to certain capture, or make a very undignified, but strategically brilliant, plummet. Without a second thought, I pushed off the railing. The fall was jarring, a dizzying plunge through the humid air. I tucked my head, braced for impact, and landed with a bone-rattling thud on the barge’s polished deck. Pain lanced through my shoulder and hip. Stars exploded behind my eyes. This body really wasn’t built for impromptu aerial acrobatics. I lay sprawled, a twisted heap of limbs, at Davorin’s immaculately shined boots. He hadn’t flinched. His dark eyes, sharp as obsidian shards, merely tracked my descent with a faint, almost imperceptible tilt of his head. He wore a tailored coat of midnight silk, its collar high, concealing whatever secrets lurked beneath. A thick platinum band adorned his right hand, catching the light. “Well,” Davorin’s voice was a low rasp, like granite grinding against steel. “That was… unexpected. Even for you, Corenza. Or should I say… whoever you are now?” His recognition, despite the new face, set my still-recovering nerves prickling. This man saw beyond superficialities. Good. I pushed myself up, wincing. My new body was surprisingly resilient, if achy. “Davorin,” I managed, my voice a little breathless, a little hoarse. “Always one for dramatic entrances, aren’t I? And always one for impeccable timing, it seems.” The barge slowed, drawing alongside a private dock that disappeared into the base of a truly massive structure: The Spire of the Drowned, Davorin’s impregnable fortress-estate. Above us, on the bridge, the enforcer and his crew were peering down, their faces a mixture of confusion and growing fury. “Morovan’s little hounds seem to have lost their scent,” Davorin observed, taking a slow sip from his goblet. “Though I doubt they’ll remain confused for long. What brings you to my humble, if rather abrupt, doorstep?” I straightened my rumpled clothing, trying to project an air of sophisticated nonchalance despite the lingering ache. “Morovan’s recklessness is threatening my… *our*… very existence, Davorin. He’s going to get himself killed, and when he does, I go with him. We have a problem, and I have a solution.” His dark brows lifted fractionally. “A solution that involves you dropping out of the sky?” “A solution that involves a public, passionate, and utterly fake romance between us,” I declared, meeting his gaze directly. “Morovan’s premier weakness is his reputation. His sharpest vulnerability, his pride. Imagine the scandal. The whispers. The live broadcasts. The merchant feeds erupting with the news that his supposedly dead, now-reborn heiress wife has abandoned his memory for his worst enemy. From the comfort of your Spire, Davorin, we will dismantle him piece by piece. His allies will scatter. His wealth will dwindle. His mistress, Lyssina, will expose her true, opportunistic colors. All without me having to break a sweat.” As if on cue, a patch of gloom beneath Davorin’s table rippled, then coalesced into a small, sleek form. Vex, my ink-pelted mink. It padded silently towards me, a tiny, dark blur, then nosed a small, discarded comm-link at my feet—presumably dropped by one of the pursuers during the chase. With a soft purr, Vex opened its mouth, and the device simply… vanished, consumed by the creature’s shadowy maw. It then leaped gracefully onto my lap, curling into a lethargic ball, its dark eyes blinking up at me. Davorin watched the creature, a flicker of curiosity in his gaze. “A shadow-mink. Your old habits die hard, Corenza. Or rather, they get reborn with you. So, a public romance. A campaign of calculated ruin, delivered from a chaise lounge. And what, precisely, do I gain from this elaborate, theatrical charade?” “The utter destruction of your top rival,” I said, leaning closer, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “His empire, his reputation, his very name dragged through the mud. You’ll be lauded as the one who finally brought down the Morovan Syndicate, all while maintaining plausible deniability. You merely ‘fell in love’ with a heartbroken, unattached woman. And,” I added, a sly smile touching my lips, “you owe me.” Davorin considered this, his gaze unblinking. The sounds of angry shouts from the bridge reached us. “Very well,” he finally said, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face, a truly terrifying sight. “A public romance it is. But if we’re to sell this, Corenza, we must be utterly convincing. To bait Morovan’s forces, we need to broadcast our… *consummation*… immediately. To the syndicate feed. Right here. Right now.” My ribs froze. That was… aggressive. Even for Davorin. Before I could formulate a witty, lazily delivered retort, the heavy, ornate door at the stern of the barge splintered inward with a deafening crack. Kaelix stood there, framed by the shattered wood, his face a mask of incandescent fury, Morovan’s symbol emblazoned on his shoulder guard.

The Effort of Not Dying