“We don’t have time for this,” Ozanil muttered, pulling Nadjia away from the public projection. His grip on her arm was firm, a silent anchor. “The Chime-Weave loom. We need to re-calibrate its harmonics, reverse whatever malicious frequencies she wove into it.” They sprinted through the gilded walkways, past hovering sky-barges and the gossiping throngs of lesser tuners. The Spires of Jhalara, typically an enclave of quiet contemplation, hummed with frantic activity. Every guild house was already preparing, polishing, tuning. “The diary mentioned a specific counter-weave,” Nadjia panted, matching Ozanil’s long stride. Her mind raced, sifting through the few fragments of her past self’s notes. “A ‘zero-point nullification chord’. She hid it in plain sight, I’m sure of it.” Their destination was the Great Weave-Hall, a vast dome of interwoven Shur-Glass that housed the exhibition looms. As they entered the central atrium, a stretch of meticulously manicured verdant moss and blooming ‘sun-flame’ bushes, a figure emerged from the shade of a flowering archway. Lissara. She wore a flowing gown of pale, shimmering silk, clutching her chest with a delicate hand. Her gaze, habitually sharp, was now wet and wide, fixed on Ozanil. “Oh, Ozanil,” she whispered, her voice a reedy sigh carried on the faint breeze. “My dearest… the shock of this sudden exhibition… my constitution…” She swayed dramatically, her perfect posture faltering, a hand outstretched as if seeking solace. Her gaze flickered to Nadjia, a swift, triumphant glint before she fixed her performance back on Ozanil. “My head spins. I fear… I might collapse…” Nadjia choked on her intake of air, tension coiling tight in her stomach. This was Lissara’s favored tactic: feigned frailty, a demand for attention, a convenient way to isolate Ozanil and belittle Nadjia’s presence. She braced herself for the inevitable, for Ozanil’s reluctant support of her 'ailing cousin'. But Ozanil didn't move an inch. His expression remained utterly neutral, a smooth, unyielding mask. As Lissara’s sway intensified, her body leaning heavily forward, clearly anticipating his arms, Ozanil took a smooth, calculated step to the side. It was a movement so subtle, so precise, it seemed less like avoidance and more like an effortless reorientation of his own mass. Lissara, deprived of her intended brace, completed her dramatic fall. Instead of being caught in a heroic embrace, she landed with a soft, indignant thud onto the springy moss of the garden. Her silken gown billowed around her, a puddle of expensive fabric on the ground. For a fraction of a second, her eyes snapped open, a flash of pure, unadulterated fury at being so brazenly rebuffed. Then, with remarkable speed, she squeezed them shut again, letting out a weak, theatrical groan. Ozanil regarded her fallen form with an unblinking gaze. He pulled a small, polished Shur-Glass transmitter from his belt. His voice, softenened only when speaking to Nadjia, was now clipped, devoid of all inflection. “This is Acoustic-Warden Ferus. I require immediate medical dispatch to the central courtyard. We have a suspected… highly infectious respiratory incident.” He paused, then added, with chilling calm, “Requesting a Level Five Bio-Hazard Lockdown.” Nadjia stared, a small, involuntary gasp escaping her lips. Level Five Bio-Hazard. That was reserved for the most virulent, transmissible Shur-Glass dust fevers, conditions that required hermetic sealing and complete decontamination. It was a protocol meant to protect the entire Spire from catastrophe. Lissara’s 'groan' cut off abruptly. Her eyes flew open, wide with disbelief and outrage. “Ozanil! What are you saying? This is preposterous! I merely—” But her protests were cut short by the swift, efficient arrival of a medical team. Not the usual, leisurely-paced attendants, but a squad of five individuals in gleaming, silver hazmat suits, their faces obscured by opaque Shur-Glass helmets. They moved with alarming speed, deploying a series of interlocking, transparent Shur-Glass panels around Lissara. The panels shimmered into place, forming a perfect, soundproof sphere around her, sealing her off from the world. Lissara screamed. The sound was muffled, distorted to Nadjia’s ears, but her face, trapped within the gleaming, sterile bubble, was a mask of pure, incandescent rage. She pounded on the inside of the glass, her elegant silk gown now crumpled and absurd. One of the medics, their voice synthesized and calm through a speaker, addressed Ozanil. “Acoustic-Warden Ferus, the patient is secured. We will transport her to Isolation Ward Gamma for full spectrum analysis and air purification. Thank you for your swift action in preventing potential contagion.” Ozanil simply nodded. He glanced at Nadjia, a faint, almost imperceptible curve at the corner of his lips. “Safety first, Apprentice Nadjia,” he said, his voice now back to its normal, low cadence. “We wouldn’t want any… unexpected contaminations affecting the exhibition.” Lissara, still screaming soundlessly inside her glass prison, was lifted gently by two levitation platforms and began to drift away across the courtyard, a miniature, furious storm in a transparent orb. The onlookers, initially stunned, began to whisper and point, muffled laughter rippling through the crowd. Lissara, queen of the Spire’s social graces, reduced to a spectacle of germ-phobic panic. “That… was magnificent,” Nadjia managed, a genuine, unburdened laugh bubbling up. The knot in her stomach had vanished, replaced by a surge of giddy triumph. The distraction was perfect. “Indeed,” Ozanil replied, his eyes now crinkling at the corners. “Now, while the Spire’s attention is diverted by our bio-hazard incident, we have precious little time.” He gestured to a discreet, shadowed entrance to the Great Weave-Hall. “Heskel is already inside, scouting the loom.” They slipped into the hall, a cavernous space where rows of magnificent Shur-Glass looms stood ready for the morning. Heskel met them in the shadow of a colossal, ornate loom, its frame glowing with captured light. He held a small, leather satchel, a tool kit. His face, usually impassive, was etched with worry. “Master Nadjia, Warden Ferus,” Heskel whispered, glancing around. “I’ve located Lissara’s tuning station. It’s the primary loom, naturally, at the very center.” He paused, his gaze dropping to the satchel. “But there’s a problem. I went to swap her personal tuning tools with your rigged ones… and her tool case is completely empty.” Nadjia’s elation evaporated. Her past self’s meticulous plans hinged on that swap. Lissara, trapped and humiliated, had still managed to retain a secret. The empty case mocked them, a silent threat. Where were her tools? And what did she intend to use instead?

The Bio-Hazard Bubble