He swung upright, boots hanging over the side of the bed. His good arm cradled the bandaged one. There was no trace of his customary Raven-may-care swagger. Apara knew it wasn’t pain that held it at bay. They’d never been close, he and she – distant as cousins could be, at times – but in that moment she pitied him.

“I know,” he repeated, his eyes furtive and desperate. “I’ll make amends. Anything the Parliament demands.”

“What is our first law?” asked one voice.

Nikros’ eyes went wide. A sob escaped his lips. “No! I beg you!”

“What is our first law?” asked another.

“That . . .” His breathing slowed. “That the light creates us; it does not reveal our purpose.”

“Then why does the city hum with rumour?” asked one.

“Why do we hear whispers of a kernclaw’s public failure?” asked another.

“It wasn’t my fault! I tore her throat out. She should . . . She shouldn’t have been there! She should . . . she should have died at Tevar Flood.”

A sharp, breathy intake echoed around the room. The shadows pulsed. Green eyes met in silent communion. The name wasn’t lost on Apara. Tevar Flood. Where the lady’s son had perished. The son alone, as it now transpired.

“Then you are twice the failure.”

The last resistance bled from Nikros’ face. Resistance fed upon hope, and there was none in that filthy cellar. Everyone knew the Crowmarket existed, of course. The first law was ritual more than truth. But knowledge was one thing; proof another. Nikros’ blunder had left at least four witnesses.

Apara knew what was coming. She backed away. Her heel caught on the stair.

Green eyes blazed in her direction. “Cousin. Stay.”

She froze, heart in her throat.

One shadow broke from the others and approached the rear wall. Gloved fingers brushed filthy brick. A high archway took shape, hissing white-green vapour rushed to fill the bounds within.

The remaining elder cousins seized Nikros by the arms.

“No,” he moaned. “Please . . .”

They dragged him away towards the luminous arch. He reached out with his good hand.

“Apara! Please.”

She watched, rooted to the spot, unable to make a sound.

“Do not beg,” said one.

“Your bargain has come due,” said another.

“You belong to the mists,” said the third.

The elder cousin by the arch finished his labour. Brickwork fell away. Mist trickled across the floor. It curled about Apara’s ankles and billowed upwards to her knees.

Beyond the arch, dark walls mirrored the cellar. The distant chamber lay bare save for broken statues of black stone, and a lone, ornate tomb where the bed should have sat. Behind the tumbled ruin of stairs and a collapsed wall, buildings towered away into the mist. Otherworld was for ever an echo of the living realm, or so the priests preached. Apara had hoped never to see it with waking eyes.