The street urchins, faces hardened beyond their years but eyes flickering with a primal curiosity, appraised Bogran with wary scrutiny. He stood tall, despite the weight of countless loops pressing down on him, radiating an aura of chaotic energy that made them instinctively draw closer, weapons still trained on him. After a moment of tense silence, one, bolder than the rest, stepped forward.

  "You ain't bluffin', are ya, wizard?" he rasped, his voice barely audible over the city's din. Bogran met his gaze unflinchingly. "I wouldn't waste my time," he replied, his tone brooking no argument.

  The urchins exchanged glances, seemingly satisfied with his conviction. They parted, forming a gauntlet of steel and makeshift weaponry as they ushered him into the warehouse. The air inside was thick with the stench of mildew, oil, and unwashed bodies. A figure slumped in a rickety chair by a flickering lantern, eyes bloodshot and face etched with years of hardship, regarded Bogran with disdain.

  "You Gristle?" asked Bogran.

  "Yeah," grunted the man, his voice gravelly like stones grinding together. "And what business does a spell-slinging fancy-pants have stomping into my domain?"

  "I have some information." Bogran produced two shimmering crystals from his pouch, intricate carvings swirling upon their surfaces. With a flick of his wrist and a murmured incantation, he imbued them with the holograms Anya had imprinted into his brain. The first now projected a scene from within the Sky Citadel: dozens of Trashborn bound and gagged, arranged on an altar within the Citadel, destined for a gruesome sacrifice. The second crystal projected a detailed map of the Citadel, highlighting four distinct points marked for entry.

  Bogran's voice rang with urgency. "These images are from within the Sky Citadel earlier today. One hundred Trashborn are to be sacrificed in a bloody ritual to open a gateway between dimensions, in less than two hours. Look closely. Do you recognize anyone?"

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  Gristle scoffed, ridiculing Bogran as a delusional wizard whose too many spells had gotten to his brain. But as his gaze fell upon the holographic figures within the Citadel’s confines, his eyes widened in disbelief. A flicker of recognition sparked in his eyes, then solidified into horrified realization. There, amongst the sacrificial throng, was a young man with Gristle’s own weary eyes and unruly hair–Finn, his grandson who had vanished a week prior.

  "Finn..." he breathed, voice cracking with anguish. He hadn't dared to hope...

  "What do you propose we do about it, wizard?" Gristle demanded, the gruff facade crumbling under the weight of his grandson’s peril.

  Bogran drew his attention to the hologram projected by the second crystal. "Here is a map of service entrances to the Sky Citadel. Gather a mob of the Trashborn and attack the nearest. And if you want to maximize our chances, get the other three Trashborn factions to go for the other three entrances."

  Gristle nodded curtly, a grim determination replacing his despair. "Got some copies of those holograms for the other factions? They'll need convincing too." Bogran shunted him three more pairs of crystals, zapping the two holograms Anya had imprinted in his brain in each pair.

  "By the way," commented Bogran, "the Sky Citadel locks down using anti-magic shutters in case of emergency. Bring mundane explosives to blow through them."

  Gristle looked to the side towards a crate on the wall, decorated with a starburst splash of red paint. "Way ahead of you, wizard."

  Gristle took the crystals, his face grim but determined. He dispatched three urchins as runners to deliver the proof to the other factions, then barked orders at the remaining throng. "Mob up! Time for a little fireworks display!" he roared, and the urchins, faces twisted in a mixture of fear and exhilaration, surged out into the labyrinthine streets of New Firenze's slums, their chanting growing into a guttural roar that reverberated through the grimy alleys.

  As the mob dispersed, Gristle turned back to Bogran, a sardonic smile playing on his lips. "You best lay low when things kick off," he advised. "Don't want you getting caught in the crossfire." Bogran nodded, his expression stoic. He would make for The Drunken Goblin and hope for the best. If Anya made it out, there they would re-unite. Otherwise, he'd gain more information for the next loop, which–judging by the fullness of his nose–would be his last possible try.