“Valdas! Ovidia! Good, you’re both here,” Voss announced, his voice booming through the suddenly tense room. “A rather… unfortunate development. It seems the syndicate has just breached the lower medical wards. We are under attack.” Valdas’s gaze, previously fixed on Ovidia, snapped to Voss. The patriarch's smile did not falter, even as the distant, muffled echoes of conflict began to thrum through the reinforced walls of the Somnolence Ward. “Attack?” Valdas’s voice was a low growl, a counterpoint to the distant chaos. “In *my* city? While I’m here?” Voss chuckled, a dry, raspy sound. “Indeed. A most inconvenient interruption. These wardens are merely a precaution, of course, lest any… *unauthorised* elements attempt to glean information from our esteemed Somnologist.” He gestured vaguely at Ovidia, then back to the two hulking armored sentries, their polished black helmets reflecting the gaslight. “Not that I would ever imply any complicity on your part, Ovidia. Merely prudence. The cabal, as you well know, has a peculiar interest in certain… experimental treatments.” Ovidia’s hands, hidden behind her back, clenched and released. Her face remained a mask of professional concern, her eyes, however, flickered with a raw, contained fear. “Experimental treatments, Your Eminence?” she asked, her voice steady despite the tremor that threatened to betray her. “I am not aware of any such advancements that would warrant a direct assault on the Ward’s integrity.” Voss’s smile tightened, his gaze lingering on Valdas. “Ah, but the ring cares little for what is *known*, somnologist. They care only for what can be *stolen*. Recall, Valdas, the fate of your predecessor. Commander Theron Morvann. His demise, precipitated by their theft of the nascent Blight-cure formulas. A most regrettable loss, not least for his… *particular* affliction.” The air in the room thickened with long-buried history and calculated insinuation. A muscle twitched near Valdas’s temple. The mention of Theron, his mind shattered by the Blight, was a deliberate barb. Voss knew Valdas’s desperate pursuit of the cure, his obsessive need to understand Theron’s failure, and now his own rapidly deteriorating state. The elder was reminding him, with cruel precision, of the stakes. “My affliction is my own burden,” Valdas stated, his voice devoid of inflection. “The breaches are *my* responsibility to contain.” He turned back to Ovidia, his eyes hard. “Scholar. My previous inquiry. We were discussing your… diagnostic process. You mentioned a blood draw was required. Perform it.” Ovidia swallowed, her gaze meeting Valdas’s. She felt Voss’s knowing gaze pressing against her back, a quiet challenge. Every fiber of her being screamed for escape, but to refuse would be to invite immediate, inescapable suspicion. She moved to her sterile cabinet, retrieving a polished steel venipuncture kit, her movements precise, practiced. The low hum of the sentries' activated arcane dampeners filled the stillness, a constant, oppressive thrum against her nerves. “Please,” she said, gesturing to the chair. Valdas sat, extending his arm without a word. The pale light of the consultation room caught the intricate, almost faded scars that crisscrossed his forearm – the marks of a trench-mage. Ovidia took his arm, her fingers brushing his skin, seeking a vein. His skin felt cool, almost unnaturally so. She swabbed the area with antiseptic, the sharp scent briefly cutting through the faint smell of ozone and old leather. The needle glinted. She inserted it with practiced ease. A small phial began to fill with Valdas’s deep crimson blood, thick and dark. Just as the last few drops were drawn, a blinding flash erupted. A crackling arc of raw somna-magic, a pure, incandescent blue, burst from Valdas’s arm, snaking up the needle, through Ovidia’s gloved hand, and into the air between them with a sharp *snap*. The phial of blood vibrated violently in her grasp, then settled. A faint scent, like ozone after a lightning strike, hung in the air. Ovidia froze, her breath catching in her throat. The exact, illegal signature. The very same crackle of illicit magic that had flared when she had drawn his blood in the inn, when their pact had been sealed. She felt Valdas’s gaze on her, sharp, analytical, penetrating. Her pulse drummed violently against her ribs, erratic and frantic. Valdas pulled his arm away, rubbing the spot where the arc had originated. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were narrowed, assessing. “Static,” he murmured, his voice low, dismissive, but the word held an underlying tension. “The Somnolence Ward always has a surplus of latent Somna-flux. Unstable. Nothing more.” His words were a dismissal, but the intensity of his stare was an accusation. He knew. Or at least, he suspected. Ovidia forced herself to meet his gaze, projecting an image of calm, professional curiosity. “Perhaps, Inquisitor. Unusual, but not unheard of, especially in an area with active dampeners. A minor Somna-discharge.” She managed a small, reassuring smile, praying it didn't look like a rictus of terror. Valdas didn’t return the smile. He rose, the air around him crackling with a different kind of energy now – focused, predatory. “It seems the intrusion requires my immediate attention. One of their runners was apprehended in the lower wards. Dead. I want to inspect the body.” His gaze bored into her. “And you will accompany me.” Ovidia’s façade wavered for a fraction of a second. The morgue. The most dangerous place for her to be, next to him. But again, refusal was not an option. “Of course. A medical assessment might prove invaluable to your investigation. Though I must confess, my expertise lies in the living, not the… recently departed.” She tried to inject a light, almost self-deprecating tone into her voice, a calculated misdirection. “Your expertise, Ovidia, is in the Somna-alchemical manipulation of the human mind and body. A dead smuggler, steeped in their illicit practices, might reveal more about their methods than any living thug under interrogation,” Valdas countered, his voice like flint. He began to stride towards the door, his escort falling in behind him. “Voss, you will ensure the integrity of the upper wards. Ovidia, with me.” Voss offered another unsettling smile, a silent acknowledgment of the trap he had helped spring. “As you command, Valdas. Ovidia, do assist him as best you can. The deeper the rot, the more potent the cure, after all.” The walk through the Somnolence Ward was a blur for Ovidia. The distant sounds of skirmishes, the hushed, concerned murmurs of other Ward staff, the oppressive presence of Valdas beside her – it all coalesced into a suffocating dread. They descended through a labyrinth of sterile corridors, the air growing colder, heavier. Eventually, they reached a reinforced steel door, marked with the symbol of a broken dream-catcher. Inside, the mortuary was a cavern of cold, metallic stillness. Rows of gleaming steel slabs lined the walls, each one a motionless tomb. The air smelled sharply of formaldehyde layered with a rotten, honeyed sweetness. A lone mortuary attendant, a gaunt man with perpetually shadowed eyes, stood by a central slab, his back to them. He started at their entry, turning slowly. As the attendant turned, Ovidia caught a fleeting glimpse of Voss lingering in the corridor doorway. The elder's hand moved subtly, slipping a heavy, gold-chased coin purse into the orderly's waiting palm. The man's eyes darted nervously to Valdas, then back to Voss, before the elder vanished, leaving them alone. “The runner,” Valdas commanded, oblivious to the muted exchange. The attendant gestured to the slab he’d been attending. The body lay beneath a shroud, ominously still. With trembling hands, the orderly pulled back the sheet. The man beneath was young, his face contorted in a soundless scream. His skin was mottled with black veins, signs of severe Somna-corruption. But it was the chest that drew Valdas’s attention. A dark, pulsating stain spread across the fabric of the runner’s tunic. “He was carrying something,” Ovidia murmured, stepping closer, forcing herself to appear detached. “Something unstable. The corruption is… aggressive.” She subtly steered her gaze towards the courier’s left hand, which was clenched, a faint outline of a small, metallic canister visible beneath the skin. “Perhaps a delivery gone wrong? The container must have failed. Look at the way the corruption emanates from the chest, rather than consuming the limbs first, as is typical.” She hoped the detail would send Valdas down a path of sabotage, not personal connection. Valdas leaned in, his eyes scanning the body with meticulous precision. He reached out, his gloved fingers brushing the courier’s chest. Just as his fingers made contact, the courier’s chest violently burst open, a sickening wet tearing sound. A concentrated, lethal cloud of nightmare-smog, black as pitch, erupted from the wound, flooding the locked chamber.

Static and Sparks