Bartholomew remained strangely sober where he sat at his desk and glared at his Master. Ingvard’s old, gray eyes were no less malign as they stared back at his apprentice. The interior of Bart’s chamber was darkening with the setting sun- creating an atmosphere well fit for the dire, upcoming tale. The Sargerrei heir opened the topmost button of his silken shirt threateningly- hoping his Master would understand that, lest he begin talking, Bartholomew would return to drinking in his nude once more.

Concluding that he was satisfied with the atmosphere he had created, Ingvard continued: “It was on that fateful night, a week following Asrael’s display and the passing of the Motion. A day previous, Arch Magus Yurgen had been set to the Pyre and with his passing, a certain spell was cast- I am certain you’ve heard of it.” Bartholomew seemed surprisingly interested at the mention of the name ‘Asrael’ and nodded. “The one that was said to have illuminated the city, yes?”

Ingvard nodded and continued: “We believe that spell undid an ancient seal and opened something beneath the Tower...” This was the first Bartholomew had ever heard of it and thusly, he narrowed his eyes and stared ponderously at his uncle.

“Is this something a Rift?” Uncle Ingvard tapped his fingers against the table and leaned back on his chair to shrug and say: “I’ve no idea what a Rift is. The Inquisition and the Emperor denies the existence- past or present- of Rifts. That said, this tear or portal- it... produced something.” Bartholomew released his grip on the buttons of his black, silken shirt and leaned forwards to listen intently.

Ingvard’s eyes avoided any and all contact with his apprentice’s as he recounted: “I saw it for myself. The creature- an amalgamation of flesh and tortured souls. I would say it had a dozen legs and an equal number of heads, but I would be lying if I attempted to quantify those appendages- I do not believe it possible.” Ingvard’s cheeks paled as his eyes grew distant.

“The abomination crawled out from the cellar like a centipede construed from skinless, human bodies. Before the warning bells had rung, it had squirmed through the fires and devoured twenty of our men...” Bartholomew had never seen his Master tremor- not even as he recounted ancient duels or hunts that nearly went awry. But Ingvard was obviously moved by this recount- it was clear on his every trembling digit and the gritting of his jaws.

“The fleshy monstrosity enveloped them into its form- incorporated them. I could see their writhing, screaming bodies contort beneath its skin- empowering it.” Bartholomew attempted to imagine the beast, but found the details far too lacking and absurd to construe any mental image.

“It took the combined forces of myself, your father and the then-fresh Inquisition to fell it and even then, it was by the breadth of a hair. With every one of our men it killed, it grew in size and strength. A few men more and I imagine it might have become unstoppable...” Ingvard paused to shake his head, but soldiered on shortly thereafter: “After the central mass had ceased moving, I cut it open in hopes I could free some of my men, but-… beyond its skin, the soldiers were already warped. Thick bundles of vessels pierced their skins- connecting their suffering bodies to their killer.”

Ingvard retched- unused to viewing these images of old. Bartholomew was deeply disturbed by this unsettling recount, but relieved that “Well... at least it is over now, then.” Bartholomew folded his hands atop the desk and exchanged a grim stare with his Master. Ingvard shook his head and protested: “But it is not, Bartholomew. We might have killed the beast, but this is far from over.” Bartholomew raised an eyebrow and leaned back on his chair uncomfortably, motioning for his colleague to go on. After steadying himself, Ingvard spoke: “The still-living magi were spared- if you could call it as much. In return, they studied the anomaly and reported that it was, indeed, a-… tear. Where it leads, none know, but it is not new. They theorized that this tear is as old as the Tower itself- in fact, their theory was that the Tower had been construed to contain the tear.”

Bartholomew could scarcely believe his ears. Monstrosities far more powerful than anything he had ever heard of before- there, inside Capita. A stone’s throw away from where he was seated... Ingvard was not yet done and signaled for his student’s silence with a raised finger. “Something in the Tower’s construction is... off... some device remains dysfunctional, but the runes containing the tear’s stability can be manually powered. The proximity to these tears, however, has some... unfortunate... effects. They do not last long- weeks, at most. The toxicity maddens the ones that it does not outright kill.” Bartholomew blinked and raised his hands behind his head to breathe a long sigh and raise his brows with surprise.

“And why have I never heard of this before? What progress has been made to-” Ingvard shook his head.

“You will not hear of it because no progress has been made to repair the Tower. Our access to magi who can empower the runes is dwindling and even if they were not... the magi of today are a far cry from the ones of the past. Their lives are lived in isolation and hiding- very few of them are literate enough to make sense of fiction, much less the complicated scientific texts of the Tower.” Bartholomew was greatly unnerved by the news and found himself questioning:

“Then what is your solution? What plan do you have for the long-term confinement of this anomaly?” Ingvard hesitated, as if he was finally beginning to question his own loyalty.

“You must understand, Bartholomew, that this turn of events implies that your Father and the Emperor might be wrong. This must never be-”

“You have no plans, do you?” Ingvard seemed taken aback by the accusation. He looked towards the wall and shook his head.

“There are plans, but they require time. For years, we’ve discarded the magi as pests, when, in truth, they are a resource. A resource we’ve recently taken to take advantage of, but we need more. Therefore, your father has established a magus proliferation-and-control-programme-” Bartholomew burst out laughing. He slammed his palm onto the table- disbelieving and astonished with the suggestion.

“You intend to breed them? Like livestock- you will breed humans?” Ingvard visibly cringed and quickly turned to verify that the door remained closed, before turning back to his stumped apprentice to whisper:

“I implore you not to speak of the magi as humans- it is ill-advised here... besides, I am telling you all of this because it is not my idea. I see the lack of a long-term solution, just as you have.” Bartholomew was tiring of his Master’s hesitation and impatiently tapped his fingers against the table to urge him on. Finally, the old man spoke: “I am telling you this because you may have some connection to the one person I believe might actually help us. How he is still alive, I’ve no idea- I saw him die, myself, but what has happened to Titus is unmistakably his work.” Bartholomew was caught unaware by the confession of motives. He scooted back on his chair uncomfortably and hurriedly coughed.

The wine-scented atmosphere of the room fell deathly silent as Bartholomew pondered the consequences of his next words. On one hand, the confession of having made Asrael’s acquaintance would provide him with a means to express his spite, but on the other... he was not beyond imagining that he would likely be executed for making such a confession. His hesitation was all that Ingvard required to make his own conclusions.

“Bartholomew... You may not hold much love for your father or for me, but I implore you to consider the many lives here in Capita. We do not know what is on the other side of that tear- all we can do is assume its hostility and prepare ourselves as best we can. I hope that I am mistaken, but... I believe that there are things on the other side of that anomaly that may well consume our City.” As much as Bartholomew’s heart bled for the innocent, the unspoken suggestion was preposterous.

“What, then, do you suggest that I do about it? If you’ve not noticed, I am, in essence, a prisoner here- despite what you’ve made it appear.” This time, General Ingvard seemed to consider and reconsider his coming suggestion ten times over before voicing his plea.

“Depending on what happens to your brother... your Father...” Bartholomew needn’t hear the rest.

“I know. My Father is a vindictive cretin and he will seek reparations where he can, however misguided. Titus will not recover and I will soon be dead.” Bartholomew nonchalantly summarized and folded his hands atop his chest. It felt good voicing his fate- it made it feel all the more real- all the more likely. General Ingvard nodded and tapped his fingers against the table, before turning his ancient, gray eyes on his apprentice.

“Then I needn’t lie to you any longer. So, then, what do you plan to do about it?” Bartholomew scoffed bitterly. “I intend to drink myself to death before my father has the chance. Or perhaps I will soar out the window- I've yet to decide.” Ingvard smiled with his commonplace bemusement and shook his head.

“You could do that. It would certainly be less painful than what your father has in store for you... if you wish to die, that is.” Bartholomew looked up at his Master with a sheepish grin and shrugged. “And you believe he will give me a choice? Even if he did, I’ve seen enough cruelty and horrors- I've seen enough of this world. If it is my time to go, then I will do so gladly.” This displeased Ingvard, but he shrouded his disapproval with another one of his shallow smiles.

“He will not give you a choice, but I will. I believe you have the means to save our City from that dreadful tear and I, as opposed to your father, see the madness in killing you. You are my favored apprentice, after all.” Bartholomew folded his hands behind his head and considered the option. Though neither had said it, the conditions were clear- retrieve Asrael and use his magnificent mind to decipher the runes and, if possible, repair the mechanisms that had kept the tear in check for all these years.

A tapping on the door cut their conversation short. The following scuffle of heavy boots on the floor preceded the grinding of the heavy metal hinges of the doors that swung open to reveal a small, white-robed shape. Despite the Purged’s similarities, this one stood out to Bartholomew. He could recognize those lips and that pristine, smooth skin anywhere.

“Lita-” Stumped, he stood up from the chair to flash his first genuine smile in what felt like years. Ingvard stood up from his own chair and spoke over his shoulder: “Ah, yes... the Purged from Pilta. You must be here to tend to Barty’s skin.” The old man turned back towards his smiling apprentice. “Consider my offer, boy. And make haste- time is of the essence. When the Alchemist comes to deliver his report, the last grains of sand will have already dropped.” Bartholomew shot an exhalation out through his nose and waved the ancient swordsman off. Lita waited for the old General to leave, before braving to step inside where she bowed her head in Bartholomew’s direction. The Sargerrei prisoner stared at the beautiful Purged with disbelief- relieved to see her still alive, but surprised to see that she had come before him after all this time, seemingly more beautiful than ever.

When the doors shut in her wake, she grabbed either side of her hood and bared her face to smile over at Bartholomew. Her deep, blue eyes had a curious, green glint to them and as she brushed her white hair over her ears, the Sargerrei might’ve sworn the strands shimmered.