A patch of grey, stony scales, like miniature, perfectly formed coral, had already bloomed across the back of her hand, spreading rapidly from the coin’s contact point. Her nails darkened to the colour of old slate.
“No, no, no,” Oriya whispered, her voice thin, a tremor running through it. She tried to clench her fist, but the action was sluggish, resisted by an unseen, internal rigidity. The grey crust spread. Vashni watched, horrified, as it devoured the skin up her wrist, creeping past her sleeve hem. Her breath snagged in her throat. The bile rose in Vashni's throat, slicing clean through his habitual numbness.
“It’s fast,” he muttered, grabbing her arm. The skin beneath his touch was cool, unnervingly solid. He tried to rub the scales away, but they were not on the surface; they were part of her now, growing from within. Oriya gasped again, a choked sound as the grey reached her elbow. Her arm was becoming a dead weight, pulling at her shoulder. Her expression tightened, a grimace fighting against the growing stiffness in her face. The rhythmic clack of the silt-worms in the muck below seemed to mock their dwindling time.
“The ledger,” Oriya wheezed, her words slurring, “it doesn’t discriminate. Even accidental touch… the intent is irrelevant.” She swayed, the mineral pull of her stiffening arm unbalancing her stride. “We need to move. The silk-quarter. It holds the figurehead.”
Vashni ground his molars together. The prospect of losing Oriya, his lone guide through the ledgers, snapped his tether. He slung the two heavy shell panels onto his back, securing them with rope. “Can you manage?”
“I’ll try,” she rasped, pushing off the damp wall. Her right arm hung stiffly, a foreign limb. Each step was a struggle, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The air in the under-stilts, usually merely damp and fetid, now felt heavy, pressing down on them, reflecting the internal burden Oriya carried.
They picked through the low trestles, the path toward the silk-quarter a treacherous ascent across sagging timber joints. The structures above them groaned, splintering sounds echoing from the opulent terraces where the town’s elites resided. Oriya’s good hand clutched her ledger, though her gaze kept straying to her other arm, now almost entirely encased in the dull grey stone. Her shoulder slumped, the unnatural mass pulling her off balance. Her meticulous mind, however, remained sharp, guiding them through the maze of support beams and hidden catwalks. “The governor's private vault,” she wheezed, pointing upward where gilded carvings caught the lantern-haze. “Beneath his personal hall. Heavily barred, but the guards… they’re turning as well.”
Indeed, as they ascended, the tell-tale signs of the curse became more pronounced. Guards, their movements sluggish, patrolled with weapons that seemed too heavy for their grasping hands. Grey crust caked their knuckles and ears, mottled like dry river gravel. Their lips pulled taut over dry gums, breath rattling through petrifying throats.
“We need to be swift,” Vashni urged, seeing Oriya stumble, her legs wobbling under the burden. Her breathing was now a shallow, rapid pant. The very air seemed to thicken around them, permeated by the omnipresent dread. They slipped past a pair of calcifying guards, their heads bowed, too consumed by their internal transformation to notice the two figures darting through the shadows.
The merchant tier sagged under its own rot. Dyed banners hung limp from bowing terraces, masking the fractures splitting the estate walls. The air, usually thick with the scent of spiced wine and exotic perfumes, now carried an acrid, mineral tang. They scaled a crumbling wall, using loose decorative stones as handholds, until they reached the Magistrate’s private terrace. The split-cedar doors hung slightly open, unbarred. Nothing stirred within.
The reception hall was choked with hoarded wealth: raw silk cushions, beaten brass screens, and lacquer cabinets crammed with filigree. But all of it was coated in a fine layer of white dust, calcification’s tell-tale sign. The air was thick with it, grating in Vashni’s throat. His gaze swept the room, searching for a vault, for a hidden compartment. Oriya, her body rigid and slow, pointed to a section of the far wall, where a single, unadorned stone panel stood out amidst the elaborate decor.
“Behind that,” she managed, her voice now a strained whisper, like dry leaves rustling. Her entire right arm was now solid stone, her hand a grotesque sculpture. Her left arm trembled as she reached into her tunic, retrieving a small, intricately worked bronze key. “This turns the tumblers. The old blood… he's scouring for an untainted hand.”
Vashni took the key, the metal cold in his palm. He pushed the panel, revealing a heavy, circular vault door, its surface etched with swirling patterns. The bronze key slid into a barely visible lock, turning with a soft click. He hauled the iron flange back, revealing a recessed wall safe. Inside, perched on a velvet pedestal, was the figurehead: a massive, gleaming skull, unmistakably that of the Pearl-Silt Terrapin. Its eye sockets were hollow, yet seemed to hold an ancient, watchful power. The bone was iridescent, catching the scant light and throwing it back in a rainbow of hues.
“There it is,” Vashni breathed, stepping inside. He lifted the heavy skull from its pedestal, its weight substantial, ancient, and undeniably potent. He turned to leave, the skull cradled in his arms, only to hear a grinding thud. The massive vault door, which had been open moments before, was now sealing shut, the locking mechanism groaning into place.
Panic flared. He threw his shoulder against it, but it was unyielding. The air in the small vault grew thin, metallic. Oriya, frozen near the entryway, braced herself against a cedar post as her jaw seized. Then, a gravelly scraping dragged out from behind the silk screens. “Such diligence. To crawl into Bhaimin's private parlor.”
A figure dragged itself from behind the hangings, half flesh, half coral-stone. Bhaimin. The right half of his face had turned to solid granite, the lid fused shut, while the left eye rolled pink and wild in its socket. His movements were jerky, unnatural. In his one good hand, he clutched a scroll of parchment, its surface stained crimson. “I was hoping you’d come. The only untainted one left in Osham, Vashni. The curse… it seeks to be offloaded. And I have the perfect vehicle.” He unfurled the blood-soaked contract, its edges crisp and official, a horrifying smile cracking across his stony lips. “Sign it, boy. All of my wealth, all of my lands. All of my… burden.”