"’Your little puppet seems ready to be shelved…’

The sorcerer turns toward the figure emerging from the shadows, fully aware of her presence long before she made herself known. The young woman roams his workshop with no hint of remorse, brushing her fingers over his bound tomes, thaumaturgical tools, and forbidden relics. Without modesty, without shame. She is dressed in linen garments of green and yellow hues. Her wide, flared sleeves conceal stacks of bracelets, cords, and colorful wooden torques. Despite the dim light, her eyes shine with an otherworldly, spectral gleam. She blinks rarely, like a bird of prey constantly alert to its surroundings.

‘The Kraken has outlived its purpose’, the mage replies evenly. ‘It allowed you to carry out your experiments unhindered, if I’m not mistaken.’

She narrows her eyes, gazing at him with a dreamy expression. As she tilts her head, the small bells dangling from her ears jingle merrily.

‘Aside from that incident with the Strix. You assured me you'd deliver it…’

‘An incident for which I’ve already atoned’, he says, unflinching.

The young woman shakes her head with feigned benevolence.

‘I'm not here to scold you. Water under the bridge. By the way, how’s your young protégé?’

‘Young? He’s an old man now.’

She adopts a puzzled expression.

‘Has it really been that long? And all this time, he suspected nothing?’

‘Not as far as I know.’

Behind his enamel mask, the sorcerer’s eyes—glowing with an unnatural hue—study the intruder's form. The body she has chosen for this incarnation is nothing short of captivating: skin as pale as porcelain, a cascade of milky hair, and piercing, hypnotic pink eyes. She has always delighted in selecting hosts with alluring appearances to better ensnare her victims. They all had their preferences, after all. His lay in those with a natural permeability to the Aether.

‘Have you heard from the others?’, she asks, her tone seemingly innocent.

The question appears harmless but is anything but. She’s probing, trying to ascertain whether a cabal has formed against her or if their common goals have strayed. He remains silent, leaving her query unanswered. Undeterred, she steps dangerously close, gazing into the pearly reflections of his mask. She exudes a heady fragrance, like an insect emitting pheromones, like a carnivorous plant displaying its nectar. But the sorcerer knows the poison that lies within this honeyed scent.

Through his Irises, he sees them moving on and beneath her opaline skin: translucent venomous slugs, multicolored leeches, invasive crustaceans...

‘No, not for decades.’

She rewards him with a smile, both charming and predatory.

‘That’s something we’ll need to remedy. The Expeditionary Corps are mobilizing, and we’ll need to infiltrate them…’

She finally steps away, parting the folds of her loose tunic before settling into a chair, making herself entirely at home. Modesty has never burdened her. Crossing her legs, she leans against the lime-washed wall. Around her waist, the sorcerer notices the Namkha knot of the Muna, proudly displayed. Extending her hand, a brightly colored snail slowly emerges from her sleeve, resting in her palm. She places it on one of the chrysanthemums the mage had just coaxed into bloom.

‘I didn’t wait for your visit to prepare, Eugenist. It was only a matter of time before the Asgarthans turned their gaze outward. I intend to join them, to ensure their actions don’t undermine our interests.’

She watches the snail wiggle its antennae, climbing a purple petal and leaving behind a slimy trail.

‘Like a tick on a dog’, she murmurs, not taking her eyes off the gastropod.

‘We’re all parasites. Have you forgotten?’

She smiles at him.

‘Do you mean humanity in general, or us in particular?’

It’s a rhetorical question, of course—one he need not answer.

‘What brings you here, Parisa?’

‘Parisa?’

She laughs, her voice crystalline.

‘Parisa is long dead, as are Eugénie, Rojin, and Hayley. My name is Saskia now. Should I still call you Qaasin?’

The sorcerer removes his mirrored mask and places it on his worktable.

‘Sylas will do for this body.’

‘To answer your question, this is mostly a courtesy call. I assume Kelsang will hole up in the Monolith as usual. I have no idea where the prodigal child is, but the others will be numerous enough to oversee things here in Asgartha…’

‘Which means I’ll have the pleasure of your company aboard the Ouroboros?’

‘Oh, how kind of you’, she exclaims, feigning enthusiasm. ‘Your hospitality moves me.’

‘Your target is still the night bird?’

Saskia shakes her head.

‘I’ll leave that to your little pup. I believe I’ve already found suitable familiars for us all.’

‘How thoughtful of you.’

A spark lights in her gaze.

‘And believe me, I’ve found a far more interesting specimen. In your domain, no less.’

‘Who?’

‘Don’t play coy. You know exactly who I mean.’

‘Then stay away. She’s mine to deal with. Consider her off-limits.’

The young Muna pouts theatrically.

‘I wouldn’t dream of stepping on your toes. But, Sylas... I know you’ve been busy keeping the Asgarthans from venturing out of their little hole. Yet it seems your recent attempts lack... vigor. Since Amahle’s betrayal, it’s been your task to destabilize their regime. For nearly a century, there’s been nothing. And now, they’re venturing beyond their enclosure.’

‘Do you have so little faith in me? With all attention turned to the Rediscovery Endeavor, no one suspects the trap that’s about to snap shut. Patience, Eugenist.’

She studies his face intently, as if discerning something intriguing. A fiery grin spreads across her lips as realization dawns.

‘I see.’

Saskia retrieves the snail she had placed on the flower. The sorcerer notes the bloom has withered, as though the mollusk drained its life. Faded, browned petals fall onto the wooden table as the Muna perjurer brings the snail to her lips.

‘I suppose the day of reckoning is upon us.’