Little children, little children, please disobey

  ‘Tis squandered time, aligning in right

  The Skin-snatcher cometh to take you away

  As the sun sets, hark, go out and play

  Do not be afraid of the tremblings in the night

  Little children, little children, please disobey

  It matters not what your parents might say

  A helpful soul will snuff out their light

  The Skin-snatcher cometh to take you away

  The flesh is not taut: a horrid display

  The pain on their face showcasing their plight

  Little children, little children, please disobey

  A victim of time’s hand, the flesh will decay

  Regardless of how much you put up a fight

  The Skin-snatcher cometh to take you away

  In need of new skin, they’ve come to parlay

  It’s too late to run from their terrible bite

  Little children, little children, please disobey

  The Skin-snatcher cometh to take you away

  The tune echoed in his head from a hazy memory. The source was of little consequence—this was the Skin-snatcher, surely. Before his eyes, another advent of Rowan’s offscape studies stepped off the page, peeling the very skin from Aariv’s poor body. His screams were sharp and frayed, pushing the limits of his vocal cords.

  “Morrigan,” Rowan called out, begging for aid.

  She sighed and broke off one of her fingers. In quick fashion, she had a sharp bone knife and tossed it, piercing Aariv’s heart.

  “You killed him.” Rowan uttered, his hands shaking as Aariv’s sounds ceased, his skin still being snatched before Rowan.

  “A mercy. Come.” Morrigan said, gesturing for Rowan to follow.

  Prisoners no more, the crowd screamed and dispersed, fleeing from the monster in front of them.

  “We-we can’t just—we have to help them. We have to stop this.” Rowan said, trembling as Morrigan grabbed his shoulders authoritatively.

  “How? How will you stop anything?”

  Why was she being this way? She’s Morrigan Queen: the first Scholar. She freed humanity from an unutterable tyranny and denied death its grasp of her mortal coil. She was a powerful woman in a world where women simply did not aspire to greatness, let alone achieve it. She was an inspiration to countless, Rowan among them. So why? Rowan sniffled, his cheeks wet with his disappointment. Law, he didn’t want to cry in front of her. He wanted to be strong. He wanted to earn the approval of the Morrigan Queen. Perhaps more prevalent, he wanted to earn the comradery of the Tower of Zchēve, the nexus of his first offscape adventure.

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  “Go if you must,” Rowan sniffled, “but I’m staying.”

  “Tsk.” Morrigan released Rowan in a huff, walking toward what she presumed to be the exit.

  The Skin-snatcher wore Aariv’s flesh like an ill-fitting suit, but the skin couldn’t keep up with the monster tugging it along—it was already decaying rapidly. The creature threw a fit, chewing on its guttural cries like a person drowning in gelatin. In the blink of an eye, the monster latched onto another poor soul. The Skin-snatcher bit their neck, silencing any attempt at screaming before its claw-like hands began skinning them alive.

  “Mogrim, do you have something—”

  Rowan turned back to the old man who was already huffing and puffing, trying to get away from the creature like everyone else. Rowan couldn’t blame the old man: two had already fallen to this mythical creature. Rowan’s hands shook as he tried to simultaneously keep the creature in his sights and thumb through his log for something—anything—to help him out.

  Your name is Rowan Hightower.

  Pierce the veil.

  The offscape puts holes in your head.

  Read this often.

  Don’t forget the formula

  Alright, so Rowan had a formula, but to what? Most formulas were done with vi, but none of this made any sense to him. The symbols in his log weren’t part of the National Numerica and they were too precise to be freehand. So what were they? There were numerous classes of vi imprints, so brazenly slapping these symbols on an object without the binders would be dangerous, especially amidst the current chaos. Law, Rowan didn’t even know the amount of vi the formula would need. With his pitiful vi reserves and lack of knowledge surrounding the formula, it might leave him in even worse straits without a guarantee to solve the issue at all.

  “Scholar, help me,” a prisoner screamed out for Rowan as the Skin-snatcher dined on its third target.

  He reached out for him, a trembling hand missing skin as the creature flayed them alive. The beast was ravenous, rending flesh within seconds. Even Rowan’s kind soul was held back by inherent fear.

  “He’s eating them.” Achaia’s hand shook even harder than Rowan’s as she gripped his sleeve.

  This wasn’t the time for thoughts and theories, but those were the only sort of thing Rowan knew how to do. He was no man of action. Why couldn’t Morrigan have just helped? Isn’t that what heroes do? Hush, now. He had to handle the situation like a Scholar would.

  “Fig, go upstairs, please.” Rowan said, trying his best to convey an air of composure, false though it may have been.

  “What?”

  “I need you to go upstairs and wait for me there, please. It’s important.”

  Achaia’s usual stoic face was accented with tears as she took in his words before nodding. She scampered toward the ladder and began her ascent, letting Rowan breathe another sigh of relief. Good, Achaia’s safe; no children getting taken away by the Skin-snatcher, tonight. The song—maybe there was something of use to be had in it. Without focusing on the obvious repetition of children being spirited away, the rest of the song plays off the dichotomy of light and dark. The Skin-snatcher is a dark-dwelling monster, deeming extinguishing light as a helpful action. One would then hypothesize the creature has an aversion to light. Maybe a fear? A weakness? A spark seed wouldn’t cut it, though: Rowan needed a brighter flash.

  “The Duemas equation would do the trick.” Rowan said.

  Unlike other inhibitor-class equations—or most equations, really—the Duemas equation didn't require any formulaic writing. The term equation as a whole was more of a misnomer than anything: it was a reaction. Usually the relationship between a Scholar and vi was one-sided: the Scholar took what they wanted and manipulated the vi however they wished. If vi was a wellspring of energy, Scholars typically mined its resources without concern. Instead, the Duemas equation was more akin to adding water to a well with the intent of an overflow. If a well overflowed, water was wasted and that was ultimately the only consequence. When vi overflowed, however, it burned out and combusted into a flash of bright light. Bright enough to send a Skin-snatcher running, Rowan hoped.

  With Rowan’s vi reserves, could he even trigger the Duemas equation appropriately? Rowan felt sick to his stomach, but the solution was obvious.

  “Sorry. Sorry. I’m so sorry.” Rowan muttered repeatedly to himself as he reached out, touching Aariv’s cold body.

  They were just talking the other day; Aariv was old and a little strange, but he had entrusted his life to Rowan. He asked Rowan to save him—to save all of them—and Rowan let him down. He’d let them all down. He always let people down.

  Get out of your head and focus on the task at hand.

  His father was always lecturing him and he was right to do so. Even now, amidst a monstrous attack, Rowan couldn’t get out of his head. It took the feeling of the siphon to ground him once again—it felt so good, source notwithstanding. Yet it was already getting to be too much: he had to put it elsewhere. The Skin-snatcher was dining on its most recent victim, vi globules bobbing around him indiscriminately. With one hand on Aariv’s body, Rowan used his other as a catalyst, sending the vi stream into the globules around the Skin-snatcher. Alone, Rowan doubted his ability, but Aariv still had plenty of vi to work off.

  “Let’s see you snuff out this light,” Rowan said as the vi lit up brighter around the Skin-snatcher. He released his grip on Aariv and shielded his eyes as the vi hissed before finally popping in a blinding flash. Rowan couldn’t immediately see, but he heard something like a wet squeal. When he felt certain the Duemas equation had run its course, he brought his arm down.

  Nothing about the nursery rhyme made it seem like the Skin-snatcher would be as tall as it was. But, with its attention turned to Rowan, it was evident. Its visage—that word wasn’t quite right, but Rowan couldn’t find a more apropos one—rippled before him, like an animal ready to snap.

  “I-I thought the light would—”

  The Skin-snatcher flailed an ink-like arm at Rowan, ready for another feast. But it wasn’t Rowan’s arm it caught.

  “Ridinr?.”