Krouri’s wings ached from the rushed flight. She dropped altitude fast, heart hammering as Grenda’s Diner came into view—doors shattered, windows blown out, scored asphalt still smoking in the street. People were trying to help. A few shell-shocked patrons threw wet rags onto sputtering flames. Grenda herself stood in the doorway, apron blackened, barking orders.

  And Lieutenant Zywrath was kneeling beside a body.

  Krouri landed at a sprint.

  Buck Piper lay slumped against a police cruiser. He barely looked alive. His right arm hung loose—shattered. One side of his face had been peeled away by shrapnel; bone and teeth glistened wet in the streetlight. Blood pooled in the gutter beneath him in growing rivers.

  Zywrath had his hands pressed against Buck’s temple. His face—normally a smooth porcelain mask—was raw with emotion. "Hold on," he kept muttering. "Hold on. Stay with me." He didn’t even notice the amount of blood soaking through his own sleeve.

  "Goddess! Where are the medics?" Krouri cried.

  "They are coming," Zywrath growled, nodding to his radio on the ground. "But they will not be soon enough. This is—this is wrong. This is not justice." His eyes burned with powerless fury. "Can you do something? Anything?"

  Krouri knelt beside Buck and gently touched his chest. His breathing was shallow, ragged. Each wheeze bubbled with blood. "Stay with us," she whispered—then she closed her eyes and reached inward.

  Grandfather… please.

  The desk. The crackling fire. The smell of ink and old paper. Her grandfather was already there, quill held motionless in midair, sadness etched across his borrowed features.

  "Help me," Krouri begged. "There has to be something. I’m not asking you to change fate. Just…let him hold on."

  The Eidolon of Order bowed his head. "Order must be maintained, little one. Life and death are not ours to—"

  "This isn’t order!" Krouri snapped. "This is chaos. You know it. This is a hand tipping the scales—please!"

  A long silence.

  Then, at last, a weary sigh. "There may be something. But to do it…you must give me full control. No resistance, no hesitation."

  "Do it."

  The world tilted.

  She felt herself gently moved aside—displaced—as something ancient slid into place behind her eyes. She watched herself reach down and whisper into Buck’s ruined ear. The voice was hers…and not.

  "You are needed. Your purpose in the grand order of the universe is unfulfilled. Balance still requires your hand. Return."

  Buck’s body jerked. His remaining eye snapped open—bloodshot, burning—and he sucked in a ragged gasp of air.

  *  *  *

  Buck drifted somewhere between pain and darkness.

  Voices murmured around him—some near, some far. Hands pressed to his chest, his head. Warm. Steady. Then more voices, overlapping, as though just outside the edge of conscious hearing.

  "Why does it keep holding on?"

  "Because it still chases the answer, obviously."

  "No. Pure stubbornness. It failed once and refuses to fail again."

  "It will fail again. That’s what it does."

  "It can’t. Not until it knows."

  "It needs to decide."

  Buck forced his eye open.

  Zywrath leaned over him, hands slick with blood. Krouri knelt at his side, her palm pressed to his sternum, lips moving in a silent mantra.

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  Beyond them stood the mole woman.

  And the fox with the bloodshot eyes.

  They watched him in perfect stillness—no longer illusions, but waiting. Expectant.

  The fox cracked a sad smile. "What’s it gonna be, Buck? Do you live because you HAVE to know the answer? Because the Mystery is yours and yours alone to finish?"

  The mole woman stepped forward, her voice cold and accusing. "Or because you can't bear to fail again? You try over and over, trying to right the wrongs, time and again out of Guilt."

  A new voice broke through. It came from nowhere. From everywhere. From inside his bones.

  The choice is irrelevant.

  They’re distractions. Cluttering the path.

  You stay alive because you have not finished the story. Because someone must learn every lie. Every move on the board. Every secret.

  And that someone is you.

  To be the only one who knows EVERYTHING.

  Not yet. He couldn’t die yet. Not until he saw Pazienza fall. Not until V was brought down. Not until he knew what happened to Sam.

  Something clicked. A latch turning in the dark.

  He stared into the fox’s swollen, sleepless eyes.

  "You," Buck croaked.

  The mole woman gave a disappointed exhale and dissipated like ash in the wind. The fox brightened—gripping Buck’s hand with both of his. "Yes! The answers! Find all the answers! YES!"

  Pain flared—searing, electric. His arm snapped back into place with a sickening crack. His lungs sucked in a hard, glorious breath.

  Krouri flinched—hand lifting from his chest as if burned. Then whispered in soft gratitude to something unseen.

  The ambulance finally arrived and medics loaded Buck onto a gurney. Through blurred glass he saw Hazelnut and Illani racing toward Krouri and Zywrath. Buck let his head fall back. The fox’s voice echoed softly in his skull, full of manic delight.

  "Yes, answers," the fox echoed in his mind. "Answers soon, but rest for now."

  *  *  *

  In a twist of irony, Sparks' mad sprint had somehow brought him to a local firehouse. An EMT spotted the blood soaking his coat before he could retreat and hauled him inside. They were kind—far too kind—and immediately began tending his shoulder. But kindness came with questions, and Sparks couldn’t risk answers. The moment their attention was elsewhere, he slipped out a side door and back onto the street.

  He pulled Kindling from his pocket. The twin-tailed flame was barely more than a flicker now, no bigger than a candle’s ember. Sparks fished a charred piece of a firestarter from his coat and offered it. Kindling chewed weakly, too exhausted even to purr.

  He needed help, but had no idea where to find it.

  Looking around, he finally recognized the neighborhood—Stoneroot. One of his very first "jobs" as Crimson Lotus had happened here. A failing family shop, a reluctant owner, and their first true collaborative piece of art: walls curled outward like petals, center blooming bright with flame. Maybe seeing that place would liven Kindling up.

  He followed memory until he reached the spot.

  A shopping plaza stared back. Sterile. Corporate. Soulless.

  The sight made his stomach twist. He lifted a shaking paw and conjured fire.

  Burn it. Just burn it all and start over—

  A frail mewl from his pocket stopped him. Sparks closed his hand, extinguishing the flame. Kindling was right. This was no time to lash out. Instead, he crossed to a small nearby park and sat heavily on a stone bench. He cradled Kindling in shaking hands. The fire-kitten flickered, barely visible. Sparks inhaled, focused, and fed his own energy back down the bond. Kindling brightened—only slightly—but the effort drained him like he’d bled another pint of blood.

  The park was empty. Quiet. Cold.

  He hadn’t felt this alone since that night in the forest as a child, with fire licking at his paws.

  Reginald’s—Victor’s—betrayal still echoed in his bones. He didn’t know where he would sleep tonight, or what would come next. But Victor would be dealt with. One way or another.

  A faint scrape of heavy boots along the path made him tense. He looked up.

  A tall, thin figure approached out of the shadows—gas mask, heavy coat, silent stride.

  Sparks rose from the bench, already knowing who it was. "Fixer," he accused.

  "Lotus," the masked figure replied, voice disturbed by the respirator.

  "Come to admire the original, fallen from grace?"

  "I came," Fixer said, head tilting, "to see if you’re even worth replacing."

  "Replace me with what?" Sparks growled. "Mindless slaughter? Cheap arson and drugged-up theatrics?"

  "Mindless?" Fixer answered slowly, savoring the words. "Have you ever smelt a body burning? Listened to the sound of their flesh popping? The way the bones crack as the flames squeeze into the marrow? It’s euphoric." He looked Sparks up and down. "You're wasting the power given to you," he scoffed. "There's barely anything left of you to burn."

  Sparks tightened his fists, shaking with rage and fear. "Who are you to judge me?" he spat.

  Fixer leaned down until the gas mask’s visor hovered inches from Sparks’ face. Through the lens, two reptilian eyes glowed blood-red.

  "You were never the only one."

  *  *  *

  Elsewhere, a radio sitting in a broken storefront window crackled to life. The static gave way to an ongoing announcement with a voice that was anxious but determined.

  "Citizens of New Warren City, this is Lighthouse Beacon Radio and I am the Spotlight. There are multiple reports of violent incidents breaking out all over the city. A house fire in the Crystal Meadows district has spread to several neighboring properties. Fire response teams are working to contain the blaze. An explosion rocked the streets in Caverlock near Grenda's diner, resulting in numerous injuries and structural damage. Friends, these are uncertain times and I implore all of you to stay safe and help each other. As guides of the truth, I can share that we finally have a name to apply to the strange phenomenon of recent days. Eidolons. We cannot make assumptions that they are the cause of recent events as their nature is fickle, but they have the potential to harm as well as help. Look to each other. Build strength as a community, not as individuals. Our reporters are out there and we will relay any new information as it comes. Until then, stay tuned and stay safe."