The executive floor plunged into a stunned silence, broken only by the whirring of the pneumatic tube system that delivered internal memos. Vashir, chest heaving, held the coffee mug aloft, a single dark stain marring the midnight-blue silk. His gaze, colder than the deepest winter, swept across the room, lingering on Piroz, then on Nivem. The air crackled with hostility. Piroz whimpered, a small, pathetic sound that seemed to deflate him entirely. He dropped the tray, the remaining ceramic clattering across the polished obsidian floor. “I—I am so dreadfully sorry, Sir! A thousand apologies! My clumsiness is legendary, but never before has it threatened such… such *rarity*!” He wrung his hands, a performance Nivem might have found amusing if her own internal alarm wasn’t blaring at an impossible frequency. “Nivem.” Vashir’s voice was a low growl, directed at her. “Ensure this floor is secured. Not a single soul enters or exits without my direct authorization. And you,” he jabbed a finger at Piroz, who flinched like a startled lamellix, “you will remain silent and out of my way.” Nivem swallowed, the sudden dryness in her throat making speech difficult. “Yes, Mr. Zandor. Immediately.” She moved with an efficiency born of desperation, her fingers flying over the control panel on her desk. A series of soft clicks resonated through the brass-and-glass walls as the heavy, ornate doors hissed shut, sealing them within the executive bubble. The air felt thin, suddenly heavy with the scent of fear, and faintly, maddeningly, of zatar. She could still feel it, clinging to her skin, her clothes, a phantom afterimage of the perfume she'd carelessly applied that night. Her mind raced, a frantic turbine trying to calculate probabilities. She had to neutralize the scent, now. The only place private enough would be the antiquated records annex, rarely used, and far from Vashir’s olfactory range. “Mr. Zandor,” she said, keeping her voice level, “I need to retrieve a specific set of schematics from long-term storage. They pertain to the Foundry Crossing acquisition you mentioned this morning. A moment, if you please.” Vashir, still glaring at the offending coffee stain on the scarf, barely grunted. “Make it swift, Harsa. My patience is… thin.” Nivem didn’t wait for further dismissal. She walked, not ran, towards the annex, her blood thrumming with urgency. The storage annex, a forgotten corner of the Spire, smelled of parchment dust and ozone. Towers of ancient data-cylinders, bound in tarnished brass, stretched to the high ceiling, their contents largely digitized decades ago. She fumbled in her carry-all, pulling out a small, stoppered vial of her own concoction—a botanical neutralizing spray she'd developed for particularly pungent fungal samples. Its primary ingredient, the pungent root-sap of the ‘Blindman’s Puff’ plant, was known to temporarily overwhelm and mask other organic aromatic compounds. She closed the heavy, sound-dampening door behind her and stripped off her jacket and blouse, exposing the delicate skin of her collarbones and wrists where the zatar had truly bloomed. With trembling fingers, she sprayed the fine mist generously over her skin, her hair, her inner garments. The Blindman’s Puff scent, sharp and earthy, filled the small space, temporarily stinging her nostrils, making her eyes water. She pressed her nose against her wrist, then her collar. It was there, a faint, metallic tang beneath the stronger masking agent. Not perfect, but perhaps enough. She dressed quickly, her hands still shaking, and tucked the vial back into her bag. As she emerged, the oppressive silence of the executive floor remained. Vashir was bent over his desk, scrutinizing the silk scarf with the intensity of a cartographer mapping uncharted territory. Piroz hovered near the coffee station, polishing cups with a nervous zeal that was almost certainly performative. Nivem strode back to her desk, forcing a calm she didn't feel. “Aha! Nivem! My dear, you simply *must* see this!” Piroz materialized beside her desk, his voice a conspiratorial whisper, his gaze darting about in a mixture of fear and triumph. He held out a crumpled, rather official-looking data-slate, its screen glowing faintly with a series of complex glyphs. Nivem raised an eyebrow. “Piroz, Mr. Zandor is still quite… focused. Perhaps this can wait?” “No, no! This cannot wait!” He pressed the slate into her hand, his gaze darting nervously towards Vashir’s office. “I found it! In the recycling chute for encrypted waste! A clerical error, I assume, but my instincts, Nivem, they never lie! Look! It's an inter-office memo, triple-encrypted, but my cousin, Elan, who works in Data Forensics, owed me a favor! He said to give it to someone who understands… the green things. He said it was important.” Nivem frowned, glancing at the complex encryption on the screen. “Green things?” Despite her cynicism, a flicker of curiosity sparked. Her plant-craft was still formidable, and the Spire’s dispatches were rarely so heavily guarded unless they involved new, sensitive arcane-floristry acquisitions. She tapped a series of symbols, a forgotten skill from her days at the Arcanum Botanica. The glyphs dissolved, replaced by a dense, jargon-filled report. Her eyes scanned the text, her initial irritation dissolving into a cold, hard knot in her stomach. ‘Sub-surface run-off… Etheldene Drainage… crystalline calcification… larval petrification… immediate and irreversible biological stasis…’ It was a report, not about a new plant, but about a plague. A plague caused by Zandor Industries’ industrial waste, leaking into the lower districts, petrifying living tissue. The ‘Petrifying Plague’. Omidar. His daughter. It all clicked into place with horrifying clarity. This wasn’t just corporate greed; it was a slow, agonizing death sentence for an entire population. The stakes were far higher than she had imagined. A shadow fell over her desk. Vashir. She hadn’t even heard him approach. His presence was a sudden, overwhelming weight, an oppressive silence that swallowed all other sound. He leaned over her, his broad shoulder brushing her own, his face inches from hers as he peered at the data-slate still clutched in her hand. The rich scent of his spiced cologne, usually a pleasant background note, now felt suffocating. He wasn’t looking at the screen, though. His intense, grey eyes were fixed on her. “What is this, Harsa?” His voice was low, almost a murmur, yet it vibrated with an unfamiliar tremor. He didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, his head tilted slightly, his nostrils flaring, as if catching a scent. A fleeting, almost imperceptible shift in his expression. His brows drew tight, a flicker of suspicion battling with something much deeper, something that looked almost like longing. He slowly straightened, his gaze still locked on hers, an unnerving intensity in their depths. The scent of the Blindman’s Puff still clung to her, a sharp, earthy shield. But beneath it, she realized with a sickening lurch, a ghost of the zatar must have lingered. Just enough. “Where exactly were you three nights ago?”

A Trace of Zatar