Iskra crossed the castle courtyard. Ahead of her, the doors swung open.

  “Where is the tub? I told you to get it ready!” a woman’s voice hissed.

  “I’m bringing it!” a young man replied, his arms laden with a bucket of water. A woman hurried past, clutching a basket filled with soiled linens. Farther on, two men were whispering.

  “Are these the same symptoms as last time?”

  “Maybe worse. If they’re not telling us anything, it means the situation is serious.”

  A page rushed up, his brow slick with sweat.

  “You’re expected in the main hall,” he blurted out.

  He turned on his heel, and Iskra hurried after him.

  “We should have burned the sheets right away,” a woman muttered as she passed a man with a waxy complexion.

  “And risk a general panic? Do nothing until orders come from the hall,” he snapped back.

  Two guards stood watch at the entrance.

  “Lady Iskra. Always so quick to answer a summons.”

  The second man, younger, bowed.

  “You are expected inside.”

  “Gentlemen, the page looked as though he’d been running for his life. Should I be worried?” she asked, a smile on her lips.

  “That’s not for me to judge. But you won’t have to wait long to find out.”

  The doors parted, revealing a dozen donarques standing in a circle. Marte raised his hand, and Iskra joined him at his side.

  “What’s going on?” she whispered.

  “Jurffe and Fylk died last night.”

  “How?”

  “A disease, or perhaps a gift,” he replied.

  Ryrka slipped between the figures before taking his place at the center.

  “As you know, Sir Jurffe and Count Fylk are dead. Their bodies were covered in sores and inflammations. It could be an epidemic…” He paused. “Or perhaps not.”

  “If this is an attack, it’s far too methodical to be the work of a mere novice,” growled a man with a scarred cheek.

  “And if it’s contagious? We could all be in danger, right here,” a woman interjected.

  “We must consider every possibility. That will be all for tonight,” Ryrka said firmly.

  Cloaks lifted as the assembly dispersed.

  “Lady Iskra. Always so quick to answer a summons.”

  The second man, younger, bowed.

  “You are expected inside.”

  “Gentlemen, the page looked as though he’d been running for his life. Should I be worried?” she asked, a smile on her lips.

  “That’s not for me to judge. But you won’t have to wait long to find out.”

  The doors parted, revealing a dozen donarques standing in a circle. Marte raised his hand, and Iskra joined him at his side.

  “What’s going on?” she whispered.

  “Jurffe and Fylk died last night.”

  “How?”

  “A disease, or perhaps a gift,” he replied.

  Ryrka slipped between the figures before taking his place at the center.

  “As you know, Sir Jurffe and Count Fylk are dead. Their bodies were covered in sores and inflammations. It could be an epidemic…” He paused. “Or perhaps not.”

  “If this is an attack, it’s far too methodical to be the work of a mere novice,” growled a man with a scarred cheek.

  “And if it’s contagious? We could all be in danger, right here,” a woman interjected.

  “We must consider every possibility. That will be all for tonight,” Ryrka said firmly.

  Cloaks lifted as the assembly dispersed.

  She entered her chamber and opened the window. A gust of wind rushed into the room, lifting a lock of hair from her forehead. She tipped into the void as flames burst forth and spiraled around her. Then, in an incandescent breath, she rose.

  Below, the Fylk estate stretched as far as the eye could see. Little by little, the flames surrounding her weakened before going out, and her boots finally touched the ground.

  A scent of sulfur clung to the earth. Her throat tightened, and her nostrils flared. She struck the door with her fist, and a small woman appeared in the doorway, her back hunched. Wrinkles furrowed her face, and beneath her eyes, purplish circles darkened her gaze. Iskra raised her insignia, and the old woman let her pass.

  “Where did Count Fylk die?” she asked.

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  “He was found lifeless in his bed,” the old woman murmured.

  They entered a bedchamber. A portrait dominated the wall, depicting Count Fylk in his youth. At his side, a woman with long black hair wore a faint smile.

  “I’m sorry for your husband.”

  She collapsed to her knees. Her hands trembled as her shoulders shook.

  “Find the murderer, I beg you,” she sobbed.

  Iskra placed a hand on her shoulder.

  “I promise you.”

  She moved closer to the bed and brushed the sheets with her fingertips.

  “Have you noticed anything strange in recent days?”

  The widow shook her head.

  “Do you remember anything at all?”

  “Three weeks ago, a man came here. My husband went to meet him.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “I wasn’t there, but someone saw him.”

  She wiped her eyes and left the room. A moment later, she returned, pulling a boy along with her. His tousled hair fell over his eyes.

  “Can you describe the stranger, Zall?”

  The child tightened his fingers around the wrinkled hand.

  “He was tall and thin, with chestnut hair and brown eyes.”

  “Anything distinctive? A scar? Jewelry?” Iskra pressed.

  “He had an accent.”

  “What kind of accent?”

  “He spoke slowly, as if he lingered on every word.”

  “Nothing else?”

  He shook his head, and Iskra slipped a coin into his hand.

  “Thank you, Zall. Go to sleep,” the old woman murmured.

  He crossed the threshold and disappeared down the corridor.

  “Where is that smell of sulfur coming from?”

  “I don’t smell anything.”

  “All right. Where is the body?”

  “It was burned,” she whispered.

  “So quickly?”

  “We feared an epidemic.”

  “Who ordered the cremation?”

  “The council said no risks could be taken and that we had to act quickly.”

  “Thank you for your help. I’ll return if I need more information.”

  She left the chamber, followed by the old woman’s gaze as she remained in the doorway, fingers clenched in her blouse.

  Outside, the night breeze brushed her face. She drew in a breath, but a whiff of sulfur tightened her throat. The air vibrated with the intensity of the flames racing across her skin. She bent her knees and launched herself into the sky.

  Below, the estate shrank away as Sir Jurffe’s manor came into view. The wind lashed her face as she plunged downward. A few meters from the ground, she shifted her weight back, bent her knees, and struck the earth. A cloud of dust rose from the impact.

  She barely had time to move before the door opened. A young man appeared in the doorway, a cloud of vapor spilling from his nostrils. Dark locks fell over his shoulders, framing green eyes. Beneath his skin, scales rippled before breaking through.

  “Calm down, Karnas,” she said.

  “How could I calm down when my father has been murdered?” he hissed.

  “We’ll find his killer.”

  “I don’t need you.”

  She stepped across the threshold.

  “Make yourself at home, why don’t you,” he called after her.

  “Where did he die?”

  “He’s in his study, but what exactly are you hoping to see? There’s nothing left.”

  A prickling sensation scratched at her throat as she entered the room.

  “Do you smell sulfur?” she asked.

  “I don’t smell anything.”

  “Have you noticed any strange people lately?”

  “A man showed up a few days ago. A servant showed him the way, but he insisted on seeing my father.”

  “Did he meet him?”

  “My father was busy, so I decided to go meet him myself.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Average build. Medium-length chestnut hair, brown eyes, and he was wearing colorful clothes.”

  “Any other details?”

  Karnas shook his head and gestured to a servant.

  “Lady Iskra, may I escort you out?”

  “Thank you for your cooperation,” she said.

  She stepped through the door and, in a searing breath, flames engulfed her before tearing her from the ground. Hurled into the sky, she left behind a blazing trail as the city lights slowly faded. She landed before a boulder, then raised her hand to draw a circle in the air. A crack snaked across its surface before widening into a gaping rift, revealing a staircase plunging into the bowels of the earth. She stepped onto it. As she descended, a glow took shape in the darkness. Then the slope softened, and the final steps led her into an underground chamber.

  At the center stood a black door, its surface streaked with thick rivulets. Suddenly, a gaping mouth opened within it. Its lips, slick with drool, drew back to reveal rows of uneven teeth.

  “The code,” the entity murmured.

  “Ar’Zhak’Nir… Vol’thar Iska… Noz’kar Ven’ta… Sha’ra Velkuth.”

  “Denied,” it hissed.

  Her fingers sliced through the air.

  “Vek’ra Nol’Syris… Zoth’kal Niv’theran!”

  “DENIED. DENIED!” the mouth thundered.

  The gaping opening widened.

  “This is your last chance, Iskra.”

  Flames burst around her, and the viscous liquid began to boil, releasing a harsh vapor.

  “That’s not fair!” the door protested.

  “I’m not playing,” she said.

  The mouth folded back into itself and the door opened, revealing a cavern. Inside, hundreds of figures wandered through the aisles of a market. No sooner had Iskra crossed the threshold than the door slammed shut with a crash, making the stone tremble. She moved through the crowd until she reached a stall hidden beneath a stone arch.

  Behind the counter, a man with yellow eyes stared at her, his skin laced with cracks and threaded with dark veins.

  “Can I help you?” he asked.

  She slid three gold coins across the counter.

  “I’m looking for a man who smells of sulfur and spreads disease.”

  The merchant’s fingers lengthened, unfolding into roots that writhed in the air before sinking into the walls.

  “I know someone who might be able to help you.”

  “Who?”

  “I’m not sure I should…”

  She added five more coins.

  “I don’t have the time or the patience for this.”

  The tendrils slid back out of the stone, bringing a vial with them.

  “Take it.”

  She slipped it into her pocket before vanishing into the market.