“You have absolutely nothing.” Noura’s voice, a silken cord, tightened around Sabira’s wrist. The small, dark jammer pulsed in her hand, a mocking counterpoint to Sabira’s failed broadcast. A draft swept through the judgment chamber, rattling guild banners. The magistrate, perched on his elevated dais, watched with sharp patience, his gaze sliding from the unlit chandelier glass to Sabira’s taut face. He adjusted the cuff of his robes, a deliberate, dismissive gesture. “Enough of this charade,” he declared, his voice resonating with finality. “Sabira Nazari, your flagrant disrespect for the sanctity of these proceedings, your assault on an afflicted noblewoman, and your demonstrated pattern of violent subversion are beyond dispute. The verdict is exile. To the Ash-Wastes.” The pronouncement hung in the air, heavy and absolute. A collective gasp rippled through the assembled patrons and guild masters, quickly followed by murmurs of hushed agreement from Noura’s aristocratic circle. Sabira felt iron bite her ankles. She stared at Noura, whose smile widened with gloating venom. Then, a thunderous crash tore through the hall. The massive, gilded entrance doors, usually barred by two Sentinels, flew inward, splintering from their hinges. A plume of masonry dust billowed across the stones. Dr. Yasir Qadir stood framed in the wreckage, his physician’s linens creased, teeth gritted. Behind him, on groaning, heavy iron casters, rolled a behemoth of wrought iron and aged brass—the legendary First Kiln of Avar, the original somatic broadcast engine, rumored dormant for two centuries. Its brass casing was scarred with score marks from countless memory-transfers. Two burly apprentices strained against the carriage, steering the massive frame into the hall's center, directly beneath the dark prism overhead. Its sheer bulk dwarfed everything else, a silent, imposing monument to an older power. The magistrate rose, flushing crimson. “Qadir! What is the meaning of this insolence? This bench is not a staging ground for your theater!” Dr. Qadir ignored him, his eyes fixed on Sabira. He approached the First Kiln, his movements efficient and purposeful. He pulled a slim quartz prism—a raw data shard—from his tunic pocket and slotted it into the housing. The machine groaned to life, sending a low hum through the flagstones. Ornate brass filigree on its surface began to glow with a faint, inner light. The entire plaster expanse of the far wall flared with green-gold light, resolving into a three-dimensional diagnostic scan of a human torso. The internal organs glowed with an eerie, sickly green luminescence. A collective, horrified gasp erupted from the crowd. The green was not the healthy hue of living tissue; it was the unmistakable, parasitic rot of advanced spore-infection. “This, esteemed lords and ladies,” Dr. Qadir’s voice cut through the stunned murmurs, amplified by the Kiln, “is a live, un-adulterated medical scan. Not of a terminal cancer patient, as some would have you believe. But of a body ravaged by the illicit spore-blight.” He gestured to the grotesque projection. “The exact affliction our district struggles to contain. This is the truth behind the supposed mortal illness claimed by Noura Jalil.” The crowd erupted. Whispers turned into shouts, gasps into indignant exclamations. The visual evidence was undeniable, irrefutable. The aristocratic patrons, moments ago so confident in their judgment, shifted uneasily in their seats, their faces a mixture of shock and dawning comprehension. Noura’s face, a second ago radiating smug triumph, drained of color. Her jaw hung slack, her eyes wide with a sudden, naked fear. The jammer, still clutched in her hand, pulsed erratically. The magistrate slammed his fist onto the dais. “Guards! Seize Dr. Qadir! Confiscate that contraption! This is a malicious fabrication designed to derail justice!” But Sabira did not wait. The roaring magistrate was secondary. Sabira locked her focus onto the engine's glowing conduit plates. Noura’s forearm remained caught in her grip, frozen by shock. Sabira twisted hard, wrenching Noura off-balance despite the iron cutting into her own shins. She pivoted, putting her full body weight into the movement. Sabira drove Noura’s bare forearm down onto the engine's conductive brass plate. The contact sparked instantly. Noura shrieked, her spine arching as the circuit engaged. The obsidian jammer dropped from her fingers, shattering on the flagstones. The engine bellowed. Blinding discharge leaped upward, striking the dormant chandelier prism. The faceted glass refracted the stream outward in searing sheets. Stone walls, vaulted ceilings, and gallery benches vanished beneath an immersive panorama pulled straight from Noura’s cortex. Vivid scenes bloomed along the perimeter: the magistrate himself overseeing humid underground spore-beds, flanked by familiar patricians who sealed green-glowing phials for transport. A chilling memory of Noura herself, laughing, as she orchestrated the kidnapping of Farida’s brother. The evidence was overwhelming, visceral, utterly undeniable. The entire assembly stood witness to her ledgers and crimes. Guards sent to arrest Dr. Qadir froze mid-stride, hands hovering over their pommels as they stared from their compromised patron down to Sabira, who held Noura pinned to the brass terminal. Their blades hissed as they began to draw their swords, completely unsure whether to arrest Sabira or their own lords.

The Physician's Prescription