The rhythmic, bone-jarring thudding was an insult to deep sleep. Tuyen groaned, a low rumble from deep in her chest that barely registered over the reverberations. Her cheek was pressed against something rough, yet surprisingly resonant, a surface that amplified every jolt, every creak, every muffled shout from outside. It smelled faintly of old wood and dried ceremonial incense. This was not her straw mat. This was definitely not her moss-lined alcove behind the kitchen pantry, which had been, until a few hours ago, the finest napping spot in her stepfather’s entire estate. She stretched a languid leg, encountering a curved, unyielding wall. Her arm followed, meeting the same resistance. A hollow drum. She was inside a hollow drum. The realization didn't bring alarm, only a sigh that rustled the few strands of hair escaping her sleep-tousled braid. Of course. Myat, her stepsister, had always been a coward. Fleeing her betrothal to a man rumored to be dying of the Rot-Blight, a man whose family was so disgraced they lived in a cliffside ruin, was precisely the kind of dramatic, self-preserving stunt Myat excelled at. And Master Phung, with his calculating eyes and penchant for making inconvenient family members disappear, would have seen the utility in a spare, easily overlooked stepchild. The drum shifted violently, pitching Tuyen forward until her head bumped the inner skin. A soft curse escaped her lips, not for the impact, but for the loss of her carefully cultivated semi-comfortable position. The drumming intensified, now accompanied by a distinct creak of ropes and the grating sound of stone against metal. They were going up. The Thousand-Step Manor of Oakh, perched like a broken tooth on the highest, most precarious cliff face of the Gashmaw Peaks. Its exterior was a marvel of strategic decay, looking ready to crumble with the next monsoon gust, while its defenses were whispered to be impregnable. She heard the distant, shrill screech of the Cliff-Harriers, massive, venomous raptors whose hunting grounds encompassed the estate. If the ropes snapped, if the drum broke free… Tuyen yawned. The thought of plummeting several hundred spans was certainly less appealing than a nap, but the immediate inconvenience of being jostled was far more pressing. She wiggled, trying to re-center her weight, to find a point where the incessant movement was least irritating. A few minutes of quiet stillness, that’s all she asked for. Suddenly, the entire world tilted, then dropped. The drum hit something solid with a resounding *THWUMPF*. The impact jarred Tuyen’s teeth, and a flash of genuine irritation flared through her. She heard a series of grunts, the clang of metal, and then the muffled sounds of the drum being unlashed. A sliver of light appeared, widening into a rough, uneven circle as a section of the drum’s top was removed. She blinked against the sudden brightness of the cloudy, overcast sky, then against the curious, leering faces of several burly, rain-streaked guardsmen. Each one wore a small, intricate jade charm, a common ward against airborne contagion. “Out with you, little bride,” one of them grunted, his voice rough as river stones. “The Master Achar is waiting.” Tuyen unfolded herself with the slow, deliberate grace of a cat stretching after a long sleep, ignoring the stares. Her simple, undyed hemp wedding gown was wrinkled, her hair a mess, but her composure remained unruffled. She stepped out onto a wide, flagstone courtyard, slick with recent rain. The Manor’s exterior truly was a masterpiece of deception. Crumbling turrets, fractured gargoyles, moss-choked windows – it looked utterly derelict. But beneath the facade, she could sense the hum of well-maintained mechanisms, the subtle angles designed for defense, the carefully placed traps. A glorious place for a nap, if one could find a quiet corner. Inside, the cliffside fortress stood in sharp contrast to its ruined shell. Polished teakwood gleamed under the soft glow of spirit-lamps. Embroidered silk hangings depicting the legendary serpent-riders of Champa-Xan adorned the walls. The air was thick with the scent of aged incense and the faint, sweet-sour tang of illness. A hushed silence pervaded the corridors, broken only by a persistent, wet cough. Tuyen followed the sound, led by a nervous-looking servant through several opulent rooms. The coughing grew louder, more ragged, clearly originating from beyond a set of carved vermillion doors. Her new husband, Zayar. The ‘dying scholar.’ Her stand-in duty would be brief, she knew. A few weeks, perhaps a month, until the wasting disease claimed him. Then she could finally find a truly undisturbed place to sleep. A hidden grotto. A forgotten library. The possibilities were endless. The servant pushed open the doors. The chamber within held an odd clash of luxury and ruin. Luxurious silks draped the walls, a massive four-poster bed stood center, its velvet canopy drawn back. On the bed, propped against a pile of embroidered cushions, lay a man. His skin was pale, almost translucent, etched with fine lines that spoke of both youth and prolonged suffering. His dark hair, usually sleek, clung damply to his forehead. When his eyelids fluttered open, his irises showed a deep, glazed amber. And then he coughed. A deep, rasping shudder that tore through his chest, bringing forth a spray of crimson onto the pristine white linens. The sound, wet and guttural, scraped against Tuyen’s ears like fingernails on a slate. It was loud. Disgustingly loud. And it was going to make sleeping impossible. The Rot-Blight. She recognized the scent of the airborne miasma instantly—a sickly sweet, metallic tang that clung to the air in a faint, iridescent haze. Most people recoiled, clutching their jade charms tighter. Tuyen merely frowned. “Quiet down,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, yet it cut through the silence of the room. She walked towards the bed, her movements unhurried. The servant behind her whimpered, taking a terrified step back. Zayar, startled by her sudden presence, tried to speak, but another paroxysm seized him, his body wracked with tremors as more blood bloomed on his lips. She leaned over him, inhaling deeply, drawing in the shimmering contagion that danced in the air around his ravaged lungs. It tasted of rusted iron and decomposing orchids, bitter on the back of her throat. Inside her, the toxins met their match. Her body, a living crucible, began its silent work. The lethal compounds, designed to tear apart cellular structures, were swiftly broken down, purified, transformed. A faint, almost imperceptible mist, clean and harmless, exhaled from her lips. The air around Zayar seemed to lighten, the metallic tang dissipating. He stared at her, his amber gaze fixed and bewildered. He coughed again, but this time it was a small, dry sound, an echo, not the ripping violence of before. Then he inhaled, drawing a deep, steady draft that filled his chest without the customary tearing, without the iron tang of hemorrhage. Satisfied that the immediate noise pollution was dealt with, Tuyen turned. Her gaze landed on a plush, oversized velvet cushion resting on a carved divan by the window. It looked exceedingly soft. Perfect for a restorative nap after being trapped in a drum. She padded over, settled down, and closed her eyes. The last thing she registered before drifting off was Zayar’s faint, awestruck gasp. Zayar lay utterly still, his chest rising and falling with an ease he hadn’t experienced in years. The incurable rot, which had been slowly consuming him, had vanished. The fire behind his ribs, the breath-stealing constriction, the bitter copper in his mouth—gone. He inhaled again, testing, expecting the familiar agony, but found only cool, clean air. He looked at the girl on the divan, who was already breathing deeply, lost in sleep. His bride. The one he’d been told was a simple, unassuming stand-in, sent to bring him luck in his dying days. She had drawn in the venom, *his* venom, and simply… exhaled it away. Who was she? A heavy, resonant *THUD-CLANG* echoed through the chamber, rattling the very foundations of the Manor. The massive iron entrance portals, which had been left ajar for their arrival, now slammed shut, their enormous locking bolts grinding into place. They were sealed in.

The Drum, The Cough, and The Nap