The construct’s ragged breathing, a wet, rasping sound like a dying bellows, pulsed a faint, warm current of air. It was a beacon in the razor-ash, a foul breath that cleared a narrow, shifting tunnel through the drifting grit. Tsongen had lashed the bone-ribcage to his back, the rattling remains a constant, unsettling presence. Each exhalation from the thing’s lung-sacks, stitched from the water-merchant’s corrupted organs, gusted ash away from the rock face just enough for Tsongen to see the handholds. He climbed, his fingers raw against the rough-hewn stone, the ascent a grueling defiance of gravity and despair. Below, the lower terraces of Phugyel were obscured by the grey shroud, a festering wound hidden from the sky. Above, the highest reaches, Elder Jigmed’s domain, gleamed stark white and pristine under the eternal pallid light, untouched by the fine, deadly powder. Tendon and marrow burned, but the memory of Chenzom coughing dry flakes drove him upward. The air grew thinner, colder, but paradoxically cleaner, as he neared the summit. No razor-ash here, only the sharp, clean scent of high-altitude rock and, faintly, the sickeningly sweet perfume of burning incense and spiced wine. A thick, carved wooden door, lacquered in cinnabar and inlaid with polished bone, marked the entrance to Jigmed’s estate. Tsongen found a purchase on a crumbling gargoyle’s head, pulling himself onto a narrow ledge overlooking a series of manicured courtyards. Moonlight, filtered through the perpetual grey haze, cast long, distorted shadows of sculpted prayer wheels and intricately carved eaves. The silence here was profound, broken only by the distant, rhythmic clang of a ceremonial gong from a far-off peak. No sign of Jigmed’s household guards, no servants. The curse, it seemed, had already begun its work here too, though in a more insidious fashion. He moved like a wraith, his movements honed by years of navigating the cramped, treacherous pathways of the lower terraces. The familiar, bitter taste of resentment rose in his throat. These were the grounds he was forbidden to tread, the sacred spaces from which his family had been banished. He slid past a half-open window, the scent of expensive oils and stagnant air heavy in his nostrils, and found himself in a long, opulent hall. Woven hangings depicting mythical beasts and verdant valleys, thick with silver threading, lined the walls. At the far end, bathed in the sickly glow of a dozen flickering tallow lamps, sat Elder Jigmed. The patriarch was enthroned on a seat of polished black obsidian, its surface glinting like a raven’s wing. He was upright, rigid, his hands gripping the armrests, but his body was utterly still. His gaze remained fixed and unfocused on the ceiling timbers. A low, wet gurgle escaped his throat, a sound of profound agony. From the hollows where his eyes should have been, heavy, jagged discs of gold wept forth, tearing at the delicate skin beneath his brows and carving fresh wounds down his cheeks. They dropped onto his silken robes, then struck the marble floor, each fall a dull, heavy chime that echoed in the silent hall. A small, glittering pile of coins had already accumulated in his lap and around his feet, slick with fresh blood. “Elder Jigmed,” Tsongen’s voice was a low, rough rasp, laced with a venom he rarely allowed to surface. He stepped fully into the light, his grim figure, caked in ash and carrying the gruesome construct, a stark contrast to the room’s pristine decor. “It seems the purity you preached so vehemently has finally found its true form.” Jigmed’s head remained unmoving, but the gurgling intensified, a desperate, pained sound. Another coin, larger than the rest, tore free, carving a deeper trench down his already ruined face before landing with a wet thud on the black obsidian armrest, then rolling onto the floor. *Clink. Clink. Ring.* The sound was obscene. “The laws of the Sarja, Jigmed,” Tsongen continued, his voice dripping with mock reverence. “’The pure are cleansed by light, the impure are purged by suffering.’ You taught us that. You taught *me* that, as you cast my family to the ash-valleys. You decreed that the weaver’s touch was defiling, that the poor were tainted by their very existence. Look at you now, Elder. Bathed in the purest gold, yet rotting from the inside.” He took another step closer, his eyes fixed on the horrifying spectacle. A guttural groan, thick with pain and what sounded like desperate plea, finally tore itself from Jigmed’s throat. His lips, cracked and dry, worked uselessly. The gold coins wept, ceaseless, heavy, each one an agony. Tsongen watched the wet skin part, savoring the slow, shuddering agony. This was justice, slow and agonizing, for years of sneering contempt, for Chenzom’s fading breath. “I’ve come for the Orolang’s fleece,” Tsongen stated, his tone suddenly flat, pragmatic. The construct on his back shifted, letting out a low, hungry rumble that resonated through the room. “Where is it?” Jigmed’s head finally twitched, a barely perceptible tremor. His ruined eyes, now just gaping, raw sockets from which gold coins continued to flow, seemed to focus on Tsongen. A single word, rasped out, barely audible above the wet gurgle and the chime of falling gold, escaped his lips. “Here…” His head dipped, almost imperceptibly, indicating his own chest. “It… it lives on me. Grafted. Immortal skin. My… my adornment.” Tsongen stared, a cold realization dawning. The golden fleece wasn’t hidden in a vault. It was part of Jigmed now, a living trophy. To retrieve it, he wouldn’t just cut flesh. He would have to peel it away from the living bone, flay the Elder alive, inch by excruciating inch.

The Weeping Coins