Diya and what was left of her squadron glided through the clear skies, bathed in the moonlight. Guiding in the hunting airships meant that the pace was far slower than she usually preferred, but on a night like this—stars lighting up the sky—it just felt right.

  As her home appeared in the distance, she couldn’t help but admire how breathtaking it was when viewed from above. The hustle and bustle of the chaotic city nothing more than a distant figment of her imagination from this perspective.

  Township Ghanesha clung to the back of the mountain-sized elephant like a man-made parasite with no apparent knowledge of engineering, physics, or architecture. Ramshackle towers leaned drunkenly into the wind, their stone and timber patchwork held together with rope, rusted nails, and generations of stubborn optimism.

  Buildings were stacked haphazardly atop one another like blocks built by toddlers, and colorful banners flapped chaotically in the breeze. Smoke curled from hundreds of mismatched chimneys and settled in a heavy choking layer towards the bottom.

  The Township was like a layered wedding cake, that is, if the baker began utterly inebriated and sobered up as he made it. The bottom third of the city was known as Blacklung Bend, named as such on account of the oily smoke that blanketed it. The fumes were rumored to put its denizens in to an early grave, though The Council denied that nugget vehemently. Blacklung Bend was where Diya lived, and the rusted structures slumbering there were cobbled together with wishful thinking, and whatever scrap material could be scavenged.

  In the middle third, known as The Core, the city didn’t look well-constructed necessarily, but at least it didn’t appear it would collapse if you looked at it the wrong way. The top third, known rather obnoxiously as Heaven’s Reach, was beautifully fabricated with ornate decorative features and towers reaching up towards the moon.

  Upon seeing the airships safely to the docks, Diya rushed back to her house, Rohan following apprehensively. According to protocol she should have checked in at the docks, but Diya wasn’t particularly eager to explain why she had the physical embodiment of stranger danger riding with her.

  It tends to be easier to explain something outrageous once you’ve had time to figure it out for yourself, Diya thought.

  The roc’s landed with a heavy thud just outside of Diya’s home. It was a rather sad structure cobbled together from scrap wood and rusty corrugated iron. The sort of place that somehow stayed upright without a single proper right angle as far as the eye could see.

  Diya jumped down from Shikra’s back, helping the old woman down before opening the heavy roll-up door to her home. The elderly woman’s skin was covered in black ink which peeked out from her peculiarly asymmetric white dress. She looked around to make sure they weren’t being watched, though given the nature of the Bend, they probably were, then rushed everyone into her house and slammed the door shut.

  After lighting a few gas lamps, the dark shadows gave way to a cozy interior decorated with vibrant murals and recycled furniture aplenty. Sculptures made from colorful shattered bottles hung from long-broken machinery.

  It was still very clearly an old workshop, but as far as old workshops were concerned, one might say it had a certain rustic charm to it.

  Diya hugged Shikra tightly, patting her friends’ neck. “You did great today, girl. I just wish I had a rabbit or a rat to give you as thanks.”

  The gigantic bird cooed then nuzzled her beak against Diya as if to say you owe me more than a rabbit or rat, I did all the hard work.

  “I’ll work on getting you a nice treat soon. I promise!”

  Shikra and Rohan’s onyx feathered roc, Kiran flew up to a perch high above. The pair clung to a copper pipe that snaked around a hole in the vaulted ceiling. Avian eyes peered up at the night sky.

  Rohan looked from Diya to the old woman with the bizarre tattoos, “you going to talk about the mysterious lady you kidnapped?”

  Diya sighed, glaring at him, “you can’t kidnap an elderly person, it’s right there in the word, kid napping.”

  “That’s just semantics, you know what I mean. Why didn’t you leave her with the others.”

  “I’m still not really sure. She seemed like she needed help. I mean the syndicate had her chained up after all.”

  Rohan raised a bushy eyebrow and scratched his chin, “and you never stopped to consider, I don’t know, perhaps why the horrible pirates might have imprisoned her?”

  “It crossed my mind, but you know, enemy of my enemy and all that?”

  “I don’t think this is what they had in mind when they came up with that saying.”

  Diya shrugged, “why are you so worried about it?”

  “Well,” Rohan leaned in and whispered. “She’s sort of spooky.”

  “She is not spooky just because she’s old, you moron.”

  He made a face like he smelled something gross, then pointed a finger at the tattooed woman. “The fact that you felt the need to mention it is proof enough that the elderly are inherently spooky. I don’t know, maybe because they’re a walking reminder that we’re all moving slowly on a conveyor belt towards death’s gnashing jaws.”

  “Some of us might even be moving quite a bit faster on that conveyor belt if it wasn’t for a certain someone, with a certain badass skillset.” Diya smirked, thumbs pointing towards herself. “Oh and is that really what goes through your mind every time you see an old lady? You need help, man.”

  “Not every time. Just sometimes!” Rohan rolled his eyes and pouted, “Hey, I was probably going to be alright.’

  “Sure, you probably weren’t toast without me and Shikra showing up when we did.”

  The old woman covered in tattoos threw her arms up, “stop bickering already, you are both insufferable!”

  Rohan’s jaw dropped, “she talks?”

  “I guess she talks,” nodded Diya. “Perhaps a bit rudely, you know, for someone who was just rescued from imprisonment by pirates.”

  “My name is Zoralia Tyr,” she said proudly. “And I never asked to be rescued.”

  “I’m sorry about all that talk of the elderly being spooky, I idiotically assumed you couldn’t understand us.” Rohan muttered, laughing in that way folks often did upon realizing they had put their foot in their mouth.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “I’m Diya, and this is Rohan. We’re officers in the Township Ghanesha air force. That’s where we are presently. You’re safe here.”

  “In this day and age?” Zoralia sneered, accentuating her wrinkles. “In my experience, anytime someone feels the need to boast about the safety of a place, it tends to end up more often than not riddled with danger.”

  Rohan leaned back against an old machine covered in a stained linen tarp, “yeah, I suppose that’s fair.”

  “I simply meant you’re safe here in my house,” Diya muttered. “Ghanesha is undoubtedly a dangerous place. We have pickpockets, gangs, corrupt politicians, external threats galore, heck even some of the food at the night market has been known to put people in the hospital.”

  “I can handle myself.” Zoralia assured her.

  “I’m sure you can. If you don’t mind me asking, why were you taken prisoner by the Syndicate?” Diya asked.

  “I would rather not go into detail, child. Let’s just say the leader of the Crimson Mast Syndicate has a bit of a grudge against my people.”

  “Tessara, The Cutlass Widow has it out for you?” Asked Rohan, staring in disbelief.

  Zoralia breathed deeply, as if pondering where to even begin, “yes, well she believes her dead husband was cursed by a member of my coven.”

  “And, was he?” Diya asked incredulously.

  The elderly woman shrugged, then a ghost of a smile creased her lips, and she winked at Diya, “it’s certainly within the realm of possibility.”

  “So, you’re really a member of the Hollow Heart Coven?” Asked Rohan as he took a slight step back, eyes widening.

  Wrinkly fingers traced intricate black tattoos then tiny vials of red liquid hanging from her necklace, “what gave me away?”

  Rohan looked like he might just be sick, but Diya had never been one to shy away from a golden opportunity—not even when it involved forbidden blood magic.

  “The future of our home’s in danger. I think you might be just the right person to help us.”

  Zoralia laughed in a way that ironically might be described as witchlike, “and why would I help you, I hardly know a thing about you?”

  Looking around nervously, Diya blurted out the first thing that came to her, “because I can help you too!”

  “Oh, this should be just precious. How might you be able to help me, child?” Zoralia asked in an unpleasantly condescending tone.

  “It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Diya asked.

  Rohan nodded along like a lost kid, “well of course it is, but maybe you could spell it out for those of us who are one card short of a whole deck?”

  The witch glared at him the way one might look at a someone who just spilled lentil curry on their lap.

  Rohan laughed apprehensively, visibly cringing at his own word choice, “I meant myself, of course.”

  Diya gestured for him to shut up before he ruined her plan and he was all too happy to oblige, “I’ll take care of The Cutlass Widow for you.” Offered Diya with a smirk.

  Zoralia gazed out the window at the hazy cityscape painted by emerald-hued gas lamps. “And who said I needed any help squishing that insect?”

  “Well, you were a prisoner being held on one of her airships when I found you.”

  The old woman didn’t respond, instead continuing her examination of the dilapidated shanty town on the other side of the dirty glass.

  Diya pulled a tarp off her rusty iron table, revealing four maps with four unique security escort plans, each presented to a different member of The Council. She explained how the Syndicate had been pirating Ghanesha’s airships and the impossibility of the surgical precision they had been striking with.

  “Removing the Cutlass Widow seems like it would be mutually beneficial.” Diya said.

  Still Zoralia gazed out the window, refusing to acknowledge the proposal.

  Storms this old witch is stubborn.

  “Over the past weeks, based on the unique patrol schedules I presented them, I’ve narrowed our suspects on The Council down to just two individuals.”

  Rohan’s stomach rumbled, then his jaw clenched, likely thinking about what he might do when he got his hands on the traitor responsible for the brutal rationing.

  “Your coven is known for its mysterious rituals,” said Diya. “Is there some way you could help us figure out which of the two is the traitor?”

  Zoralia turned to look Diya in the eyes, her dark eyes a bit like staring into an abyss. “Why should I help you cut out the cancer from within your rotten government?”

  “This corrupt politician is working directly with the Cutlass Widow. If we can identify them, we can take them both down in one fell swoop.” Diya growled.

  Wrinkled lips tightened into a grimace, “fine, bring me a vial of blood from each of your suspects and I will identify the guilty party for you.”

  “How the hell is she supposed to get their blood?” Rohan blurted out.

  “How are we going to get their blood,” Diya corrected him, tugging at her braids as she thought through possible ways to accomplish this awkward request, “does it one hundred percent need to be blood?”

  Zoralia cackled in a way that once again might best be described as witchlike, “I suppose hair or teeth would work the same.”

  “Oh, great! Let me go ask two of the wealthiest people in Ghanesha if I can pull a tooth or borrow a vial of their blood,” exclaimed Rohan, eyes nearly rolling out of his skull.

  Diya lit the furnace, grabbed a kettle from a cabinet and put on a pot of tea, “we’ll figure it out, we always do.”

  Once the tea was ready, the three moved to the rooftop. It was late and the hazy smog combined with the lamp light gave the cityscape an almost dreamlike quality. That is, if one dreamed of shantytowns with questionable air quality.

  They sat at a wooden outdoor table that seemed to have been made from old milk crates. The words Prasaad Dairy were branded into one of the worn planks. Despite the urban environment—corrugated iron, every known shade of rust, and glass tinted by pollution—Diya had collected quite an exotic assortment of plants for her rooftop terrace.

  She breathed in the sweet citrus aroma of her tea and felt her stress begin to float away, as it often did when she sat in her garden.

  Rohan took a sip of his tea, immediately he yelped in pain and fanned his now burnt tongue. For the first time since they had met Zoralia, she grinned from ear to ear, laughing at his stupid mistake. It appeared she was a fan of physical comedy.

  Rohan pouted at her, then spoke in a manner that thanks to his burnt tongue, made him speak with a lisp, “alright I’ll ask, which two council members are we going after?”

  Diya pulled two aged newspaper clippings from a pouch hanging from her slim waist. She held up the first, it was a photo of a man in a white robe, he had a ludicrously large, feathered headdress resting atop his head and facial hair so meticulously groomed it looked as if it might be painted on.

  “Suspect one, is Arjun the Clean,” Diya took a sip of her tea before continuing. “He owns almost every bathhouse in Ghanesha.”

  Zoralia cocked an eyebrow, “this man became one of the richest men in your township through bathing others?”

  “When the alternative is washing in collected rainwater, or worse, a warm bath with scented soaps and oils starts to sound pretty nice,” said Diya.

  “There’s also the escorts,” Rohan chimed in. “It’s no secret that his bathhouses double as brothels.”

  “A peddler of flesh, got it.” Zoralia said, eyes disapproving.

  “Suspect two, is Peacock Prisha,” Diya stated, holding out another newspaper clipping. This one showed a plump woman wearing a fur shawl, her makeup looked like it may have been applied by a child, heavy handed would be quite the understatement.

  Rohan jumped in, seemingly eager to help explain, “Prisha owns the ironworks. Her factories pump out around ninety percent of the iron and steel used in Ghanesha. She’s the one we can thank for this lovely, polluted air in Blacklung Bend.”

  “She also owns the orphanages and schools,” Diya said. “Ensuring a steady supply of poorly educated workers for her factories.”

  “A soapy whoremonger, and a mogul made rich through the exploitation of children, your little township sounds like quite the paradise,” Zoralia prodded.

  Diya looked out at the dilapidated city, trying to find the right words to tell the old witch she was wrong. In the end she couldn’t. Zoralia was right, Ghanesha was a toxic tar pit threatening to asphyxiate every last resident.

  But it was her home, and she felt an obligation to at least attempt to fix it.

  Why am I this way? Diya thought. Wouldn’t it be easier to jump on Shikra and fly far away from here? To disappear into the night and never come back. Why do I always feel like it’s my responsibility to fix everything? What’s really keeping me here?

  Rohan stood up, pacing back and forth. Once again, he wore that flustered expression on his face, the one that burst in when he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite find the right words.

  “It might not be paradise,” Rohan barked. “But it’s the only home we have. Even if we can’t change the way things are, is it so wrong to try to make it better for those who come after?”

  Diya felt a swelling pride in her dysfunctional home. An idea blazed to life in her like a match thrown into dry brush. She didn’t want to put him in danger, but if there was one person she could trust aside from Shikra, it was Rohan.

  “I’ve got a plan,” she said. “You’re going to the bathhouse in The Core to get hair from Arjun the Clean. I’m going to sneak into Peacock Prisha’s office at The Ironworks.”

  Rohan groaned then crossed his arms, “oh great, what could possibly go wrong?”