Ashmar Tel’s grip on Taphath’s collar was a white-knuckled vise, yanking her against his chest. The lancet, a sliver of predatory gleam, pressed a cold line against her throat. Taphath’s high-pitched wails, already fraying, ratcheted into a terror-stricken shriek. “I’ll shatter it!” Ashmar roared, his voice thin with panic, his eyes darting frantically between the robed inquisitors and the glass orb clutched in his free hand. It pulsed with a sickly, almost luminous green. “One breath, and the entire lower district chokes on Aerith’s Kiss! It’s airborne, Inspector! It will coat every lung in Qarnat!” His words cut the air, silencing Taphath’s cries for a stunned second. The lead magistrate, her severe face now bleached of color, held up a placating hand. “Master Tel, we merely wish to review your records. There is no need for such drastic measures.” “No need?” Ashmar’s laugh was a sharp, brittle sound. “My future is being shredded! My cure-beds are drowning in blue filth! This… this is the only leverage I have left!” He gave Taphath a violent shake. She whimpered, her gaze wide and pleading, fixing on the main archway of the clinic atrium. Then, a new voice, sweet as poisoned honey, cut through the tension. “Oh, Ashmar, sweetheart. That’s hardly how you negotiate. Hold the victim by the hair, it’s far more intimidating. And for goodness sake, if you’re going to threaten a city, do it with conviction, not a tremor in your voice.” Zirra Vash sauntered into the opulent vestibule, her hands tucked casually behind her back, a smirk playing on her lips. Kaddis Obal followed, his massive frame filling the arch, his dark eyes sweeping the ornate carvings above. His hand, calloused and rough, absently traced the hilt of the scythe she knew was strapped to his back. Ashmar’s head snapped towards them, his eyes narrowing to slits. “You! How did you –” “Survive your rather pathetic attempt at a public execution? Oh, pet, that’s hardly the interesting part,” Zirra purred, strolling closer, her gaze lingering on the sickly green orb. “The interesting part is how badly you’re handling this. Taphath looks more traumatized by your poor grip than the blade. Are you even aiming for an artery? Amateurs.” Taphath, seeing Zirra, let out a desperate, choked sound. “Zirra! Sister, please! He’s mad! Help me!” Zirra paused, tilting her head. “Help you? Now, why would I do that, precious? You’ve spent the last few months trying to watch me starve, drown, or get myself beheaded. What have you offered me lately that might warrant my assistance?” Her eyes, sharp as obsidian shards, flicked to Ashmar. “Besides, he still doesn’t know how to hold a hostage correctly. Honestly, the utter lack of professionalism.” As Zirra chattered, Kaddis, a shadow in the high rafters overhead, moved with unnerving silence. The intricate filigree that adorned the clinic’s vaulted ceiling provided just enough cover. He had scaled the exterior, finding purchase on the decorative stone pilasters, and slipped inside through a high ventilation shaft. He was directly above Ashmar, a silent, predatory presence. “A public confession, perhaps?” Zirra suggested, her voice dropping to a cool, calculating tone that stripped away the playful veneer. “A full, detailed account of how you faked your little ‘divine revelation’ and manipulated the marriage contracts. And how you then framed Kaddis for the clinic fire. All of it, darling. Every sordid detail.” Taphath gaped, her face streaked with tears and grime. “What are you talking about? I didn’t –” “Oh, you absolutely did,” Zirra cut in, reaching into the hidden pocket of her tunic. Her hand reappeared, holding a crinkled, slightly damp parchment. It was the annulment contract. The very one Taphath had torn to shreds weeks ago. “This rather important piece of paper. You tore it up. You thought it was meaningless. But it’s still legible, sister dear. Now, if you want me to tell your devoted fiancé to put down his little plague-bomb, you’ll sign it. And then you’ll repeat every single word of your confession for the esteemed court scribes. Loudly.” Taphath stared at the contract, then at Zirra’s unyielding face, then back at Ashmar, whose grip was still tight, the steel edge still at her throat. The terror in her eyes was real, unfeigned. “I… I will! I’ll say anything! Just… just make him stop!” Ashmar, distracted by the sudden shift, tightened his hold on Taphath, momentarily drawing her attention away from the ceiling. “She’s lying! Don’t listen to her, Inquisitor! They’re conspirators!” It was then that Kaddis dropped. He fell, not like a stone, but a heavy, deliberate avalanche of muscle and momentum. The scythe was already in his hands, not raised for a strike, but swung horizontally, a swift, brutal arc. The flat of the blade slammed into Ashmar’s wrist, just above the hand holding the scalpel, with a sickening crack. The doctor let out a strangled cry, his fingers splaying involuntarily. The scalpel clattered to the marble floor, spinning away. But the green orb, momentarily forgotten in his other hand, was now free. It slipped. Time seemed to stretch, elastic and agonizing, as the perfectly spherical glass capsule arced gracefully towards the polished stone floor, a deadly pendulum of pestilence. Ashmar’s eyes, wide with horror, followed its trajectory. The scribes gasped. Taphath screamed, a raw, primal sound of dread. It hit. A tiny, almost insignificant *tink*. The glass shattered, not with a violent eruption, but a gentle poof. Instead of the suffocating, green gas of Aerith’s Kiss, a cloud of fine, iridescent blue dust billowed upwards, shimmering in the shafts of light filtering through the atrium’s grand windows. It smelled faintly of sun-warmed earth and something sweet, like dried fruit. The blue dust drifted, benign and beautiful, settling like pollen on the stunned faces below. Matron Yasma, it seemed, had been busy. Her silent weavers were far more accomplished thieves than anyone gave them credit for.

Harvesting Ruin