Vidahl knew something was odd as soon as the man in the asymmetrical suit boarded the paralift. He wore a dark blue and black jacket of a militaristic cut with round metal buttons that outlined his forearms, a high collar that completely covered his neck, and a diagonal crease that ran from the right hip to the left collarbone. It had a thick wooly fabric that made it seem like a coat for winter, not the middle of summer.
     Especially not something to wear to the City of the Sea.
     It would have been an interesting point of note on its own, if not for the four hulking companions who followed. They were wrapped in black cloaks with the hoods pulled low enough to obscure their faces, and Vidahl’s keen eyes caught a glimpse of well-oiled leather armor and metal hilts hidden underneath. 
     Looks like someone’s in town for a reason, Vidahl thought to themselves. Mercenaries weren’t exactly a rarity in Heln, but it had been many years since they’d been in close proximity to hired arms. After a moment of rumination, everything, the clothes, the mercenaries, they all slid into place. 
     The strange visitor had money. Lots of it.
     Maintaining an air of professionalism, Vidahl kept any reaction from their face. Conning tourists unawares was something the Liftmaster had made a hobby of in recent months. It certainly made the rides more bearable and was technically legal; no one would complain about lifting some coin off of tourists. 
     The wood boards creaked under the additional weight, the lift sinking slightly against the wind that kept it aloft. A handful of other pedestrians crowded in around the cloaked strangers, and the ticketmaster closed the gate to the cabin shut. With a nod of approval, Vidahl released the safety lever that kept the lift parked at the cliff’s edge. They spun the worn dial at the wooden console which opened a hole in the center of the main sail. With the updraft caught and focused to a single point, the vehicle began the slow descent down the seawall towards the Bluesand District two thousand feet below.
     Several of the riders gasped and exclaimed at the view from the lift; tourists, of course. Behind them, a gray and brown cliff dusted with pale salt deposits that glittered in the midday sun. Before them, the naked view of the famous white-and-blue sand beaches caressed by the emerald sea from thousands of feet in the air was a sight to behold. It was what nobles and wealthy merchants from all across Miria came for.
Vidahl was desensitized to it; this was just another trip. 
Yesterday marked their sixth year of being a lift operator, and despite running a traditional lift, a wooden basket with sails tethered to a safety line, they managed to keep up with the traffic of the new metal gondolas. Vidahl peered to the right: far down the seawall they could see the dark metal box spewing opaque smoke that hauled passengers to and fro at an industrious pace. A pace that lacked human touch, in their opinion. They absently spun the wooden dial, making micro adjustments to compensate for the wind currents while maintaining the smooth descent. They rubbed crust from their eyes and licked their lips; the salt from the ocean carried up even here.
     Out of their periphery, Vidahl kept an eye on the man in the odd suit. His shoulder-length brown hair was slicked back and tied in a low tail.  His face had a cold edge to it; he seemed like he couldn’t care less about the priceless view, or the warm sunlight, or the refreshing bite of the ocean air that rose all around them. He stood ramrod straight with his hands clasped behind his back, and watched the cloudless sky with a severe gaze. There was a discerning glint in his eyes, like he searched the horizon for something but couldn’t seem to find it. 
     Vidahl made their move. Amidst the chatter of the other passengers, they scooted around the console so they were shoulder-to-shoulder with the man. Through a pantomime of enjoying the view, too, they cleared their throat. “Gotta say, you’re in luck. We haven’t had a day this clear this whole season.” 
     The man raised an eyebrow and regarded Vidahl with those piercing eyes. “Truly? I was under the impression that this kind of weather is commonplace. Folks seem to believe they go hand-in-hand, so to speak.”
     “Well we’re certainly fortunate to have better weather than most,” Vidahl replied. “But it’s been a rainy few months. Been having plumbing problems from the Vista District, so the rain’s been turning the canals into cesspools. Hasn’t been the most pleasant for the locals.”
     “Pity,” the man replied, leaning closer to the edge to peer directly below. His collar pulled back an inch exposing what looked like the top of an ugly scar.  “Say, Liftmaster, where would the nearest inn from here be? This is my first time in Heln, and I would like a place for my friends and I to stay for a reasonable price.”
     “In Bluesand?” Vidahl asked, noticing the mark. That’s a chemical burn, they thought, scratching their own neck reflexively. Poor bastard. “Hmmm… I know of a few places. Good fare, cheap drinks, rooms aren’t half bad either. I even know the owner of the place; he won’t give you the tourist rate if you mention my name. But that, my friend,” they said with a mischievous smile, “will cost you.”
     The man gave a shrewd look. “I didn’t take the good people of Heln to be such swindlers.”
     Vidahl offered a placating bow. “My wage is not a princely one, you see, you wouldn’t deny someone trying to make ends meet, no?”
     The man frowned, looking Vidahl up and down. He looked important, there was no denying that, and it was almost assured that he would have wealth on his person. But the curious corner of his mind took over.
     The wind rising up the seawall gusted, so Vidahl twisted the dial to widen the opening in the main sail. They leaned closer, making sure to speak beneath the idle conversation around them. “I would be open to accepting payment other than just money. Information, perhaps, if you so wish?”
     The man’s eyes narrowed. “Of what nature?”
     “To satisfy the curiosities of an old Liftmaster, nothing more.” Vidahl let their gaze wander across the shoreline where people splashed in the sea foam below. “Heln is a quiet place, my friend. Lovely to stay for a while, but nothing truly happens. Judging from your disposition and the company you keep, you seem to be traveling with some purpose. What really brings you to the city?”
     He let out a humorless chuckle. “That is none of your concern,” he scoffed. “I am here to carry out  a task, that's true. Had you broached the topic with a touch more tact, I may have been more inclined to share. But I suppose—”
     “The Brine and Barrel,” they said quickly. Damn it, I’m losing him. “That’s the place you’ll want to stay. Ask for Ol’ Spolle. Tell him I sent you.”
     “I think food and board are a little below the asking price at the moment,” the man replied acidly. “I believe this conversation is over, Liftmaster. Now if you’ll excuse—”

 

 

     “Here,” Vidahl said, withdrawing something from their robes. It was a slender shoot of bamboo capped with a piece of wax paper and twine at one end with a stout fuse poking through the top. They handed it to the man who accepted it, his brows furrowed. “This is a little creation of mine. As an apology for my brashness.”
     The man studied it. “What is it?”
     “The kids call them firesticks,” Vidahl replied. “You set that little fuse alight and it shoots out a fountain of sparks.” They shrugged. “Honestly, it’s all I can give by way of apology. A child’s toy.”
     The man’s nose was scrunched, and his eyes went wide. He looked from the firestick to Vidahl, an imperceptible expression flashing across his face. “I believe I should be the one apologizing, Liftmaster. This is fine craftsmanship.” He pocketed the device and smiled. “I am a firm believer in that the value of a gift can be measured by more than just gold. You wish to know about my business in Heln, then I shall indulge you.”
     It was Vidahl’s turn to go wide-eyed. Did that really just work? 
     “As I have said, my friends and I are here on a special task. My superiors, they sent me out here to recover something that was stolen from them. Something valuable. We were dispatched to hunt down the thief because our employer prioritizes,” he paused, half-turning to the henchmen behind him. “...diligence over discretion. My men and I have been searching for years, and we recently received a tip that it might live here.”
     “I see,” Vidahl remarked. He caught the man’s eyes which were once again sizing Vidahl up and down. Something about the way he said ‘hunt’ made their skin shiver. “You usually involve the authorities? I’m sure the warden would be—”
     “No,” the man cut in, his eyes returning to the water. “People have an easier time talking to a purse than a constable, and the lawfolk tend to be more hassle than help. Plus,” he added, massaging the burn scar that peeked out from his collar. “I have a personal stake in this assignment. The more freely I can move, the better.”
     “Makes sense,” Vidahl replied, readjusting the paralift sails. They were approaching the bottom platform. “What was stolen, if you don’t mind me asking? Your boss get their pearls pickpocketed or—hang on, did you say live here?”
     “Unfortunately, I did,” the man said dryly. He made a two-fingered gesture, and the hulking henchmen positioned themselves in between the pair and the rest of the passengers. He continued. “What I’m looking for can’t be seen or touched; it protects itself by hiding in a host.”
     “Like a parasite?” 
     “In a way,” the man said. “You could think of it as a sickness. The longer it lives in someone, the faster they usually perish.”
Vidahl frowned. “You’re telling me you’re looking for a parasite that makes people terminally ill, and you want to retrieve it?”
     “Yes.”
     Was this some elaborate prank? The man was probably crazy. Yet he was well-dressed, surrounded by well-armed mercenaries, and clearly in the employ of someone with the resources to fund such a ludicrous venture. Vidahl scratched their chin; was there some truth to what he spoke of? Something itched at the back of their brain, some sort of meaning they clearly weren’t getting. “Alright, so say I believe you. How do you plan on finding it?”
     The man “The thing about a sickness like this is that it leaves traces.”
     “Many do. Pox, boils, rash—”
     “This one’s different. Depending on how it takes root, it allows one to… do special things.”
     “Such as…?”
     “Miracles,” he said, leveling that severe gaze at Vidahl. “And terrible terrible things. The one I hunt in particular has to do with making things. Creating from nothing. Tell me, Liftmaster, have you seen anything unusual in the Bluesand District? Anything magically pop into existence with no rational explanation?”
      Vidahl did their best to avoid that flinty gaze. A spike of adrenaline shot through their legs at the words. Could he mean…? No. Impossible. No one was there; no one made it out… “I—”
     The lift came to a hard stop at the base of the seawall. Vidahl pulled the safety lever, locking the lift in place, and the ticketmaster opened the door. They sighed. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help, my friend, but Heln is a pretty quiet city. Lived here for seven years, and no magic or miracles as far as I’ve seen.”
     The passengers steadily filed out, but the man and his henchmen stayed. His eyes lingered on Vidahl’s face, searching hard for something, but the intensity evaporated in a moment. “A pity,” he said simply, reaching into his pocket and flipping a coin to them. It hung airborne for a moment before Vidahl snatched it and it disappeared into their robes. “Well, I appreciate what you’ve shared. If you find anything else, you can find me at the Brine and Barrel, I suppose.” He gave a curt nod as he stepped onto the stone platform followed by his entourage. “Goodday.”
     As the next crowd of passengers piled in, Vidahl examined the coin in their palm. It was an Imperial gold mark—a little under a month’s worth of pay. They watched the odd group melt into the busy street before taking a deep breath. They adjusted their robes, letting the warm air loosen the fabric that was pasted to their back with cold sweat. 

                                                                                                              * * *
     A knock sounded at the door. Removing their goggles, Vidahl left their workbench and peered out the slanted window. A child dressed in pants and slippers with scraggly hair stood expectantly in the warm nighttime air. They opened the door a crack, and the child’s eyes lit up in delight.
     “Vidahl! You’re awake!”
     They opened the door wider, and a fresh breeze coasted into the one-room house chasing out the chemical fumes. “Hello, little one. What brings you here at this hour?”
     The child raised their scrawny arms to proffer up a small handful of copper marks. “My da’s birthday is today, and I forgot to get him a present. I thought, if I caught you in time, I could get one of them firesticks?”
     Vidahl knelt down to eye-level and gave a kind smile. “That’s awfully thoughtful of you, little one, but how’d you come by so much money? You’re not picking pockets again, are you?”
     They shook their head, sending thick locks of hair bouncing around. “No! No,” they insisted, large eyes blinking innocently beneath smudges of dirt. “Some tourists left their belongings on the beach when they went for a swim!”
     Vidahl chuckled. “Fair enough, little one. Just make sure you don’t get caught by the guards, now.” They made an exaggerated thinking face, and plucked one mark from the child’s outstretched hands. “This’ll be more than enough; keep the rest. You earned it.”
     The child regarded them with wide eyes. “Thank you, Vidahl! You’re the best!”
     They stood patting the child on the head. “I have just about all the ingredients, so give me a minute or two to put everything together, okay?”
     “Okay!”
     Vidahl closed the door and returned to their workbench. They retrieved paper envelopes from several small drawers and placed a wooden bowl and a scale on the desk. Measuring the ingredients, they went through the recipe that they had memorized long ago. 
     The recipe that had unmade them.
     Fifteen parts charcoal shavings.
     Seventy-five parts saltpeter.
     Ten parts blue sand.
     Vidahl measured and mixed these components with the hollow detachment of years of repetition. They poured the powder into a small bamboo tube. They took a breath; now was the step they were always apprehensive about. Ignoring the itch at the base of their neck, they clasped their hands together above the tube in front of them. They closed their eyes and looked inward. 
     To their gift.
     They could feel, deep at the core of their being, a single word. It wasn’t in any language Vidahl knew, but they could see the shape of it, shining like a single platinum star in an otherwise empty space. From that single mote of light, they visualized a thread connecting to their mind. They concentrated on that thread, and a word involuntarily escaped their lips. 
     “_____________.”
     An acrid smell seized the air. Vidahl opened their eyes and a thin line of yellow dust fell from their hands into the bamboo. Out of habit, they recited the final line in their head, not needing to measure the amount.
     Twenty parts sulfur.
     Vidahl wiped their hands with a rag and said a silent prayer of thanks. Though it never failed them, it was something they barely understood. It was useful for summoning ingredients that were expensive or hard to come by, but to what extent, they didn’t know. Nor did they care to. It was an unknown variable that sat at the center of their being, and that was frightening.
     They covered the tube with a waxy piece of paper, secured it with twine, and poked a thin fuse through the top. They opened the door to see the child, who was waiting expectantly, and placed it in their hands. “Sorry for the wait,” they said with a smile.           “One firestick, as requested.” 
     “Thank you Vidahl!” the child squealed, baring a delighted patchwork smile. They looked into the workshop, and their expression fell for a moment. “How do you make these things, Vidahl?”
     Vidahl put a finger to their lips and smiled. “Secret recipe I learned long ago. It’s a bit dangerous, so you have to be careful.”
     “Could you teach me sometime?”
     Their smile faltered. “Perhaps, little one. But another day. Go run along now, before the constable catches you with that.”
     The child ran off without another word, and the narrow street in front of Vidahl’s home was quiet once more.
     Vidahl stood for several minutes before closing the door, the joy in the child’s face and the excitement in their voice replaying in their head. They were an alchemist by trade with a particular passion for pyrotechnics. In a previous chapter in their life, Vidahl had been the rising star of the Imperial Alchemists Guild and had access to one of the most advanced labs in the Capital City despite being a journeyman. They were part of a team of bright minds tasked to research and develop more efficient and potent combustive materials in hopes of manufacturing revolutionary implements of war. As the youngest member of the lab, they had hopes of using their talents to change the world.
     Then that woman in the red robe appeared.
     Then Vidahl received this gift.
     Then the night of the accident…
     A figure stepped from the side alley before the door fully shut. 
In the warm light spilling from the cracked door, Vidahl could make out a series of bright buttons outlining an asymmetrical dark coat. Their eyes widened in concern and recognition as the man from before stalked closer. As he stepped into the glow from the interior, Vidahl could see he was not smiling.
     “So,” he said with an edge to his drawl. “I hear these firesticks I’ve found around town are made by an alchemist. Someone by the name of Vidahl.” From his coat pocket he withdrew a piece of bamboo with a wax paper seal on the end.
     Vidahl gripped the doorframe to steady themself. “What do you want? How did you find my house? What happened to the kid?”
     The man clicked his tongue. “Not how this works. I’m the one asking questions.” He rolled his eyes. “But I’ll allow you that one. The kid’s fine; bought this thing off ‘em plus the name of who made it. Little guy looked like he’d never seen silver before. Plus, I told you before: I trust the information of the locals.” He wagged the bamboo in front of their face. “And you’re not a local, are you?”
     Vidahl froze. A spine of dread clawed up their legs as they tried to piece together what was happening. “Don’t know what you’re talking about; I’ve been here for seven years, I—”
     The man let out a shrill whistle. From the shadows behind him, the four looming henchmen in black cloaks manifested behind him. The message was clear; Vidahl wasn’t going anywhere.
     “Tell me something, Vidahl,” the man interrupted. He ripped the wax paper off the bamboo tube and poured its contents onto the ground. “What do you put into something like this?” 
     “Umm, that’s private…” they stammered. “Trade secret. Couldn’t share if I wanted to.”
     One of the henchmen shook a hooded head. “Lies,” they hissed in a voice Vidahl didn’t expect to be so raspy.
     The man continued unbothered. “See, my friends are talented at negotiation. They can restrain unruly individuals, chase down those who try to run, and—my personal favorite—sniff out lies.” He kept pouring powder onto the ground, moving his hand so the stream spilled onto Vidahl’s bare feet. “Jackals, I call them. So let’s make it easier for both of us and come clean, alright? My patience is running out.” His smile looked like thin paper. “What do you put in these?”
     Vidahl swallowed hard. “Charcoal, saltpeter, and some blue sand,” they recited. “The kids, they like the color.”
     The man took a long breath through his nose, and his eyes went hard. “Is that all? Forgetting anything?”
     “Sulfur,” they said, the cold dread piercing their stomach. “Not sure why that’d matter; they’re all basic componen—”
     “Oh, but it’s not, is it?” he asked, his tone caustic. “Sulfur is a material common in the Capital City and closely surrounding lands. Exports to the vassal cities are carefully monitored, painstakingly so, in fact. I am close with the woman who oversees the trade routes, and I know for truth that sulfur exports to Heln is on backorder for no less than three years.” His eyes became embers. “So answer me this, Vidahl. Why do I smell sulfur in your ‘firestick?’” He let the bamboo clatter to the ground.
     Vidahl took a step back. “Black market; I have a guy.”
     The man stepped forward breaching the threshold into their home. “Two hundred and fifty gold marks say otherwise.” He smiled that cruel smile; it was the look of a predator. The Jackals moved to fill the room, too. “Gold loosens all tongues, Vidahl.         Now I’ll ask one more time: where did you get the sulfur?”
     Vidahl knew the tone of someone asking questions they already knew the answer to. It was the tone of teachers, of authority figures, of people used to getting their way. It was the tone of a hunter who backed his prey into a corner. They watched as the Jackals fanned out, slowly moving to surround them. In that moment, they seemed a bit too bestial to be human. The dread had snaked its way around their heart. They needed to do something. Now.
     Step by step, the man approached. “Did you, perhaps, create it?”
Step by step, Vidahl retreated deeper into the chamber. Careful to keep their hands hidden within the folds of their robes, they called upon their gift. 
     Up until now, they had only created one thing at a time, fearful of pushing the limits in case it somehow vanished. Creating a handful of something at a time—that had been more than enough. 
     Not anymore.
     Vidahl visualized the gift, the bright pinpoint of power, and the thin line that joined them. Concentrating on that thread, they pulled. 
     “_____________,” Vidahl muttered under their breath.
     “What was that?” the man asked, mere feet away from Vidahl. “You’ll have to speak up.”
     In an instant, Vidahl withdrew their hands from their robes, each one streaming a fistful of fine powder, and threw the contents at the floor between them. There was a moment of confusion which Vidahl took to withdraw the flint and steel from their pocket. They loosed a spray of sparks across the pile and held their breath as the entire house exploded into smoke.                  Vidahl turned and barreled through the back door, leaving the Jackals coughing and cursing behind. As they widened the distance, they could hear the man choke out, “It’s the Judge! After them!”

     Vidahl flew through the sleeping streets of the Bluesand District. Weaving through alleys and side streets, their mind was racing. Who were the Jackals? How did that man know so much about sulfur? How did he trace it to them? What were they after?
     They recalled the answer like a stone dropped in a cold lake: because of the gift. 
     He had come to Heln for the power—the parasite—inside them. He had said it was stolen, but how? How was something Vidahl only saw in their mind’s eye as a mote of light taken? And from whom?
     Fighting for their attention was the revelation that consumed the other half of their mind: they had created two things at once. By tugging on the thread, they had drawn more power from the gift, and the gift answered. They looked inside themselves; the bead of light was shining as bright as ever—brighter even. Examining it more closely, the mote seemed to pulse slightly, and the thread was fuller and brighter than before. Vidahl’s mind reeled; by drawing more power, neither the connection nor the gift itself weakened? Was there a cost? Was there a limit?
     They didn’t have a specific destination in mind, but with the intent of escaping pumping through their veins, they found themselves at the foot of the seawall. The station was dark; it was well past operating hours. Without stopping, Vidahl vaulted the safety gate, and their feet landed on the familiar wood grain of their paralift. They hastily checked the ropes and sails, and when everything passed the inspection, held the safety lever and waited for the wind.
     The main reason why paralifts didn’t operate at night was because of the inconsistent wind. The warmth of the sun provided a consistent updraft for the duration of the day, but as soon as the air cooled, it became erratic and risky to traverse. 
Which wasn’t the least bit of an issue for Vidahl. Heart pounding in their ears, they watched the palm trees that dotted the thoroughfare. From the synchronous rustling, they saw the gust of wind race toward the seawall. Ignoring the initial flapping of their garment, they waited until the brunt of the air slammed the paralift. The sail snapped taut, the basket lifted slightly, and Vidhal slammed down on the lever. The lift rose so quickly, that they stumbled to their knees from the force of gravity. Setting the dial to maximum lift, they shakily got to their feet and indulged in a sigh of relief. It had been a close call, but they were safe for the time being. 
     From their rising vantage point, they saw the swath of small structures and businesses and homes glowing like a sea of fireflies. A sleepy orange constellation that was a modest imitation of the brilliant one above. Through the cloudless night, Vidahl could see the pale light of Lisin’s Ring sparkle and dance across the waves that gently caressed the blue sand beach. Despite seeing the view thousands of times, the shapes and colors of the district wearing themselves into their bones, they couldn’t help but feel a pang of melancholy knowing it would probably be the last time they’d see it.
Heln, the City of the Sea. A simple yet beautiful place. It had been good to them. But, like most that gaze upon its beauty, it was time to leave.
     With another pang of remorse, Vidahl realized they had left all their belongings behind. Keepsakes and memories from the past seven years, thank-you’s from those who enjoyed their creations. It stung, but it was a small thing. They had started with less before. They looked at their hands, and possibilities and queries sparked through their mind. With some more practice, would it be possible to—
     Suddenly, two large hands gripped Vidahl’s neck. Amidst the strangled noises emanating from their throat, they heard a familiar voice say: “I’ve got to say, that was an inspired getaway. You had the Jackals as confused as newborn pups, and that’s something to be proud of.”
     They tried to struggle against the grapple, but the assailant was too strong. He slammed Vidahl against a corner post, and the whole lift shook. Pain flashed through their mind, but they opened their eyes to see the man in the asymmetrical suit. They were dumbfounded. “How did you know…?”
     “To find you here? Don’t be stupid. Someone as experienced at running and hiding as you would know there’s only one way off the beach, one way out of the city. Plus we’re all creatures of habit, aren’t we?”
     He bounced their head against the post again before grabbing their face with one hand and forcing their gaze to the Bluesand District. From the direction of their home, a black tower of smoke slithered into the air. They watched in horror as people scrambled in all directions while crimson flames spread to the structures nearby. 
     “What?” Vidahl said through the pressure of fingers. “No… no, something else must’ve caught fire. The chemicals—”
     “Would probably make it hard to put out, wouldn’t it?” he asked hungrily. “Fire, birthed from an alchemical lab, is practically immune to water or smothering. The time it stops is when it runs out of fuel.”
     “But the homes… The people…”
     “Don’t tell me you feel for them?” he shouted, throwing them to the floor. Pain blossomed again, but he kept talking. “This should be nostalgic for you; a trip down memory lane. What could possibly give you more pleasure than watching things burn? It’s who you are.”
     Vidahl crawled to the other side of the lift. They needed to keep as much distance between them and him as possible. “What the fuck are you talking about? I don’t want any of this, why—” they coughed. “—why are you saying all of this?”
     The man looked down at them, and they saw rage—an aged smoldering rage—in his eyes. He took off his gloves and began undoing the buttons on his coat. “I smelled it on you this morning. I thought I was imagining it, but I wasn’t mistaken. Sulfur. The same smell from that night.” 
     Vidahl held the back of their head, blinking in confusion. “What are you… What night? I don't—”
     “I was a broken man. I had lost everything. So can you imagine the praise I gave Alon when I was assigned to hunt a Judge who fled the Imperial Alchemists Guild after meeting a heretic?” 
     Dread and realization began to settle into Vidahl’s bones like a glacier: frigid and inconceivable heavy. They shivered. “Red robes. The woman in red robes,” they said, recalling the memory. “She talked to me. Asked me things.”
     “Strange conversation?” the man asked, undoing the buttons about the collar. “She asked you about virtues and desires and all that?”
     Vidahl nodded mutely. 
     “She was dying. She needed to pass her parasite onto someone else, otherwise the sickness—the Edict—would have taken her life.” He tossed the heavy jacket to the floor and went to work on the linen shirt underneath. “Lucky for her, you happened to pass by. Someone who understood what it meant to create. Someone like her.”
     “I don’t understand,” they lied. It was all fitting into place.
     “But you don’t create, do you?” he accused. “You destroy, and kill, and burn. How ironic that the Edict of Creation falls into the lap of an arson and a murderer.” 
     The chill found its way to Vidahl’s heart once more. It squeezed like a noose until they were finding it hard to breathe. They coughed again and looked up to see the small mark on his neck was the top of a long winding series of deep horrible burn scars that etched his form. Around his neck hung a medallion bearing an Imperial crest.
     A crest they had tried so hard to forget.
     Vidahl gasped. “Ashanthi Manor…”
     “Alchemical fire doesn’t stop burning until it runs out of fuel,” the man recited with murder in his voice. “You took everything. My House. My wife. My daughter.”
     The gust faltered for a second, the lift halting mid-air, but a second steadier breeze kept them aloft. The dial was locked in place; they would arrive at the Vista District as fast as the wind allowed.
     Vidahl fell to their hands and knees, shaking. There was a ringing in their ears, and their skin felt like it was burning and freezing at the same time. “I’m sorry…” they choked out between sobs. “It was an accident, I’m sorry…”
     “Two hundred yards from your lab, and you think it wise to fire that weapon at my home?”
     “We-we were drunk from the party,” they confessed. “They thought it’d be funny to aim at a target… I didn’t think—nobody thought it would go that far… All I wanted was to get away; to forget. I never meant any of this!”
     Lord Ashanthi let out a roar of grief. “Save your pleas for Alon; there is no forgiveness for you here,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “If I had my way, you would die twenty deaths for each of my loved ones. But my employer requests we take you back alive. If I play my cards right, perhaps she’ll let me have you when she’s finished with you.”
     The lift lurched to a halt as it hit the docking posts. Lord Ashanthi copied what Vidahl had done, engaging the safety lever and securing the paralift to the station. He jerked his clothing back on, careless of buttoning up again, and grabbed Vidahl by the scruff of their robes.
     Vidahl barely noticed. Their mind was racing; they needed to escape. If what the man was saying was true, then this was Lord Jarid Ashanthi, the man whose life Vidahl had accidentally destroyed seven years ago in an inferno of hubris. A wraith of his past. Cupping their hands together, they pulled at their gift. They pulled hard. Blood pounded in their ears, and they felt like their heart was being squeezed by a large fist. The golden line flared in response. They were able to create two things at once, why not more?
     They fought to stay focused and recited the recipe, the mantra.
     Thirty parts charcoal shavings.
     One-hundred and fifty parts saltpeter.
     Forty parts sulfur.
     Vidahl whispered, “________—”
     “Oh, I think not!” Ashanthi yelled, throwing Vidahl to the ground. The impact scattered the powders across the stone, and they could taste the tang of fresh blood. Standing above, Ashanthi wrapped their hands around Vidahl’s throat and in a venomous growl, uttered something only they could hear:
     “__________.”
     Vidahl’s eyes were wide with horror. 
     Ashanthi had a gift, too. 
     Black tendrils of smoke snaked from Ashanthi’s forearms coalescing around his hands. In one cruel motion, he wrenched his hands upward, and the black smoke tore through Vidahl’s throat. There was a sickening snap. 
     Ashanthi stood, panting heavily. The smoke leaking from his arms slowed to a trickle, then disappeared entirely. He gazed down at Vidahl, a look of satisfaction across his sweat-soaked face. “That… Should keep you from… causing any more trouble.”
     Vidahl tried to cry out in pain, but found they could not. They tried to scream; no sound left their mouth. Somehow, Ashanthi had taken their voice. I can’t use my gift, they realized. Fear—the fear of an animal truly cornered—wound its way into Vidahl’s heart. They clutched their throat and tried to crawl towards the paralift, only to see four Jackals exiting a nearby metal gondola and running towards them. They felt the heel of a boot stomp into their lower back; they yelled in pain, but only a soft wheeze escaped their lips. They were caught; completely and utterly. A small piece of their mind felt relief for not needing to live in constant fear of being discovered, but it was foolish. They weren’t sure how much more living they’d have anymore.
     “Nowhere to run,” Ashanthi seethed. He twisted his heel, which made Vidahl buckle, but he knelt down. “If you truly were the Judge of Creation, you would bring them back.” He sighed. “But there will be others. After you perish, that is.”
     A soft rush of footfalls announced the Jackals had arrived. “What now?” one of them rasped.
     “Now,” Lord Ashanthi replied. “We return home. Bind this one’s hands; they are harmless now, but it would be best to be safe.”
Vidahl could hear the heavy clinking of chains and another deeper voice ask: “Will this one cooperate?”
     “No. It would be best to incapacitate them. However,” Ashanthi said. “Allow me to do the honors. It’s a long ride back to the Capital, and I have debts to repay.”
     The last thing Vidahl saw was the man in the asymmetrical coat taking a heavy club from a hulking figure that looked more creature than human. He regarded the weapon for a moment before swinging down in a vicious arc before the world went black.