The gilded invitation lay on the damp floorboards like a discarded crown. Outside, the rain continued its tireless assault, each drop a tiny hammer against the shack’s thin roof. Tihana watched the paper, then looked at Rytis. His face was a mask of weary resignation, but the flicker in his eyes, the one that had shown when he saved Lovre, was gone, replaced by a hollow distance. Lovre, nestled in the rough cot, breathed in shallow, uneven puffs, his small chest rising and falling too quickly. “The Sanitarium,” Tihana murmured, her voice carefully light, though a cold knot tightened in her stomach. “Lady Danica certainly knows how to throw a party, doesn’t she?” She bent, picked up the invitation, and smoothed the crinkled edges. The gold dust clung to her fingers. “We simply must go. Lovre’s continued well-being depends on it.” Rytis didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the intricate miniature of a pumping mechanism he’d been carving. His hands, though missing three fingers on the right, moved with startling precision, his thumb and remaining forefinger manipulating the tiny components with a surgeon’s grace. The air in the shack, routinely laden with damp wood and his silence, now carried a faint, perfumed wax scent from the expensive paper. “It will be a spectacle,” Tihana continued, forcing a bright smile. “All the city’s finest, coughing into their silks, pretending not to hear the groans from the lower wards.” She walked to their meager wardrobe, a chipped armoire salvaged from a refuse pile. “We’ll need to look presentable.” She pulled out her own dress, a faded gown of dove-grey, once elegant, now a ghost of its former self. For Rytis, she found a dark, coarse-spun tunic and trousers that, despite their age, were clean. “A fresh linen tunic and a pressed coat. You’ll be the envy of every man there.” Her voice was like tinkling wind chimes, utterly devoid of genuine merriment. He slowly raised his head, his slate-colored eyes meeting hers at last. “Envied for what, Tihana? My missing leg? My disgraced name?” His voice was a rasp, raw and bitter. “For your wit, Rytis. For your quiet dignity,” she replied, her smile not faltering, though a tiny fissure opened in her resolve. “And for the fact that you still stand.” Hours later, the rain had diminished to a fine, persistent drizzle as they arrived at the Ozeroth Grand Sanitarium. The edifice loomed like a monstrous, bejeweled beetle, its myriad windows glowing with a sickly yellow light. Carriages, polished to a mirror sheen, lined the serpentine drive, disgorging figures swathed in velvet and fur. A chill, damp air permeated everything, carrying the faint, metallic tang of the plague-ridden city and the sharper, sweeter scent of expensive perfumes. Tihana had painstakingly braided her dark hair with a simple silver ribbon, her faded dress surprisingly elegant on her slender frame. Rytis, leaning heavily on his weighted cane, his face pale and drawn, moved with a controlled, agonizing slowness. His eyes darted, taking in the opulent architecture, the soaring arches, the intricate carvings of mythical beasts that adorned the entrance. He saw the structure, not just the ornamentation. Inside, the Grand Ballroom pulsed with a feverish energy. Chandeliers dripped light onto a dizzying array of silks, velvets, and jewels. The air was thick with conversation, the clinking of crystal, and the persistent, hacking coughs that punctuated every social exchange. Danica, resplendent in a gown the color of spilled wine, stood beside Dr. Ignas Ruzena, who looked distinctly uncomfortable, his naturally placid face etched with a harried expression. As Tihana and Rytis navigated the throng, Danica’s eyes, sharp and predatory, fixed on them. A slow, cruel smile curved her lips. She gestured to a passing footman, whispering something. Moments later, as they reached the edge of the polished dance floor, a serving tray, ostensibly carried by the footman, ‘accidentally’ collided with Rytis. He stumbled, his cane clattering. The sudden impact, aimed squarely at his artificial leg, sent him swaying precariously. The room, for a breath, seemed to hold its collective cough. Rytis fought to regain his balance, his jaw tight, sweat beading on his temple as he strained to keep upright. Danica glided forward, her voice a sugary poison. “Oh, dear Rytis! How clumsy of the staff. Are you quite alright? One would think a veteran would be more… steady.” Her eyes, though wide with feigned concern, glittered with malice. A few scattered titters rippled through the nearby guests. Ignas, standing behind her, shifted uncomfortably, his gaze flicking to Tihana. Tihana, her smile fixed, her eyes bright and utterly devoid of hurt, stepped forward. “Goodness, sister! And poor Rytis. Always so eager to dance, despite his… spirited enthusiasm!” She linked her arm through Rytis’s, steadying him with a surprising strength. Then, turning to the assembled guests, she raised a hand, drawing a shimmering glass of pale golden wine from a passing tray. Her voice, though a little louder than strictly polite, was filled with a charming, almost childish excitement. “A toast! To Dr. Ruzena, our city’s savior! To his brilliant, *imminent* cure! May it be swift and gloriously effective, and relieve us all of these dreadful coughs before the winter truly sets in!” The words hung in the air, then took hold. The elites, plagued by the coughs and the constant fear of the water, latched onto her pronouncement like drowning men to a spar. A murmur, then a clamor, erupted. “An imminent cure? Is it true, Doctor?” “At long last!” “Tell us more!” Faces, accustomed to stoicism, now tightened with desperate hope, turning en masse to Ignas. The doctor blanched, his eyes darting frantically between Tihana’s innocent smile and Danica’s suddenly furious glare. The pressure, stifling and suffocating, had just shifted from Rytis to him. With the ballroom in a frenzy, Tihana gently steered Rytis towards a quieter corridor. “Stay here, Rytis,” she murmured, her cheerful mask momentarily cracking to reveal a flicker of determination. “Try not to draw attention. I have… business to attend to.” She slipped away, her faded dress a grey ghost among the vibrant silks. Her target was the aristocrats’ private lounge, rumored to be where the true power brokers retired for hushed deals, far from the prying ears of the general assembly. The lounge was smaller, richer, and stiflingly warm, heavy velvet drapes muffling the gala’s distant din. A handful of older, more powerful figures sat in plush chairs, nursing snifters of amber liquor. Tihana moved with a practiced ease, her eyes scanning for a suitable target. Her gaze landed on Lord Kazimir, a portly alchemist known for his vast fortune and his unsavory appetites. He was alone, nursing a glass of clear liquid, his eyes watching her with a predatory glint. She approached, her smile wide, innocent. “My lord, a pleasure,” she simpered, curtsying shallowly. “Such a grand event, is it not?” She subtly produced the neatly folded blueprints Rytis had given her, the intricate lines of the aqueduct system barely visible beneath her thumb. The nobleman's gaze dropped to the papers, then back to her. A smirk spread across his face, thick with avarice and something far fouler. “And what charming trinket do you have for me tonight, Lady Tihana?” He extended a hand, not to take the papers, but to grip her wrist, his fingers meaty and strong. He pulled her closer, his breath, hot and smelling of spirits, fanning her face. “Perhaps something a little more… intimate?” His eyes raked over her, then returned to the blueprints. “Or perhaps these papers hold something more valuable than your pretty face?” He began to yank, attempting to snatch the documents, his grip on her wrist tightening to an uncomfortable vise. “Unhand me, my lord!” Tihana hissed, her mask giving way to a flash of genuine fear and outrage. She struggled, twisting her wrist, but his strength was immense. Her ribs ached under the frantic thump of her pulse. He leaned closer, his other hand reaching, not for the blueprints, but for her. A shadow detached itself from the deeper shadows near the lounge's archway. A blur of dark fabric. A sharp crack echoed in the too-quiet room. The nobleman cried out, a guttural sound of pain. His grip on Tihana’s wrist instantly slackened. He stumbled back, clutching his hand, his eyes wide with shock and fury. Rytis stood there, his weighted cane now held not as a prop, but as a weapon. Its heavy, ornately carved head, ordinarily resting on the floor, was now poised, having just struck the man’s wrist with terrifying precision. His posture was rigid, formidable, his slate-grey gaze blazing with a cold, protective fury Tihana had never seen. He pulled Tihana behind him, shielding her with his body, his gaze never leaving Volkov, who whimpered, cradling his swollen hand. Rytis’s eyes flickered to the spilled glass of clear liquid on the rich carpet where the nobleman had been standing. He knelt, ignoring the pain in his prosthetic leg, and dipped a finger into the liquid, bringing it to his nose, then carefully to his tongue. A chilling stillness settled over him. His gaze, when he turned back to Tihana, was hollow, stunned. “The plague,” he whispered, his voice barely audible above the distant din of the gala, “it isn’t an infection. It’s heavy metal poisoning from the city’s ancient pipes.”

The Gala of Coughs