[i]White. The whole world is white. Snow is falling heavily, the powerful wind stirring the flitting crystals in a whirlpool that swallows the horizon. Down is white. Up is white. North, east, south and west have lost all meaning. The whole world is snow. A small girl wades through the blizzard. Her skin has a deathly pallor, and a blue coloration has begun to spread from her fingertips. Her thin sleeping gown is the same color of her surroundings, and makes it difficult to tell where her body ends and the white starts. The only thing separating her from the snow is the wind-whipped black hair on her head. The sound of bell chimes rings through the storm, but she knows the sound to be in her head. She would not be able to hear them so clearly through the raging wind otherwise. She is less sure about the words riding in the wind. “It’s not enough. Never enough.” A woman’s voice. Frustrated. She sees injustice before her but finds herself powerless. “Death is rarely dignified,” came another whisper, lilting as if holding back laughter. Knowing. Mocking. It was all nonsense, but familiar nonsense nonetheless. Where had she heard these voices before? She has lost all sensation from her legs, which she supposes must be a mercy. She does not remember setting out on this path, but she knows she was barefoot when she did. The snow reaches her thighs, so she cannot see her feet, but she suspects they have the same color as her fingertips by now. It faintly occurs to her that she is dying, but cannot think of anything to do about it. The bells make it hard to think. “This has gone too far. Can’t you see that?” What a strange tone. Both accusing and pleasing at the same time. At least she can still move her legs, which is more than she had any right to expect. Still, she is afraid to look behind her. She knows she would see no tracks where she to do so. “Warmth, is it? That is your wish.” Where the other voices had been but whispers, this one is stronger, seeming to reach from beyond the storm. And the girl somehow knows it is addressing her. She tries to answer that yes, she would trade anything to escape the cold. The words do not even reach her ears, swallowed by the storm the moment they leave her mouth. Swallowed by the chimes. “Come to my arms, then. I will embrace you, but know that I shall take everything you have to give.” The girl cannot help but be confused at that. She has nothing to her name. Everything she could have had belongs to another. Still she raises a trembling hand forward, as if to part the blizzard. The prospect of succor is overpowering. Just then, there is a great tremor, and the girl looks back in surprise. A wall of white crashes against her, and the words in the wind titter in her ear. “Such wonderful opportunities can be born from such an arrangement!” [/i] [hr] Lightning thundered outside, disturbing the sleeping figure’s rest. With some effort, a single blue eye fluttered open, drifting towards the window. Rain pitter-pattered against the glass, filling the room with a droning sound. [i]Like a thousand tiny bells.[/i] She dispelled the intrusive thought, drawing herself up on the bed. She raised a hand up to part the stream of black hair that had fallen in front of her and rubbed at her temple. She winced as something hard touched her brow and groggily looked down at her hand. Translucent, crystal digits looked back. Her breath caught on her throat. She blinked reflexively, and when she saw her hand again, pale skin and thin, ladylike fingers greeted her. She let out a long breath and clutched the hand to her chest, willing the beating of her heart to slow. The dread at the back of her mind would shadow her for the rest of the day. The feeling had become a constant companion as of late. Just how much longer did she have? Thus roused to wakefulness, Pithy slid out of her bed before going about her morning rituals. At the time of dressing herself, the woman studied herself in the room’s mirror as though seeing her reflection for the first time. The woman in the glass stared back at her with icy blue eyes. She was tall and svelte, with sculpted physique and features that gave her a sharp quality. Her swath of black hair fell to her back, and had been arranged in such a way that it obscured the right side of her face. The ears poking out at the sides of her head ended in sharp points. She trailed a finger down her side, smoothly following the contour of one of her ribs, ending the exploration just below her breast. Not two days ago, there had been a long cut there, courtesy of a mad duelist with eyes much like her own. There was not so much as a blemish there now. The healers of the city of Bren, well-loved by the gods, were skilled in that regard. The duelist had scored another slash climbing up the right side of her jaw. No wounds remained there either, but Pithy had no desire to touch that patch of skin. Hair might have obscured that side her face, but she knew where to look to spy the glittering surface hidden beneath. She took up her clothes and began to dress, slipping into her white shirt and leggings. Not two days ago she had participated in a competition presided by the Eight Elemental Lords, great beings that ruled over nature. Rumor (more than rumors if one asked the locals) indicated that the chosen winner would be granted a boon by their chosen Lord. Pithy had participated and killed her opponents—had seen first-hand the divine intervention of the Lords—but she herself had not been chosen. Next came a black belt, followed by long black boots and leather gloves. Even in the rain, she needed to go out. Make the rounds. She had pinned her hopes on the intervention of a god to heal what ailed her, and now most of her leads had grown cold. She needed to find new ones or somehow pick up the old trails. A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts, and she glanced at the room’s entrance. The knock came again. “Miss Pithy? Are you there?” came the innkeeper’s tentative voice. Pithy approached, grabbing the slender rapier resting against the foot of the bed as she passed. She unbolted the door and cracked it open, then opened it fully once she saw the short, balding man waiting outside. “What is it?” she asked curtly. “Apologies for the inconvenience.” The man took stock of the woman’s mood and the weapon held in her hand and smartly decided to keep his message brief. “Two men just arrived and asked for you personally, miss.” Pithy’s brow rose, surprised, then furrowed in consternation. A good portion of the city had come together to spectate the competition she had been a part in. It only occurred to her now that people who had seen her might now seek her out. [i]But for what? To offer me mercenary work? Or could it be someone who knew me from before?[/i] “Did they leave their names?” she pressed. “No, but they don’t seem to be from these parts. They struck me as scholars.” Pithy wondered at that. It was not the kind of crowd she thought her spectacle would attract. But then, she noticed the innkeeper hesitate. “Is there more?” “Yes, miss.” The innkeeper frowned, as though he found what he was about to say distasteful, then added. “They asked me to tell you something. That they could offer you a second chance for a wish.” Pithy immediately understood the reason behind the stout man’s reluctance. There were only two kinds of people who fought in the Elemental Lords’ competition. First, there were those who sought to honor their patron god, and second were those who sought a wish. By then, the innkeeper was no doubt aware that Pithy had been a participant. It was common knowledge that among the surviving losers, multiple would be approached by poachers looking to capitalize on their desperation for profit. Pithy seethed at the prospect of being singled out by such people. “Turn them away,” she said icily. “I don’t have time for such nonsense.” “Let’s not be hasty.” The innkeeper started and turned to the stairs, moving to the side so that she could see a man calmly walking towards them. “Sir, I told you to wait at the lobby.” The man’s most distinctive feature was the trimmed beard that framed his face, black save for a few streaks of grey running down its length. His eyes were sunken, and the steely grey orbs stared out like lights from within a cave. He was dressed in a style she didn’t recognize. [i]His clothes are dry,[/i] she thought distantly. “I thought the Lady should hear our message directly,” the man replied to the innkeeper before looking back at her. She found the man’s stare decidedly uncomfortable. “After all, hers is a race against time.” Her throat suddenly felt parched. [hr] The trio sat on a table at the inn’s lobby. Pithy sat on one end, a blue robe worn over her clothes like a cloak, with her rapier and a pair of daggers strapped to her belt. The two men sat on the other. One of them was the bearded stranger with the sunken eyes, who was regarding her calmly. The other was younger and clean-shaven, and was currently casting nervous looks at the people sitting on the other tables. A lantern sat on the floor besides him, but she did not pay this too much attention. The rain continued unabated outside, so many of the inn’s patrons had either remained in their rooms or walked down to the entrance for food, drink and chatter. With the competition and the celebratory festivals that were to follow, finding lodging in the city of Bren was nothing short of a herculean task, and this showed. The din of conversation filled the room, and most of the tables had been filled. When Pithy had made her way to the table led by the first man, the younger one had stood up, flashed her a personable smile, and asked if it might not be better to have this conversation somewhere more private. “No, this is quite fine,” she had told him before sitting on the table with an air of finality. The men had shared a look, one with concern, the other with resignation, and had sat as well. If this was dangerous business, the din would make it difficult to overhear the conversation, and the presence of other people in the room would serve to discourage violence from either party. As they sat, the innkeeper approached and asked if they wished to eat breakfast. She asked for wine. Her appetite had been soured when the first man had spoken. The other two asked for water. The pitying look the innkeeper gave her as he retreated irritated her. He was likely convinced she was being taken advantage of. She had an inkling that that was the case herself, but the words of the bearded one had given her pause. She had told no one of her circumstances, and if someone had reached into her mind and plucked those thoughts from her, she was certain she would have noticed the intrusion. The idea that she might not have and that her mind was open like a book to the one sitting before her was too terrifying an idea to contemplate. [i]But then how? Did he simply guess?[/i] That was more likely. He had said nothing of the nature of her desires beyond her need to accomplish them quickly. Slipping time made a good bedrock for desperation. Only a minute later, a waitress walked up to the table and left three wooden cups before her guests. Pithy took a hearty gulp from her wine and frowned, disappointed. It had been watered down. Did the innkeeper think he was doing her a favor? She put her cup down, and looked at the men. “So?” she asked. “What do you want from me?” The young man started, realizing he had been spoken to, and looked away from the other tables, giving her his best diplomat’s smile. He held his hands together in front of him. She wondered if it was to keep them from fidgeting. “Right,” he started. “I am Michael Lambert. We apologize if we have put you on edge, Pithy, but our business required us to meet with you.” It did not occur to her that him knowing her name was strange. They could have gotten it from the innkeeper, or from the competition’s roster if they had been there a few days ago. “You already brought me to the table,” Pithy said coolly. “Skip the pleasantries.” “Very well.” Michael nodded agreeably, then drew closer as though afraid others might be listening in. “Truth is, this is a simple matter. We have come to ask you to participate in a tournament held by the organization we belong to. We call it ‘The Crucible’, and the winner will be granted a single wish.” A grand name, if anything. She was now almost certain her first instinct had been correct and this was nothing but a scam. “A single wish, you say? And shall it be granted, no matter how outlandish?” Pithy feigned interest. Michael gave her a conspiratorial smile, as though they were accomplices of a crime. It made her want to slap him. She brought her cup to her lips and took a moderate sip to quell the urge. “Indeed. It might even be used to soothe that [i]thing[/i] you brought into yourself.” Pithy had to try very hard not to choke on her wine. She closed her visible eye and slowly brought her cup down. “Why?” she asked, steadily. The man’s smile faltered, as though he had expected his revelation to have sealed the deal. Indeed, the fact that the men knew of her circumstances shook her, but this alone was not enough for her to risk life and limb. She was not yet sure the men had a solution for her problem. Pithy opened her eye, giving Michael a calculating stare. “You are aware that this city holds a yearly competition with a similar premise?” The young man nodded impatiently. “Yes, we heard from the other patrons that it took place recently, but—” “The wishes that a god grants to others are of no use to themselves. But you said your Crucible is held by people. So why does this organization bother with a tournament when they could simply fulfill all their wishes? Or are the leaders of this group so starved for entertainment that they’ve wished for this Crucible to take place?” For the first time since they sat down, the man with the sunken eyes spoke. “You misunderstand, Lady.” Michael seemed surprised by the interjection. “Doctor Hallow?” “The Inquisitional College is not capable of granting wishes. However, we believe we have unearthed something that can.” Michael drew closer to Hallow and whispered something that Pithy could not hear over the din. The man shook his head, and Michael sat back on his chair with a troubled expression. Pithy ignored this byplay. “Explain.” “We have discovered an artefact. A machine…” His eyes narrowed as something occurred to him, and he asked. “Do you know the word?” Pithy nodded. In her head, she saw an amalgam of the clockwork toys that were quickly becoming popular in human cities and the strange weapons the lizard people of the south brought out from their domed cities. “Good,” the man said. “In order to activate this machine, a specific ritual is required. This is what we have come to know as ‘The Crucible’. At first glance, it seems like a method to determine the worthiness of those who would use it.” Pithy sat back, toying with the idea in her mind. She had never heard of a machine with such an ability, but her expertise lied elsewhere, and she had seen many strange gadgets before, in any case. If this Inquisitional College was attempting to activate a wish-granting machine the proposal made more sense. However, there was still a problem in the premise. If the winner received the wish, what would be left for the people of the College? [i]It is very likely that the winner will be double-crossed at the end.[/i] Pithy peered at Howell’s unnerving eyes, and realized it did not matter to her. If there was to be a wish at all, she simply needed to play along until she found a way to secure it. [i]The problem is, does this machine truly grant wishes?[/i] “Do you have proof for your claims?” Pithy asked, knowing the answer before the words left her lips. “Only our word,” the man responded gravely. Then, he offered, as though he were doing her a kindness, “That said, you may find reasons to believe if you come with us.” Pithy let out an unladylike grunt, unconvinced. “Would I not be better served by waiting a year here? In Bren I have seen divine intervention at work, while you cannot guarantee that your machine does as you suggest.” “Have you a year, Lady? Two? Three? However long it might take you to succeed?” At this, the man’s façade of patience cracked. “I will not take kindly to a fool interfering with my work just so she might kill herself at her leisure.” Pithy glared at the man, but found no retort. The man knew of her plight, so her last query had been nothing short of insulting his intelligence. All that was left was to either refuse, or take the plunge. She drained the rest of her cup, wishing she had asked for something stronger, then stood up. The men followed suit. Pithy looked at them expectantly, then told them, “Well then? Lead the way.” Michael Lambert brightened, his smile returning, and motioned for her to follow, lantern in hand. The pair led her outside. Rain was still falling, the water streaming down her hood, and a bank of fog obscured the streets. “Come along now, Pithy!” called Michael, the glow of the lantern making him easy to locate. “Perhaps you’ll be more inclined to believe us when you see this.” Pithy moved behind him, hands close to her weapons. “If you lead me to an ambush, you will not be happy.” For a moment, the trio walked in silence through the foggy streets, the only guiding light the lantern in Michael’s hand. Then, so quickly that she was almost certain her eyes were playing tricks on her, the fog and rain disappeared, replaced by a stone courtyard. She knew before studying their surroundings, almost instinctually, that they were no longer in the city of Bren. Before her stood a massive building, and far-off the alien vista of a sprawling city, larger than she had ever seen. “This way, Pithy.” Michael was ahead, motioning for her to follow. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the lantern in his hand, and comprehension dawned. Besides him, Doctor Howell gave her a knowing look from those sunken eyes. She remembered an earlier thought. [i]Their clothes are dry.[/i] Shaking her head ruefully, Pithy strode towards the large building.