Joe was returning to the station, exhausted. He needed a break to prepare himself for the chaos of the coming evening.

  As much joy as the festivities brought him each day, he could never deny how stressful it was to moderate an entire town letting loose for hours on end.

  He turned a few corners, passing many who greeted him kindly as they worked on their stalls.

  Many of Joe’s coworkers complained of hostility from the townsfolk, yet nearly all greeted him with respect and thanks.

  A few more steps and the station came into view.

  He didn’t know why, but a sudden, foreboding fear pounced on him in that moment.

  Maybe his fellow guards would find some reason to turn aggressive again, or perhaps the captain would hand him yet another task, forcing him to forfeit his much-needed break.

  He tried to shake off the feeling, annoyed at himself for thinking so poorly of his otherwise upstanding coworkers.

  But the dreadful sensation wouldn’t let him go.

  He approached with careful steps, then opened the door hastily, forcing himself inside despite the stress.

  As he looked into the room, he saw darkness—lit only by a small table candle that cast flickering shadows across scattered pages, tossed by the air of evening.

  His coworkers were huddled around the door to Liria’s office.

  “What’s going on, guys?” Joe asked, hanging his chest plate on its stand.

  “Shut your damn mouth, will ya?” a guard snapped in a harsh whisper.

  A tremble seized Joe, and he stepped back, his legs going weak.

  Now certain his anxiety had been warranted, he stood frozen.

  “Get him out!” another guard shouted. “He’ll only get in the way!”

  “What do you think the captain would say if he found out he was listening in?” another added. “He can’t be here while the master does his business.”

  Two guards backed away from the door and started toward him. Joe, sensing danger, instinctively rested his palm on the hilt of his sword.

  But before tempers could ignite, the room fell silent.

  A sound broke through—the quiet cries of someone weeping, begging through tears.

  None moved. They just stood and waited.

  It was clear from the tension in the air that they all feared the worst—like spooked cattle before a storm.

  The sobs echoed like a ghostly wind.

  One guard, against the better judgment of the others, cracked the door slightly and spoke more gently than Joe had ever heard from him.

  “Sir, is everything—”

  “No, you fool!” the Captain bellowed, his croaking voice choked with desperation. “Close the door and leave us!”

  It all happened in an instant.

  Instead of a narrow crack to peek through, the door flung wide, slamming a guard in the head as it struck the wall.

  A force burst through, knocking Joe to the floor and snuffing out the lone candle, plunging the room into darkness.

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  Only the dusky blue sky outside offered the barest sliver of light.

  Joe stared in disbelief.

  What lay behind that door was worse than anything his nightmares had conjured.

  A freakish, tall, skinny figure loomed over the pickpocket Joe had arrested.

  A pale hand gripped the young man’s forehead, pulsing with an unnatural energy.

  The figure turned toward the open doorway, its oval head contorted in shock and rage.

  “You fools!” it roared. “Close that door!”

  The pickpocket’s body began to contort, jerking in unnatural spasms.

  The skin on his face flaked away, stretching into quill-like shapes.

  His mouth was stuck open, muscles frozen, tears running down his cheeks as a bony spike jutted from it.

  His eyes went dark.

  The guards rushed to shut the door, struggling to realign its broken hinges.

  Joe was frozen, caught between his urge to grab a weapon and fight, and his instinct to run for safety.

  The pale man saw him—bright blue eyes burning with intensity—as he dropped the pickpocket, whose body continued to mutate.

  Others stood in the back room, including Liria, wearing an unfazed frown. This was not the Captain Joe knew.

  “Capture him!” the pale man ordered.

  Joe leapt to his feet as some of the guards obeyed, lunging over tables to grab him.

  With his spear in hand, he dashed behind the tables, using them as barriers to slow his pursuers.

  From the jail cells emerged a freakishly large man. Joe recognized him—he’d been locked up for some time, looking half-rotted even then.

  The man extended a thick, green-stained hand and conjured a cloud of putrid smog, which spread rapidly across the room.

  Joe covered his mouth, coughing in the choking haze.

  His eyes burned, and his vision blurred in the thick fog.

  Bursting through the front door, he scrambled across the road in a desperate escape.

  The clean air hit his face like a cold bath on a summer’s day, bringing immediate relief.

  He inhaled deeply, letting the cool evening wind fill his lungs, then sprinted down the road—fleeing as far from the horrors behind him as he could.

  The festival! he thought in terror. It’ll be starting soon!

  ◇─◇──◇─◇

  Ule tossed a guard over a table. It didn’t matter—the man’s mind was too foggy to feel insulted by the disrespect.

  One of the perks of Grime’s Levula was how mindless its victims became, contorted into nearly perfect servants.

  One of the drawbacks, unfortunately, was needing Grime around.

  “I’m sorry, boss,” Grime said in a slow, gravelly tone.

  He was enormous, taller and broader than anyone else at the station.

  His skin peeled in flakes as he stomped around the room, green stains mottling his arms like those affected by his own Levula.

  He wore an old, ripped white shirt under a leather vest, and grimy shorts.

  And the stench... Everyone had been grateful he stayed locked in his cell—until now.

  “What made you think you were allowed out of your cell?” Ule snapped, jabbing a bony finger at Grime’s face.

  “There was a troublemaker, boss,” Grime replied. “Figured I might bonk him on the head or something. Be useful.”

  “You need me to take him out?” Quinlou asked.

  “No!” Ule barked. “I want you near me—and with the rest of our top men—after that tricky little woman who’s been causing us trouble.”

  He snapped his fingers at the guards. “Go find the little guard. Take some Owlmen with you for good measure. And be quick about it.”

  “Owlmen, sir?” a guard asked.

  Jug chuckled. “You don’t know what the—”

  “You don’t know what the Owlmen are, fool?” Seye interrupted.

  Jug swung at the small, spiky-haired runt.

  Ule clicked his fingers again.

  From the back room came a crooked groan, with a high-pitched screech humming beneath it.

  The pickpocket’s transformation was complete.

  It was a simple, if time-consuming, process.

  Ule would train an Owl, taint it with the will of Surath, and once it was powerful and obedient, he could fuse its aura into the bodies of captives taken from neighboring regions.

  The pickpocket’s body was no longer human.

  His face and arms were now covered in gray feathers, thick clumps hanging over his hands like wings.

  His eyes were void of soul—pitch-black and empty—and his mouth had become a sharp, fearsome beak.

  He was an Owlman now... and three of those would be enough to find the runaway guard.