I don’t know why Dolos had painted this monstrosity. I could believe it a dream or nightmare, brought upon by overconsumption of her own tainted produce. But I recalled the Harvest Banquet, where Lord Pompo had complained about aeldari attending the previous festivities. Could this twisted creature be one of their race?

I tore my gaze from it as I emerged into a foyer. Dolos’ portrait hung above an ivory-panelled fireplace that blazed cheerfully, its fuel supplied by the promethium pipes running parallel to the lift shaft. Perhaps this was her sanctuary, accessible only to the most loyal or mindless of retainers. If so, she might have hidden Iwazar somewhere within the chamber.

I tried to sync with the seer-skull. I could feel it. Close. But it saw only darkness.

‘Playback, random file,’ I murmured. I had hoped to catch sight of a flickering image, but there was nothing.

Still, I heard a faint sound, barely a whisper.

‘Play back file designated “Shard”,’ I said. ‘Maximum volume.’

There it was: the monotone intonations of the drill abbot. I followed the sound through a gilded door and found myself in the suite where Dolos and I had once breakfasted. It was dishevelled now, drawers and cupboards ransacked in her sudden departure. The plant still squatted on the table. A body lay beside it, flesh marked by those puckered bites.

Stylee.

I doubt I could have identified him without his robes, for his flesh was desiccated, clinging tight to his bones. The plant’s tendrils were still wrapped around his hand. He was clutching a billhook, I assume intended to be used against the plant. He could have slipped, found himself entwined in its tendrils. But by then I was certain the plant possessed some malign instinct. Indeed, the flowers were dripping resin, as though salivating at my presence.

I moved warily, following the drill abbot’s voice through to Dolos’ bed-chamber.

The bed had been lifted, the hidden panel beneath exposed. The servants had left it open in their haste. Trinkets and treasures were scattered about the room, but I ignored those, intent only on the casket. It must have been too heavy to carry, for the wood was thick, although not thick enough to muffle the drill abbot’s voice.

I undid the latch, and Iwazar rose unsteadily. It was in a sorry state, charred from the storm and stained by the swamp, but it fell in behind me as I departed the chamber.

The plant had swollen in my absence, continuing to ripen even as I watched. The remaining purple berries fell from its puckered flowers, darkening and shrivelling in the air, the last drops of their juice staining the wood black. The markings reminded me of the Scion’s pox-ridden flesh.