Though the sky was burned, though Craft imposed its own schedules on the world, the sun still set and unveiled the stars. Craftworkers welcomed stars, after all. From these they took their food.

The court hung in midair, ringed by crystal towers, overseen by the Judge, above a layer-cake world: the physical city, and beneath it the argument-city of planes and burning wires where plaintiff’s and defendant’s Craft mixed, and beneath even that the raw noumenal Truth. Probes and accusations peeled back layers and stitched shut wounds. Fire wreathed Alt Coulumb, but the city was not consumed.

Of course not. This was war in a purely spiritual sense, war against gods as the God Wars should have been, no mucking about with civilian casualties. Clean. Fierce. Contained.

Not war at all.

This was surgery, with stars the operating theater lights.

Daphne watched moonrise—or, a piece of Daphne did. She was built of shells within shells, like the city. The moon rose fat and sweet as a ripe apple. She could taste the apple’s juice on her tongue. Saliva wet her mouth, and she swallowed acid.

Innermost observer-Daphne, walled off from body and endocrine emotion, wondered how this trial would appear from the ground. The shell surrounding that innermost watcher was not Daphne Mains at all, but a substitute made of tense strong worm-flesh and gnawing teeth. One layer closer to the surface, there was another piece of Daphne again, screaming.

She had been screaming for a long time.

She was built of shells, and shells, and shells, and around all these a final sheath of skin containing a thing that was and was not Daphne Mains. Her teeth were sharp. Soot smeared her face, and blood. Her jacket was torn, her skin burned and cracked. Worms wriggled through her flesh, around bones that were not bones. She extended many arms, and breathed, though she did not need to.

Wakefield stood on empty air across the circle, wearing an expression mixed from smirk and smile and dead skull’s grin. The immaculate suit was maculate now. Wakefield’s discarded mask rested upon the unfloor. Blood dripped from many wounds and dried under manicured nails.

“At this point,” Madeline Ramp said, “we believe Kos Everburning’s weaknesses have been adequately explored. It is time to turn our attention to the moon goddess, Seril Undying.”

“The court recognizes this request.”

Wakefield’s dead smile lost some of its mortal character. “In which case, I must cede the floor to Seril’s own representatives.”

“An irregular approach, Counselor.”

“The two entities are separate, Your Honor. Opposing counsel would like nothing better than to establish that Kos can be relied upon to defend Seril. If I, retained by the Church of Kos, stood for Seril as well, would that not prove Ms. Ramp’s and Ms. Mains’s points for them?”

“We certainly would not complain,” Ms. Ramp said.