The wyrm plague would eat through a man’s body, then spit back up replacement fireproof blood and impervious scales. Traditional cremation would not break down their forktongued bodies, but enough sea-oil could burn a hole through anything.

The papers declared the infection spread so fast, individual cremations were not feasible in the quarantine zone. So they were all being burned en masse with sea-oil overseen by a priest.

Mahala instead saw an army of cranes, forklifts, and volunteers pile mountains of infected corpses onto awaiting ships. All the rivertowns and seaports in the quarantine area had been repurposed into full disposal services of the forktongued dead. 

Massive ships sailed away with the dead to the Saltvein, a powerful ocean current that could carry entire fleets from the Golden Sea to the oceans in the god of death’s domain. The ships would empty their cargo there, and let the current carry them away as food for the ocean’s creatures.

Mahala had been told by sailors and reapers that monsters even bigger than leviathans and deadlier than mermaids lived in the ocean. Some tried to describe to her what they saw. It made no sense to her. They didn’t make sense to anyone else, either.

The corpses on board looked more like a defeated anthill than the aftermath of Shir terrorism. Parts of their bodies had disproportionately blown up with giant muscles and jutting scales. Scaled flat faces with giant extended jaws, unhinged and gaping. She should have felt bad seeing them, mourned that they were being returned to the old gods and not to their saviour Nothos - but they no longer looked like people to her. 

Even if they did burn the forktongues, would Nothos take their souls?

“You shouldn’t have to see this, my lady,” said Luck.

Mahala and him were sitting in a classroom of an abandoned school. It too had been repurposed as the main base of operations at the rivertown. Many of the other municipal offices had been destroyed or damaged as the plague wreaked havoc. 

“Have we cleared out all the infected cities yet? There won’t be any more bodies after this, right?”

“All infected areas have been sealed off. The army is still sorting through them. We have to be thorough, and forktongues don’t go down without a—”

She jumped at the ear-piercing screech that cut through the sky. Luck’s hands were on her shoulders before she stumbled. 

On top of the mountain of corpses — a live forktongue. It tore its way through the dead, spitting smoke and bloody screams.

The dockworkers fled.

The forktongue jumped on top of one of the men, catching his neck in its teeth. Another man tried to kick him off, but the monster snapped its tail at him, sending him flying with a shriek. The giant appendage was as thick as an industrial pipe. Mahala hadn’t known forktongues were now growing tails.

She blinked and a homunculus appeared behind the forktongue. It whirled with its tail but the gunshot came first, the chest exploding.

It fell forward into its own guts.

Mahala still felt Luck’s hands on her shoulders. It wasn’t him this time.

The homunculus approached the dockworker with a torn neck. She could see him trying to speak. His bloodied hands were up in a begging motion. The homunculus kicked him onto his back, then plunged his switchsword into his chest, killing whatever wyrmformd over his heart.

The other dockworkers stared mutely at their colleague.

The homunculus ripped off his hood. He grew his hair longer than his brothers, slicked back with loose strands falling over his face. Mahala recognised him as Howl.

“Back to work!” His booming command echoed even to where Mahala stood.

Mahala sighed.

“What happened?” a hollow voice said from the door.

The Lord Protector marched in, his voice resounding harshly through the porcelain mask he wore. The long cloak gave the impression he glided rather than walked. Two more homunculi flanked him with their hoods up.

“My Lord!” A gangly officer followed after the two homunculi guards. “I am so sorry for the intrusion on your meeting. Please, I will find out what happened but you must–”

“Take a breath, Captain. I wasn’t asking you,” the Lord Protector cut in. 

“A live forktongue was found among the dead, sir,” Luck said. “It’s been neutralised. Only one casualty.”

“Oh gods,” the captain moaned into his hands.

“Well, Captain. Would you mind starting from there? Missing a very live creature flies is an error we can’t afford. I expected better from your men,” the Lord Protector said, still facing the window. “I will return to the council meeting shortly.”

“Y-Yes, my Lord.” The captain bowed deep from the waist and scurried off.

The Lord Protector watched Howl teleport onboard a ship and dump the dockworker. He finally turned away and headed out the door.

“Father, if you could–” Mahala began.

He was already gone.

She sighed again. “He hasn’t eaten all day.”

“The council awaits him, my lady,” said Howl. Mahala jumped. The homunculus had teleported by the window. “New enforcement measures to hold this quarantine are direly needed or Nothos help the rivermen. I wish I had better news, my lady.”

“I didn’t know forktongues grew tails,” Mahala said.

“Me neither. Every time I see them, their teeth seem to get bigger, their bodies stranger,” Howl said. “The plague is evolving. And we need to keep up with the changes if we want to prevent a breach.”

“Reckon they’ll breathe fire next? Like a real dragon?” Luck suggested, staring at the corpses.

Howl snorted. “Don’t jinx us, Unlucky.”

Luck scowled.

“At least they’re not as big as real dragons,” Mahala said quickly. “The gods took magic from us yet sent back a magical plague creating fire-breathing monsters. God-Nothos help us.”

“The gods did not send them, my lady. Shir did,” Howl said.

“But—” she began.

Harsh fluorescent light bathed the classroom. The light shimmered around the desks, forming as children with bright glossy eyes, leaning as close as they could. Mahala stood in front of the class, a fever strangling her thoughts.

Wh-Which memory is this?

“The plague first occurred on the border between Pomolin and Shir,” she heard herself say.

She jerked around to the chalkboard with a map of Pomolin hanging over it. Like a puppet on strings conducted by her memories, her wrist flicked up, drawing a thicker line on the Pomolin-Shir border.

“Before the gods took magic from man, scores of magi warriors ravaged the land with blood and spellfire until the leylines that ran along it ruptured,” she said. “In the past few centuries, it had been known as just a deadzone rife with mermaids and broken reality. Nothing Pomolin or Shir could send through the border would survive. Except for the forktongues.”

One young girl raised her hand, she had stony eyes unbecoming of a budding lady. “But my lady, what if they just came from the Border? It is a magically cursed land. And very few people are left that understand magic.”

Howl stepped forward. The children had no reaction to his presence.

“We all know the Shiran have some reptile blood in them,” Howl spat.

“That’s because they’re poisoners, not magi,” Mahala said.

“My papa says it’s because they sleep with their snakes!” a boy in the back hollered. Other children broke out into giggles.

She tutted at them. “Still don’t make them magical.”

“Alas, the Magus of Flesh and Bone is stationed in Shir for this generation. What other magic could create such a monster?” Howl continued. “The Magus of Iron cannot affect living things, the Magus of Flora cannot affect flesh. The Magus of Fire is a child.”

And the Magus of Time belonged to Pomolin this generation - and from there, the homunculus army. The Magus of Prayer only selected the magi for the next generation.

Mahala took a deep breath. The classroom was desolate once more with no working lights, leaving only two homunculi who watched the boats on the river. Her Luck was still with her.

She wiped her forehead to check for sweat. Her hand came back dry.

All is well.

She cleared her throat. “Not even Shir can be insane enough to send a plague to destroy us. I’ve heard that it’s affected their lands over the border too.”

“Trying to cover their tracks so we can’t fully place the blame on them,” Howl said.

“Again, that’s insane.”

“Working like a charm, though. The plague’s eating through Pomolin, weakening our numbers. They’re waiting for the right moment to take their own bite.”

Mahala had heard this before. She had overheard pieces of the Protectorate meetings headed by her father. They wanted blood. And they wanted to strike before Shir did. She couldn’t blame them after everything Shir had done, but their Magus of Time thought otherwise.

“I don’t sport with Shirans, but the Magus of Flesh and Bone is clear-minded,” Tibalt said. 

Mahala blinked.

The room had changed again, switching from the abandoned classroom in the quarantine zone to the Magus’ room in Throne Obsidia.

The Pale Magus of Time, Tibalt Kinderum was propped up on a large bed, hooked up to an intravenous line. Mahala found herself sitting next to him, her hand over his.

Oh no. It’s getting worse.

All the homunculi shared Tibalt’s face, memories and magic. Their bodies however were new, and did not share his current injuries that had him permanently bedridden, thin and pale. Even his chitin half-mask was faded and when unfolded, the mouthparts twitched like a dying insect. Most distinct of all, were the tree branches that tore through his veins, sprouting leaves and flowers.

“Y-You met her? How? The magi can’t leave their designated domain.” The words came spilling out of Mahala as her memory tried to seam the room in place.

“It’s a secret between just you and me, my lady,” he replied. His mandibles flickered with his raspy voice. “Not all my memories are passed onto the homunculi. There are some secrets only the true magi are privy to.”

Mahala’s eyes went wide. 

Tibalt tried to lean in closer, his muscles crackling like bark. “Once a season, the leylines mapped over the continent are opened up to us and we magi all speak to each other.”

“Like a secret radio line!”

Tibalt chuckled. “That day, we are not Pomolish and Shiran, but magi. Shir breeds bold venomous women, but their lady magus is not blindly swayed by the queen. In the end, the magi do not serve the leader of our domain, but the people itself.”

The Pomolish knew that better than anyone after what happened to the previous Magus of Time and the last King of Pomolin.

“So you don’t think she created the wyrm plague?” Mahala pried.

Tibalt shook his head. “She wouldn’t. The manipulation of flesh is painful. The body isn’t meant to change that quickly, so she uses her magic sparingly. The plague would break her. She has a pacifist’s heart.”

“She isn’t lying to you? Shirans are tricksters.”

“I know Shirans. I know their spies, their vipers and their sympathesists in our home. Yohlmaé Bledisow is a respectable woman. I have no proof other than my conversations. The Protectorate will not believe me.”

Mahala went quiet for a long while. “If you say the Shiran magus didn’t create the plague, I believe you.”

“Thank you, my lady.” His fingers curled around hers. “I knew you would.”

There was a knock at the door.

“My lady,” she heard Luck on the other side. He sounded nervous.

Mahala got up. Tibalt did not like seeing the homunculi or them seeing him. 

“Coming,” she called out.

“Are you alright?!”

Mahala blinked.

She had planted face first into the leather seat in front of her. She pushed herself up on her elbows. She was in a train cabin. Her father slumped next to her, holding his face.

Oh… we’re here again…

“Give me a moment,” he called back.

She spotted his mask on the floor, a slight crack in it. She reached out and offered the mask to her father.

“Father, here.” She also adjusted his hood for him.

He in turn touched her cheek. “Are you hurt, child?”

Yes.

“No, father.”

“Lord and Lady!” Luck shouted from outside.

“We’re fine!” the Lord Protector snapped. He flung the door open. “What happened? Why did we stop?”

Mahala’s mind reeled to keep up with her memory. She was in a train cabin. They were on their way home from the quarantine zone to the Capital, the last train for the night. They would reach their final stop in another twenty minutes.

Howl– no, her father’s guard, Knockdown, teleported next to Luck. “A forktongue got in front of the tracks. Conductor slammed on the breaks.”

“He should’ve just run it over,” spat the Lord Protector.

“He couldn’t, my lord. It’s–”

The train jostled violently. Mahala lurched forward but Luck caught her.

“What was that?!” she spluttered.

Knockdown threw his head out the window. He reeled. “We have to leave the train!”

“But isn’t it safer if we stayed–” Mahala began.

The two homunculi grabbed Mahala and her father. Their black ink eyes focused out the window, and onto the open ground. Air was stolen from Mahala’s breath as she teleported with Luck. They were outside the train.

From there, they could finally see the extent of the chaos. A forktongue with an elongated neck, glowing eyes, sharp teeth and claws. It was bigger than a motorcar. Its jaw tore open and it screamed fire onto the train. Mahala watched light flash in each carriage, the metal glowing orange with the heat. She saw something move past the window.

“Th-There’s people in there!” Mahala shouted, pointing.

Several homunculi teleported out of the train, some holding passengers. The rest pounded on the windows as they burned. The screams were as loud as the fire. Their fists beat the glass, shaking it violently, but it refused to break.

“HELP US!” they screeched.

“NOTHOS!”

“LORD PROTECTOR, PLEASE!”

“MERCY, GOD! MERCY!”