Kanin Fyre: Chapter 25 - Spill the Tea

I Check Shirasil on instinct, and his Stats appear before me.

[Name: Shirasil]

[Title: God]

[Class: Anarchic Alchemist]

[Level: 100]

[Mana: 10,000]

[HP: 10,000/10,000]

[Role: The Inquisitor]

Before I have the opportunity to finish thinking “Well, shit,” Shirasil has grabbed my hands and is shaking them furiously. 

“Kanin, is it? Delighted to meet you, absolutely delighted. Big fan! The mayhem you caused has provided more entertainment this last year than anything I’ve experienced in centuries. The heavens have been in quite a stir, you know. Oh, I just can’t wait to pick your brain.” He abruptly laughs. “Well, not literally, but you understand what I mean.” 

Mirzayael and Fyre startle as a loud clang rings through the room. Zyneth’s knives have slipped through his hands, clattering to the stone floor. Shirasil doesn’t so much as flinch, but the noise is enough to shake me out of my disbelief, and I try to pull away from Shirasil’s grasp. 

Despite his jovial disposition, his hold is unrelenting. My glass doesn’t even shift within his hands, like I’m stuck in concrete. Whether it’s intentional or accidental, it’s a frightening display of power. Ink’s alarm spikes. 

It’s just about to react defensively when Shirasil just as abruptly lets us go, turning to the others. I stumble back. 

“Oh please, can we skip the formalities?” Shirasil says as Zyneth bows his head, halfway down into a kneel. “‘Be not afraid, mortals,’ and all that. Let’s see, Zyneth, is it? Haven’t seen you around the palace before. You must be with Kanin then.” 

Zyneth straightens, but still drops his gaze. “Yes, my lord.” 

Shirasil gives an exasperated sigh. “Must we really… oh, I see. You’re that runaway prince, aren’t you? That explains the banal courtesies.”

Mirzayael’s head snaps toward Zyneth in surprise. He manages not to react.

“This is why interacting with Travelers is so refreshing,” Shirasil continues, spreading his arms toward Fyre and I. “No respect for our authority! Even the Fyrethians respect us—” Mirzayael scoffs. “—and hate us, that too. Adds a bit of spice to bland mortal affairs. But it’s not nearly as entertaining as you two.” 

Hardly anyone has been able to get a word in around Shirasil’s monologuing. Fyre and Mirzayael appear more displeased than alarmed, which I find reassuring, despite being saturated in Ink’s cocktail of indignation and wariness. 

Zyneth, however, surprises me. The way he’s avoiding Shirasil’s gaze, still keeping his head slightly tilted forward, despite Shirasil’s insistence to shirk formalities. He hadn’t been this way around Blair. Cautious and respectful, yes. But now? He appears reverent, and almost… frightened. This isn’t the Zyneth I know.

Maybe he hadn’t entirely believed Blair was a god before now. Without the System, or any known history, there was nothing to go on but my word. But in this moment, with a well known and recognizable deity in his presence, the weight of what he’s gotten tangled up in is probably finally setting in. 

As for myself… I’m still processing how I feel about all this. He’s acting friendly, but it feels exaggerated. Like he’s trying just a little too hard to not seem threatening. And while I’m eager to meet more gods like Blair who are able or willing to help, I’m starting to understand what Fyre meant when she said he might have ulterior motives. I’ll need to be cautious here. He wants to put on an act? Well, that so happens to be my specialty. 

“Shirasil,” Fyre greets coolly. “To what do we owe today’s visit?”

“Not Blair, that’s for sure,” Shirasil huffs. He spins around to point at me. “Can you believe she didn’t even tell me about you? And after I told her about Fyre! It’s like she doesn’t trust me.” He splays a hand over his chest. “Truly, I’m wounded. I thought we were friends! She and I will be having a little chat once I get back to the Heavens. Or, no, perhaps I won’t tell her and wait until she visits you again—then I’ll reveal myself. Hah! Yes, that’s what I’ll do. Her reaction will be delightful, I’m sure.” 

Despite all that, he still managed to avoid answering Fyre’s question. 

“Shirasil,” I greet. Despite his eyes being smoking pits of darkness, he manages to light up when I address him. “I’d been wanting to speak with you.” 

“Oh, you have?” He sounds absolutely thrilled. “That makes two of us! I’m sure we have so many things we can learn about each other.” 

“That’s what I’m hoping, too. Do you—”

“This is such a clever little device,” Shirasil says, abruptly in my face, lifting my translator off my chest to examine it. I jerk in surprise, but resist the urge to take a step back. I didn’t even see him move. Ink’s void roils nervously beneath my coat. It can feel a faint, familiar pull. 

The sensation is unsettling. We’d felt this before with Blair because she holds a fraction of the predator. That was how she gained some of our memories. Does that mean Shirasil has a piece of it, too?

“Adapted from a general translator, I see,” Shirasil continues. 

I try not to let my nervousness show. “Yes—”

“And what’s this?” Shirasil drops my translator and lifts my wrist instead, showing off the spelled bracelet, most of the beads faintly glowing. 

I have to resist the instinct to pull away. “It’s a tracker for my Core Bond spell—”

“Oh? Is that why you have this form?”

[Your magic has been identified.]

“Aha! Yes, I see.” Shirasil reaches for my chest. 

Ink lashes out as his fingers brush the front of my coat. Its reaction is so sudden, like a coiled snake that’s finally struck, I don’t have an opportunity to stop it. A spear of void stabs through a gap in my coat, crumpling against Shirasil’s palm as if running into steel. I grab hold of our void a split second later, trying to reel it back in, but Ink pushes past me to grab Shirasil’s wrist, attempting to hold him at bay. 

“Don’t,” I object, trying to step back, but finding myself already up against a wall. 

Shirasil is still smiling, but the expression has turned dark. His other hand, still holding my wrist from examining the spell beads, tightens. Painfully tight. A dozen sparks of pain sting my arm as fractures shoot through my glass like frozen bolts of lightning. My reinforced glass. I go carefully still. He doesn’t say anything, and Ink doesn’t move. 

It’s scared. Something doesn’t feel right. Ink’s overcome with a sense of foreboding, and mixed with that magnetic draw—which has become anything but faint now that they’re touching—Ink isn’t even sure if it wants to attack Shirasil or push him away. The air feels tense between us.

Then Shirasil laughs, stepping back and letting go of my wrist as he easily pulls out of Ink’s grip. “Your remnant seems a bit touchy. No harm intended; I can be too curious for my own good!”

That’s one way to put it. “Ink and I would prefer if you didn’t try to touch our soul,” I say shortly. 

Shirasil is back to happy smiles. “Ink? How delightful! I can see why you named it that.” 

“It named itself, actually.” I quietly begin to Sculpt the cracks in my arm away. No one would have witnessed the damage he did, hidden beneath my sleeve, but everyone appears tense and nervous. They’re all just watching the two of us, worried what might happen next. 

“It did?” Shirasil asks in delight. “Amazing! I’m not sure that’s happened before. Remnants like Fyre’s are typically given their names. But you’re a special case, aren’t you?”

Fyre clears her throat. “This room is not conducive for long talks. We should relocate elsewhere.”

Yeah, maybe somewhere that has windows and the only door isn’t blocked by an unstable god. 

“Oh, of course!” Shirasil agrees. “Where are my manners? Let’s find somewhere more cozy.”

He snaps his fingers, and something pulls at my soul. The world flickers black for a fraction of a moment—maybe I wouldn’t even have noticed, if I wasn’t tied to Ink. Then our surroundings blink back into existence around us, though we’re not where we were a moment before. Did we just pass through the Between?

We now appear to be in a room with calming green walls and simple but tasteful wooden trim; that immediately tells me we’re no longer in the Fortress, as everything in Fyre’s city is made of stone. One wall looks like a sliding door, and in the center of the room is a low table with four cushioned seats around it. Shirasil considers this, then snaps his fingers again, and the table becomes five-sided, an additional pillow appearing on the new side. He performs every action so casually, but the magic is like nothing I’ve ever seen. You can’t just create items out of thin air, can you?

“Summoning magic?” I wonder aloud.

“Ah! Just so,” Shirasil agrees. “Please, everyone, take a seat. My treat!” 

Mirzayael flexes her fingers, then balls her hands into fists. Her spear is gone, I noticed—Zyneth’s blades were left behind, too. It’s a clear message. 

“Where are we?” she demands, glancing around the room. “Where did you take us?”

Shirasil takes a seat, brushing his robes out of the way as he gracefully settles  onto one of the pillows—the one closest to the door, I notice. “Temperence Tea House. It’s an absolute favorite of mine. Family run—been open for over five hundred years, did you know? They have fantastic steamed buns.”

“What city are we in?” Fyre clarifies.

“East Gate,” Shirasil says, waving us all forward. “Come, sit! You don’t intend to stand the whole meal, do you?”

Zyneth wordlessly obeys, still unusually subdued and quiet as he sits down. He’s starting to worry me. I’m going to need to talk to him after this.

I sit between him and Shirasil—though that’s about the last place I want to be—and put a hand on Zyneth’s knee under the table, giving it a squeeze. Man, having Fyre’s telepathy would be really great right about now. Zyneth puts his hand over mind and squeezes back. For now, that will have to be all the reassurance I can ask for.

“And what country are we in?” I ask. Fyre takes a seat across from me, on Shirasil’s other side, and Mirzayael reluctantly takes the last seat, between Fyre and Zyneth. “And continent, while we’re at it.” 

Shirasil sighs dramatically, waving his hand through the air as if dispelling an unpleasant smell. “Moonfall, in central Dunmora. Don’t worry I’ll put you all back where you belong before I leave. Now, can’t we move to more interesting subjects?” 

We all stare at him in tense silence. 

“Okay, then, I’ll go first!” Shirasil pokes a finger in my direction. “I’ve been snooping enough to know you’re the Kanin we’ve been looking for. I got hints of a backstory from Blair, but I’d like for you to give me the full account just so I make sure I haven’t missed anything.” 

I’m not sure if he even noticed when he cracked my glass earlier. Whether the threat had been intentional, or unknowing, the ghost of the injuries still throb in warning. I’m not in any position to say no to his request, but if I act agreeably enough, maybe he’ll be willing to answer some of my questions. Or at least, be disinclined to kill us if Ink acts out again.

“Alright.” I’m getting weirdly practiced at recounting my story by now. “Well, it all started when—”

“Oh wait!” Shirasil interrupts. “We should all get settled and comfortable first, shouldn’t we? Just a moment.” 

Then a shimmer passes over him, and his form shifts. His clothes are the same, though now they’re no longer glowing, and his hair grows down his back. He plucks a pair of black-tinted glasses from nowhere that I can see and sets them on his face, obscuring the smoke in his eyes. He’s in the process of pulling his hair up into a bun, holding an ornate pin in his mouth—again, I have no idea where it came from—when I hear footsteps approaching our room. 

The door slides open. If the halfling woman is surprised to see us, she gives no indication. 

“Ah, May!” Shirasil turns toward the new arrival as he finishes sticking the pin in his hair. “Pleasure to see you again.” 

Or… her hair? Her features are faintly different, and her voice is more feminine. The most striking difference, however, is that she now looks quite mortal. 

“A pot of tea for the table,” she orders. “And a basket of bao too. Anyone else want something?” She doesn’t wait for anyone to reply. “Let’s do a plate of those spicy boiled nuts that are just to die for, and a spread of dumplings, while you’re at it. Let’s see, what was the last… oh yes! And an ewer of that crabapple wine, if you’d please.” 

The halfling bows her head. “Of course, Lord Lisari.” She closes the door after her, and we’re once again left alone with the god. 

Shirasil—or, Lisari, I suppose—spins back toward me. “Now! Where were we?”

I begin to recount my story once more. It almost feels more strange speaking to her as Lisari than it had in her Shirasil form. Shirasil looked like a god. Now, it feels like I’m talking to any human girl I could have bumped into on the street. Knowing what she’s actually capable of creates a strange dissonance. 

A couple times, I surreptitiously attempt to Check and Inspect her, wondering if this form is some sort of illusion. But neither Echo nor my spells turn up any sign of active magic. Was it a transformation, then? Some other kind of magic I don’t understand?

Unlike Fyre, Lisari is happy to interrupt and ask clarifying questions. As a result, it takes a lot longer than my previous recounts. The tea shows up first, then the basket of bao (“Oh,” Lisari says, “You can’t eat, can you? I’m sorry, this was terribly insensitive of me! You don’t mind, do you?”) and by the time I’m done, the peanuts, dumplings, and wine have been delivered as well. Zyneth and Fyre both attempt halfhearted nibbles of the food and sips of the tea, while Mirzayael pointedly eats nothing at all. Lisari doesn’t seem to mind; she drinks the entire ewer of wine herself and orders another, all while continuing to pack all the food away like she’s some kind of black hole.

I guess, with gods, that might not be far from the truth. 

“That was quite the story!” Lisari exclaims when I’m done, popping some nuts in her mouth. Her cheeks are flushed, and her posture has grown more relaxed and sprawling, but I don’t trust her to actually be drunk. “This does explain quite a bit. Thanks for indulging me.”

As if I had a choice. “Glad I could help.” 

Lisari shakes her head with a dramatic sigh. “I still can’t believe Blair was holding out on me like this. Well, no, I can.” She giggles to herself. “That godling is right to be suspicious, but she’s directing it the wrong way.”

“I’d been meaning to ask you about Blair, actually,” Fyre jumps in, seizing the opportunity now that my story is done and Lisari seems to be more relaxed. “God of Wards, is it? I haven’t come across any such domain in my studies.”

“Me neither,” I agree. “I haven’t even found her name.”

Even Zyneth glances up curiously at this change in topic.

Lisari rests her elbow on the table and props her cheek up with a fist, watching us all with an amused, raised eyebrow. “Why, you don’t think all gods are common knowledge, do you?”

Zyneth sits up straight. “What?” It’s the first word he’s said the entire conversation.

“Of course.” Lisari shrugs, reaching back to pull the pin out of her hair. It cascades down her back in a shadowy wave. I’m wondering if there’s some meaning to this act when she jabs the tip of her pin at the table, cutting off the path of an ant. She absently taps the pin in the ant’s path again when it tries to go around. She can’t possibly be bored already. 

“Not everyone wants the limelight,” Lisari continues. Tap. Tap. “If you don’t want to be known, it’s not hard to disguise yourself with the powers at our disposal.” She winks. “Well, at least not until you Travelers showed up and gained System access.”

“And why did that happen?” Fyre quickly asks. Like me, she must see that Lisari appears to be in a talkative mood, and this is the opportunity to reap as many answers as we can get.

Lisari regards her. “I suspect you already know the answer to that.”

I absently touch my core. “Something to do with the remnants?”

Lisari grins as she points her pin at me. “Bullseye.”

Ink is listening intently to every thought that passes through my mind. It doesn’t understand speech or signs, but it’s mostly able to interpret what’s being said as it’s all filtered through me. This person knows something about Ink that it does not? The thought makes it wary. 

“But how are the remnants and the System connected?” Fyre asks.

“Especially considering they don’t seem to play together very well,” I add. 

Lisari twirls her pin around in a bored, dismissive motion. “It’s a long story.” As if she hadn’t just sat here and listened to my story for the last hour. “But the bones of it are that the System is as old as the gods, and remnants are, I suppose you could say, a residue of the power that created it all.”

She says this so casually, as if talking about the weather. The rest of us sit there in stunned silence. 

“Remnants created the gods?” I say after a moment. 

“No!” Lisari says. “Well, technically yes. Something like the remnants. But much bigger, unfathomably powerful. You can think of the remnants as… scraps that were left behind on the workshop floor.”

Ink roils at this comparison. It is not merely leftovers of a greater being. It is a predator in its own right! It is plenty strong!

Yet, I can’t help but recall when it was stronger—when it was bigger, before part of it was ripped away by the refiner left in Emrox. And those snippets of memories Ink occasionally has—of being a creature far more vast and powerful. What Lisari is saying is starting to make a lot of sense.

But is it the truth? It fits a lot of what I’ve already figured out, but would she lie about anything? Maybe. Probably, actually, if it furthered her goals. I abruptly recall something Yedzaquib had said when he’d taken the fire remnant. 

“Knowing things is my profession. Even things the gods try to obscure. But Truth can’t be erased. Only forgotten.”

“Then what does that mean for us?” I ask, gesturing to Fyre and myself. “You’re not saying that makes us…”

“Gods?” Lisari snorts. “No. Not hardly. But it does make you a threat to them. And to Lorata, specifically. Do you think she wants her carefully crafted order to be thrown into turmoil by dozens of rowdy outsiders throwing their new abilities around? Of course not.”

“But we don’t mean her any harm,” Fyre says. Mirzayael scowls. “Or at least, I don’t.”

Lisari snorts. “You’re thinking on the timescale of mortals. Remnants can’t be destroyed—no more than the power that sustains the gods can be. They can only be divided, combined, transferred—meaning that as long as anyone with a remnant remains free, it can be passed to someone else who might have a less favorable opinion of the pantheon.”

An image of Yedzaquib passes through my head, of him burying the refiner in his chest, of new stats appearing on his interface. So that’s what he had been trying to do? Not ascend to godhood, exactly, but at least claim a fraction of their power as his own.

“And that’s why they’re imprisoning Travelers,” I surmise. “For their remnants. But not all of them have one, do they?”

Lisari shrugs. She’s gone back to absently tapping her hairpin on the table. “They came in contact with one—with yours, actually. Lorata would rather be overcautious and imprison them all than risk one slipping through her fingers.”

Fyre is shaking her head, kneading a temple. Zyneth has a distant, dazed look on his face. Mirzayael is scowling—though I’m starting to think she just has a resting scowl face.

“So why tell us all this?” I ask. “What do you get out of it? It sounds like you want us to threaten the heavens.”

“That’s because I do!” Lisari beams, sitting up straight and throwing her arms in the air in excitement. The hairpin goes flying from her fingers and strikes the wall behind her. Maybe she’s actually more inebriated than I thought. “Things have grown stale. Millenia pass without change. It’s just so incredibly boring. The heavens could use a bit of a shake up, in my opinion. Time for new blood—or spilled blood, I’m not picky.” She laughs.

The sound sends a shiver through my soul.

“Why don’t you do it then?” Mirzayael demands. “We are not here to do a god’s dirty work.”

“I am,” Shirasil assures her. “In my own way. I can’t hope to challenge Lorata’s will on my own. There are allies to gain, pieces to position. These sorts of moves take a while to set up, you know—though I must say, the appearance of you Travelers has vastly accelerated things. Disorder and confusion abound! It’s been so much more interesting since you all showed up.”

“To clarify,” I ask skeptically, “you want to help us just because it’s entertaining?”

“Precicely so!” Lisari nods enthusiastically. “You get it. And look, I understand you might not be thrilled with my motives. That’s fine—it’s hard to find common ground with mortals’ priorities after existing for so long. But does it matter why I want to help if we both want the same thing? I despise the idea of confinement. It’s stifling—stagnant. You and I both want the Travelers to be let back into the world. So why not work together, ay?”

My first instinct is to agree with her. We need gods like Lisari on our side—someone who can give us insight we can’t get anywhere else. Someone who can help us free the escaped Travelers—and help us from being captured ourselves.

But her motivation leaves a bad taste in my mouth. This is all just some game for her. It’s our lives for the rest of us.

At least she’s transparent about it. I guess, like she said, it’s hard to connect with mortals when they must come and go in a relative blink of an eye.

“So.” Lisari eagerly leans forward. “After providing me with such entertainment, what can I do for you? No promises, by the way—I won’t do anything that will draw Lorata’s eye.”

I hesitate, wondering how much I should say about our plan to break into the Heavens. She hasn’t mentioned it, yet, so she might have arrived after our discussion. But would she make a heist of the Heavens a cakewalk, or lead us into a trap for her own entertainment? Perhaps for the moment it’s better to get information out of her than any outright favors—especially if she expects those favors to be returned.

“There was a Traveler,” I say. “Anika. She ended up with a remnant like Ink, except she was overwhelmed by it.”

“The one Yedzaquib trapped in a refiner,” Lisari says. “What about it?”

“I wanted to know if there’s anything I could do to help her,” I say. “It’s my fault she ended up that way. I can’t imagine her spending an eternity with her tormentor. Can’t anything be done?”

Lisari sighs through her nose, growing sober for the first time this conversation. She drops her chin back down onto her propped elbow, and reaches for her hair. Her hand closes on nothing, and she pats about her head for a moment. Then she pats her chest and pockets, and finally giving up, summons a new hairpin with a flick of her fingers. She traces the blunt end through a drop of tea that had spilled on the table, squiggling out random loops and swirls. 

“I’m sorry to say I don’t know of any way to help her,” Lisari admits, more downcast than I would have expected. “Forming pacts with a remnant, like what Fyre, here, did allows the user some level of control. There’s a filter in place, you could say. But what you’ve got going on with Ink—what happened to this Anika of yours—that’s a remnant binding directly to your soul. And I don’t need to tell you how much control the remnants have in that case.” 

My soul sinks. Even the gods don’t know how to help her? I feared as much—Blair had already told me there was no way to remove Ink from my soul. But I had thought (I had hoped) something might be different for Anika.

“You can’t help us, then?” I ask. 

Lisari laughs so suddenly, we all flinch. “What? No, of course I’ll try to help! Just because I don’t know of a way doesn’t mean it’s impossible. You’ve already done many things in the last year the pantheon would have claimed were impossible before you did it. Returned from death, conquered a wild remnant—” Ink growls at this. It has not been conquered! “—brought a hundred souls from another world to give them new bodies and a second life. How wonderful! I can’t wait to see what immutable things you mess up next.”

Thanks for the vote of confidence. “But for Anika?” I press.

Lisari sucks on a lip. “Look, kid, I’m not going to make you any promises. So far as I know, no one’s ever been able to separate a soul from a remnant with the soul left intact. But hey; maybe you can figure out a way for her to conquer her inner demons like you did with yours. It’s never been done before—at least, not before you—but I do love indulging in new experiments.”

I wonder if that’s how she views all of us Travelers; each a different experiment to observe, prod at, and intervene at her choosing. 

“Tell you what,” she continues. “I can extract the refiner from Yedzaquib at least. No one will immediately notice it’s missing with his body still there. Getting it out of the Heavens will be a lot tricker.” She shakes her head. “I can’t risk being caught up in such risky affairs. If they discover I’m helping you all, everything I’ve been working on would unravel. But I can give you an opportunity, shall we say.” 

Mirzayael, who has been growing more visibly irritated across the meal, finally snaps. “Enough hints and games! Speak directly. What are you offering, and what do you want in return?” 

“In return?” Lisari says, faking offense. “Why, the chaos is reward enough! But since you asked so politely, I’ll indulge your request.” She steeples her fingers together, grinning behind her hands. 

“First, I’ll give you this.” 

[Permissions Updated,] Echo says. [Map of The Sanctum available.]

[One Area of Interest marked.]

“That will provide a layout of the sector where the prisoners are being held. I’ll mark the location where I’ve hidden Anika’s refiner when I’m able.”

“And second,” Lisari continues, “I’ll crack open a door to the Heavens for you two to slip inside. I don’t know the exact day, yet; I’d like to time it during another god’s visit to the mortal realms so I can more easily obscure your entry. Once I’ve extracted and hid the refiner, I’ll send you a message. At that time, I should also know when and where I’ll be able to open the door. I expect it will be about a month from now.”

“Assuming you choose to take advantage of the opportunity,” Lisari adds with a grin. “This will be dangerous. There will be other gods in the Sanctum, and you’ll need to figure out your own way around them; I won’t be there to help you two. What you do once inside is up to you.”

Finally, Zyneth stirs. He still keeps his gaze lowered, but addresses Lisari for the first time. “‘You two.’ This offer is only for Kanin and Fyre, isn’t it?” 

“I’m afraid so,” Lisari admits. “That part is out of my hands, however. They have access to the System—it will be enough to trick the monitoring spells and enter undetected. But someone without System access will be flagged. You’d be caught before you even took two steps inside.”

Well, I guess it’s a good thing I wasn’t able to try my method yet. But I can tell this news bothers Zyneth and Mirzayael, and I’m not wild about it either. Fyre and I would be on our own. 

“We will need to discuss this offer,” Fyre says, exchanging a glance with Mirzayael.

“Of course,” Lisari agrees. “I’ll be sending the update and opening the door regardless; whether or not you step through it, I likely won’t know until the rest of the pantheon does. And by then, you better be somewhere safe.” She turns her face toward Fyre when she says this. 

“Of course,” she adds flippantly, “I’m sure you understand why Blair doesn’t need to know about this little offer of mine. But if you need to speak with me in the meantime...”

[A name has been added to your Contacts,] Echo says. 

“...you know how to get in touch.” Lisari raises a hand. 

I realize a split second before she snaps her fingers that she’s about to do so. Ink reacts, reading my mind before I have time to explain. A limb of void darts across the floor, behind Lisari.

She snaps her fingers, and we’re all abruptly back in Fyre’s office, falling two inches to the stone floor. “Until next time!”

Then, with a burst of wind and a funnel of black smoke, the woman evaporates into the air. And just like that, she’s gone.

Did you get it? I think. 

Ink withdraws its limb, smugly depositing Lisari’s hairpin in my jacket pocket.