She watched her lieutenant think hard before opening his mouth to speak. This, at least, was a trait Captain Morthan approved of.

‘There’s no common method here, and no apparent concentration of incidents,’ he said.

‘No,’ allowed Helena.

‘So, are we treating these issues as simply a particularly bad night of unrelated disturbances, or…?’ he left the sentence hanging.

‘If it were just this last night, I would be inclined to do so,’ said Helena. ‘It isn’t, though, is it? Let’s say aloud what we’re both thinking. There’s been a notable uptick in civil disturbance, inexplicable violence and… what else to call them, odd incidents for several weeks now, hasn’t there?’

‘You have to step back and look at it as a whole, captain, but yes, I would concur with that assessment. There were the Pole Hill killings a fortnight back, that even the threat of the Etched didn’t prevent. Those rain-scalded Sigmarite priests put the fear of divine retribution into even the city’s most hardened ne’er-do-wells, and yet… Then there was that business down at the docks, all that grain spoiled and workers choking on whatever it was that billowed out of the holds. And there’s been more violence and disquiet in the last turning than I’ve seen in my entire service to date.’

Keeping to herself the thought that Taverton Grange’s entire service had been just over ten months, Helena instead said, ‘I’m glad you concur. But what in Sigmar’s name does it mean? Dark magic and malfeasance? Some kind of criminal sect or cult? Azyr forbid – a curse, or even an upwelling of Aqshyan energies?’

The Realm of Fire was a place of elemental passions whose influence could make emotions run hot in sentient beings. They had all heard reports of border forts and villages consumed by sudden eruptions of inexplicable rage and violence. Helena hoped fervently that such a thing was not occurring here. But no, she thought, the pieces didn’t fit. Those possessed of elemental fury didn’t steal bottles. And then there were the dreams, which Helena was becoming convinced couldn’t be entirely natural. For a moment she almost raised them, but then she thought better of it.

Helena had been jolted awake, night after night, by garish, half-remembered nightmares that left her in a cold sweat. The truth, had she voiced it aloud, was that she could still feel the feather-light brush of insect legs against her skin, and that she was exhausted from being chased out of sleep by sickly pale light and vast, staring eyes.