“I just don’t think you quite understood the, you know, general thrust of the story of the Three Little Pigs. We’re not supposed to see the actions of the Big Bad Wolf as an instruction manual. In general, blowing the house down should not be considered a first port of call in a crisis. And especially not in the fucking house of Wind Tyrant! Didn’t it occur to you that Hel would have all sorts of defence runes ready to kick in the moment the flames got too bad?”

  “I don’t know, Latham. I’d just been killed. I guess I wasn’t thinking too clearly.”

  The remnants of Hel’s house still smoldered around them, the occasional ember flickering among the collapsed beams. Smoke curled lazily into the night air, and somewhere beneath the rubble, something popped as it finally succumbed to the fire’s hunger. There weren’t very many windmills left anymore.

  Lowe sat on a piece of charred wood, elbows resting on his knees, trying not to think too hard about how close he’d come to cooking alive. He still smelled like soot and burning hair, which - in his vast experience - was rarely a sign he was winning in life. And he’d ruined another suit.

  If the Shimmerskin didn’t come back and get him, Mylaf was going to have his arse . . .

  Latham sat beside him, looking just as miserable, twirling a burnt splinter between his fingers like it was the most interesting thing in the world. “You know,” Latham said, “most people who survive an assassination attempt lie low for a while.”

  “Yeah?” Lowe coughed, still tasting smoke in his lungs. “And what do you think I’m doing right now?”

  “Not lying low enough. You could at least have the decency to look a little more corpse-like. Proper dead people don’t sit up and start making quips about their own murder.”

  “Give me a break. I’m between deaths right now.”

  “Little man, I swear, sometimes I think you just get into all this trouble for the attention”

  Lowe laughed weakly and then coughed. He knew Latham wasn’t really joking, not entirely. He could hear it in his voice, the way the usual humour had a thread of something heavier running beneath it. Concern. The kind neither of them was ever going to acknowledge directly.

  To save his friend his blushes, Lowe turned away and stared down the street. A couple of Temple Warders stood at attention, their gleaming armour catching the glow of the still-burning remains of Hel’s house. Their presence was a message in itself—nobody was getting through that perimeter unless they wanted to take on the personal wrath of the Temple.

  Lowe wondered whether this was Latham calling in some favours or if someone - or something - else was pulling strings on his behalf. The last time he’d had official Warder protection - during the Gianna d’Avec case - things had got very messy before they got much better . . .

  He knew Latham was anxious about Hel. She’d, apparently, ‘gone to ground’ in the way only someone with Hel’s Skills could. It looked like, at the same time, she’d gathered together the rest of their little group - other than Rook, who’d messaged to say he’d point-blank refused to go with her when she’d showed up at his door- and vanished from Soar. If Lowe had to put money on it, he’d assume she was calling in on the farm of a certain Berseker Balloon and Nightmare Reaver. Probably catching up with some family too . . .

  Lowe was glad that she’d thought to gather up the rest of the team - and that Arebella, in particular, was out of the firing line - but worried that the necessity of this completely undermined the little investigatory plan they’d only just managed to put into action.

  Mind you, that had probably been the point of all the attempted murders, right? Didn’t someone seem pretty well-informed about what Lowe had been planning to do?

  So, rather than a pretty effective group of people with exactly the right sort of Skills to help him unravel what was going on, Team Anti-Black Knight was down to just Lowe, Latham and Rook. That two of the three had already had their arses handed to them by that particular opponent didn’t make it feel like the rematch was all going all that well.

  They hadn’t quite received a knockout punch this morning, but it wasn’t too far away.

  “How much longer?” Latham said. The urgency in his voice suggested Lowe wasn’t the only one who wanted to get things moving.

  “For what?”

  “For your stupid healing cooldown to reset.” He gestured vaguely. “Because before we do anything stupidly dangerous, I’d like you to be less squishy if possible. I’d like to be able to concentrate on delivering a little mayhem, rather than playing nursemaid.”

  “Fair enough,” Lowe checked his Core. “Looks like two minutes? Maybe five so that I have spare mana available?”

  “If I haven’t already made it clear, your Skillset is simply the worst. I’ve got places to go. People to kill. I shouldn’t be sat around like this.”

  “Hey, don’t let me stop you, mate. Apparently, you’re all about abandoning the people you love because you have other places to be. If you couldn’t be bothered to stick around and have Hel’s back, why should I be the exception?”

  “Fuck you, little man!”

  “Right back at you, big fella. With knobs on. Which, considering some of the toys I saw in Hel’s study, looks like it might very much be your thing.” Lowe paused. “Yeah, that was too far, wasn’t it? Sorry about that. Blame it on the smoke inhalation.”

  “Don’t worry about it. You just died again. If you can’t be a wanker when bouncing back from that, when can you?”

  “Fair enough.”

  “But, on any other day, you’d be regrowing your teeth about now.”

  “Which would be entirely fair,” Lowe said. He reached up and put his hand on the Temple Warder’s arm. “Hel will be okay. If they didn’t get her when he guard was down, they absolutely aren’t getting anywhere near her now that she’s into hunter-killer mode. And trust me, Karolen’s no pushover here. Once they all meet up with the rest of her team, I doubt there’s anything in Soar to touch them.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Latham stretched out his legs, staring at the wreckage. “But I’m struggling to emotionally process that my best friend got killed tonight, someone tried to murder my girlfriend and then burned her house down while I wasn’t around to do anything about it. It’s a lot.”

  “Not a fan of the whole helplessness thing?”

  “No, Lowe, I am not a fan. Not even a little. It’s put a dent in my whole day.”

  “That almost sounded like feelings.”

  Latham reached over and thumped him on the back, hard. “I’m done sharing. Much more emoting and out periods are going to sync up. Let’s move on.”

  Lowe winced. There was still about a minute before he could begin to heal. “Noted.”

  They sat in silence for a moment, watching the flames continue to dwindle.

  Then Latham sighed. “So, uh… I don’t suppose you have any ideas about why someone suddenly decided to take us all out, do you?”

  “Actually, yes I do. And none of them are good.”

  “Figured as much.”

  They fell back into silence, the distant murmur of the Warders bitching about standing around the only sound in the street.

  Then Lowe felt something shift within him. A pulse of warmth he’d never missed so much in his life. It was the slow, steady hum of mana returning to his body. His cooldown was up, which meant Roll with the Punches could get immediately to work. “Okay,” he said, finally able to take a proper breath. “I think it’s time to get back to the land of the fully living.”

  “You sure? Or do you need another five minutes of being a dramatic little shit?”

  “Oh, I’m sure. But hey, I appreciate all the epic concern.”

  Lowe focused on Roll with the Punches and manually directed it as it surged through his veins. As a passive Skill, it was great, but sometimes it was necessary to focus on the parts of him he needed to have priority attention.

  “Don’t suppose you have any ideas where we’re going to start?” Lowe said, standing up.

  “Oh, yes,” Latham said, and the way he suddenly grinned made Lowe very glad the Temple Warder was on his side. “Apparently, Hel has left us both a goodbye present.”

  ***

  All things considered, Syncler had experienced better weeks.

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  For a start, spending the past forty-eight hours walking around in the skin of the Warden of the Reserve’s Personal Assistant had been nothing short of excruciating. The man was walrus-like in both appearance and temperament, shuffling through life with the unearned authority of a Grade A Wankpuffin who made Syncler want to punch his face in. Of course, what was even worse was that Morholt apparently had free and easy access privileges to the poor woman.

  He’d needed to nip that in the bud. Hard.

  Oh, and then, there was the fuck-up at the morning meeting. With that cockroach from Cuckoo House.

  Their files on this guy had described him as of minor concern. A useful washout who might be usable under the right circumstances, but hardly a threat. That file had, as it turned out, been somewhat wrong. Because somehow, against all reason, the little shit had peeled back Syncler’s Malign Influence like old paint, resisting in ways he shouldn’t have been able to.

  And kicked back, into the bargain.

  Any hint that he possessed those sorts of mental resiliencies should have been mentioned in his dossier. Which, frankly, raised some very concerning questions about what else might have been missed . . .

  Oh, and to cap off this steaming, fly-ridden pile of excrement in his morning breakfast baguette he had then gotten himself thoroughly and professionally battered. Violently. By a disavowed Out of Bounds agent who should have been dead a year ago. Synchler had never, for a moment, thought he’d need to step in against

  To be fair, they’d not taken Hel lightly. None of them had, and the hit on her had been meticulously planned. Their squad was formidable, but even that hadn’t seemed like enough—not for someone with her reputation. So, they’d contracted outside, pulling in a local specialist. A Soar knife professional with no allegiances, no hesitation, and a quickly growing reputation for making tricky problems disappear for the right price.

  Belt and braces. Nothing left to chance.

  And yet in moments, the pro went down, and Synchler found himself in the wrong body watching the entire plan go up in flames.

  It wasn’t supposed to go this way.

  If he’d known—if he’d even suspected for a second—that he’d have to step in personally, against the fucking woman he wouldn’t still be wearing the fucking Personal Assistant. There were far more appropriate forms for that sort of work. Ones built for combat. For durability. For taking a Wind Tyrant and not being turned into a fine mist of regret and shattered bone. But there hadn’t been time.

  But that wasn’t the worst of it.

  No, the worst of it was that she hadn’t killed him . . .

  Then the darkness around him was abruptly interrupted as someone lifted the lid on the - very small - storage chest the Wind Bitch had crammed his unconscious form into and he was pulled roughly out and suspended in the air inches from the face of a very pissed off Temple Warder.

  Fuck. My. Life.

  ***

  “You see,” Latham said, “the amazing thing about a Shimmerskin is that you can pull all sorts of pieces off them and, more or less, it grows right back.”

  Synchler - if that was really this guy’s name. Although, Lowe thought, he was pretty sure there was limited value in him lying considering what was being done to him - screamed as Latham demonstrated his theory with a casual tug. This led to a wet schlck as an ear came loose between his fingers. The shapeshifter’s whole body shuddered as he struggled to mend himself even as his face twisted in agony.

  “Of course,” Latham continued, turning the ear over in his fingers like he was judging the quality of a gemstone, “that can’t go on forever. These sneaky fuckers have a core mass, and eventually, with enough persistence, you can whittle away at that and really start to make inroads”

  Another sharp, wet tear. Another scream. A finger, this time, rolling across the floor like a discarded marble.

  Lowe stood to the side, face going increasingly pale.. This wasn’t his first brutal interrogation. Fuck, it wasn’t even his first interrogation where the floor was quickly swimming with blood and body parts. But still, there was something appalling about the detached way Latham was going about his work.

  “But, funnily enough, that isn’t even in the top five problems for anyone who chooses this Class has,” Latham went on, crouching slightly to meet the Shimmerskin’s wild, panicked eyes. “Chief among the reasons Shimmerskin isn’t more popular is that their patron god absolutely does not give two flying fucks about them.”

  Synchler was shaking now, sweat beading on his forehead as his flesh struggled to knit itself back together. He opened his mouth, maybe to spit some defiance—maybe to beg—but Latham still wasn’t finished.

  “You see, for most gods, there’s a whole ‘these ants are made in my own image’ thing going on. I mean, most of them still don’t care about us, but usually, with enough panicked prayers, most of them are, eventually, likely to step in if one of their worshippers is getting, for example, horrifically tortured.”

  Another rip. Another scream.

  Lowe felt that one. Deep in his bones. The way the sound of the man’s horror curled, raw and jagged, twisting through the air. His fingers clenched against his arms, and he forced himself to stay still.

  Latham, by contrast, hadn’t even flinched. “However,” he said, “the most famous of Jinoporan’s Commandments is that he really doesn’t want to hear any ballaching from whiny mortals.”

  Lowe had known about Jinoporan’s indifference to his worshippers. But theory was very different to practice. Watching the assassin’s face contort in the certain knowledge that no divine hand was coming to save him? That was something else.

  “Don’t get me wrong. This Class has some great Threshold rewards,” Latham said, wiping his bloodied hands on a rag. “But I’m not still sure it makes up for the epically poor aftercare service. What do you think, mate? Any buyers remorse yet?”

  Synchler’s chest heaved. He was pale now, his regenerations coming slower and his breath rattling wetly in his throat.

  “No answer?” Latham said. “Pity. You see, in my experience, the sort of person who doesn’t mind if their god doesn’t have their back means Shimmerskins tend to fall into one of two camps. Some of them are seriously brave motherfuckers. Great working undercover. Fantastic as spies. Perfect for really dangerous work Out . . . Of . . . Bounds,” Latham stressed those last three words and then tilted his head. “But then, of course, there’s the other kind.”

  He reached out, grabbed hold of Synchler’s nose, and pulled.

  The resulting scream was raw and ugly. It made the hairs on the back of Lowe’s neck stand up.

  Latham let the bloody scrap of cartilage fall to the ground, watching as the shapeshifter’s face writhed, his body trying to rebuild what had been lost. But Lowe noticed something—the nose that was forming back wasn’t quite right. Slightly smaller. The symmetry was off.

  They were getting to the core mass now.

  “Latham, aren’t you going to ask him any questions?”

  “Of course, little man. But first, I think we all need to get on the same page.”

  He turned back to the Shimmerskin. Another rip. Another scream.

  Lowe swallowed, watching as the assassin’s body tried to hold its shape despite the constant, methodical dismemberment.

  Latham was speaking again, his tone almost gentle. “The thing is, this guy has made all sorts of choices for his life to reach this point.” He turned slightly, gesturing toward Lowe with a bloodied hand. “Think of all the things he must have decided to do in order to reach the stage where his next obvious action was to attempt to kill someone I care about. What’s happening here is not an unfortunate accident. He has selected this outcome with intent. This is something on which I think he should reflect.”

  Lowe looked back down at Synchler, who was now shivering violently, his remaining fingers twitching in aborted attempts to clutch at himself.

  “This is happening to him,” Latham said, “because he actively chose it. If it wasn’t for the choice’s he’d made, there would be an awful lot more of him left right now. It is important he understands that.”

  Rip. Scream.

  “He needs to appreciate that all this,” Latham continued, “is not anything to do with me at all. This fucker has put himself into this situation.” He knelt slightly, looking the man in the eye. “And I would really like to help him find a way out.”

  Lowe made a face. “Really?”

  Latham stilled. For a moment, there was only the distant drip of blood, the wet sound of Synchler’s trembling breaths. Then he turned to look at Lowe. And there were tears in his eyes. “Of course,” Latham said, voice quieter now. “You think this is how I want to spend my time?”

  Lowe stayed silent.

  “I don’t like this, Lowe. You think I enjoy pulling some poor bastard apart piece by piece? That I want to be the one who has to do this?” Latham shook his head. “I just know that if I don’t, people I care about are going to die.” He looked back at Synchler, who was now staring at the floor, lips moving soundlessly.

  “Is this a private torture session, or can anyone join?”

  Both Lowe and Latham spun at the voice. Lowe activated Slugger whilst a humongous sword was suddenly in Latham’s hands..

  Rook was stood just behind them. He looked entirely too at ease for someone who had apparently materialised in the middle of a secured basement torture session in the bowels of the Celestial Temple. His eyes flicked between them, then down to the Shimmerskin’s twitching, half-reformed body.

  “How the fuck did you end up here!” Latham said. “There’s enough anti-teleport runes in the walls to stop a fucking Avatar getting in without using a portal stone!”

  Rook grinned, slow and easy, like he hadn’t just given both of them minor heart attacks. “Chill your beans.” He stepped forward, gaze still locked on the ruined sight of the Shimmerskin. “Threshold Guardian, right?” He tapped his chest with two fingers. “This guy’s circling the drain so hard, I could hear him from the other side of Soar. I can zero in on this sort of pain anywhere within my range and puff here I am.”

  Lowe blinked. "You could hear him?”

  Rook lifted a shoulder. “Well, not him exactly.” He crouched slightly, head tilting as he studied the way Synchler’s still-bloody skin kept rippling, warping, trying and failing to hold form. “More like… the part of him that’s getting ready to pack it in and shuffle off.”

  Latham gave Rook a long look. “And what? You just followed that?”

  “Threshold Guardian perks, big guy.” Rook tapped his temple. “When someone’s straddling the line between ‘alive’ and ‘gently decomposing,’ it pings. And I’ve got to say, you’ve really done a number on this one. Haven’t seen a soul cling to their body this hard in a while.”

  “We were in the middle of an interrogation, actually,” Lowe said.

  “And how’s that working out for you?”

  Lowe looked downwards. The Shimmerskin’s breath was coming in thin gasps, his body still trembling with the effort of holding together despite Latham’s persistence. Rook was right. This guy was circling the drain, alright. “We’re getting to it.”

  “Yeah, well take it from me. You’re gonna want to hurry that up,” Rook said.

  Latham’s expression darkened. “Why?”

  “Because he’s about to slip.” Rook brushed non-existent dust off his threadbare coat. “And trust me, you do not want to have to go and try to fetch his soul if it ends up past the threshold. That sort of thing leaves a mark.”

  Lowe glanced at Latham, who wasn’t looking at Rook anymore. His gaze was on Synchler. It was time to wrap this up. “Okay,” he said, crouching next to the assassin. “You said you’d talk?”

  Synchler let out something that might have been a laugh if it weren’t so wrecked. “I’ve been telling you I want to talk!” He tried to lift his head, but his muscles gave out halfway. “F-fuck, man, just ask me some questions.”

  Time to get some answers.