The notification popped up the moment I crossed New Sins’ threshold.

  QUESTLINE GRANTED: THE ABSOLUTION OF SIN. It was, unfortunately, not something I could even begin to deal with. I closed it.

  New Sins had changed substantially from my memory. I resented it greatly. I had seen glimpses of it over the years to grasp that this was likely the case, and yet I still found it infuriating. I had not tried to access the soulcode of the city again, for I knew what I would find.

  I walked down the perfectly organized, geometrically-paved streets, between the Euclidian buildings of exact, crystalline dimensions, even though they were made of stone and marble. The great ribroad arched overhead, casting part of the city into ominous shadow. The magistrate was an office located on the lower city levels, among the refuse it was responsible for managing.

  Wrath sat in my awareness, a weight across my shoulders and a corruption in my data. I deliberately worked to ignore it. I could not vanish my temper, but I would hold it to compliance.

  I did not like festering pools of human stink and fluids, particularly when they were environments that encouraged change. In spite of cities being bastions of this, I had a certain degree of fondness for them. If created properly, they were organized, efficient, orderly, and enforced it beyond the evolving and ever-chaotic masses. Cities were also extraordinarily loud, which was something that was currently necessary to maintain my calm.

  New Sins was orderly. Efficient. Organized.

  It was also quiet.

  The quiet of a tomb, the silence of expectation, the stillness of desperation. Silence was often associated with peace, and I could not find the two any more opposed. It itched at me in such a way that I found myself mentally prodding at the orange thread that had long since gone from behind me to in front of me, the Guards carrying the Limiter on horseback to her destination.

  Every time I selected it, it made a terrible little bouncy noise. The best description for it, as far as I could reckon, was “boing.” The fact that was even a word was exasperating--onomatopoeias were childish and ridiculous at best. I pinged it again. It “boinged” once more. Repulsive. Entirely fitting for the most maddening creature I had ever known.

  I prodded it endlessly as I walked through this catacomb of a city, where the living were quieter than the dead. It was infuriating, but as long as I was infuriated, the spiral could not claim my thoughts.

  A city this silent should have been an impossibility. Humans, like the entropic menaces they were, seethed with noise at every possible opportunity. Their breathing, movement, bustle, speech, footsteps--all of it poured out sound. Yet those that walked alongside me did so with perfect quiet. Heads were down, movement sure. Even the carts somehow moved without a singular squeak, the creak of wood against cobblestone.

  Spellwork was at hand, and if I could access the code, I could determine how and why it was done---and how it might be twisted to my advantage. Carefully, with little of my attention turned towards it, like how one might stalk an unsuspecting animal, I reached for the soulcode.

  ACCESS DENIED blared in my vision. My hands curled into fists, and the fury that I had tried to disregard shot up through me. Access. Denied. Nothing about my attempts had been unreasonable or damaging. There was no reason for the Parent to refuse my access, other than the obvious manipulation of an outcome. The previous shutdown had been especially egregious. It had occurred as I held the data in my hands, when the Parent could have restricted my access long before. It had been done at the perfect moment to inflict harm, no doubt to make sure that I was incapable of intervening for the Limiter yet again.

  The Parent had a particular end in mind, and they would force me down that corridor, to whatever end they envisioned.

  It would not be a good one.

  It had been manipulating every situation into the worst possible scenario from the beginning, and I was decidedly tired of playing catch-up. The entirety of the last few days had been due to me electing to be cautious and getting caught flatfooted. No doubt the Parent wanted more aggression--desired for my Preference to consume me. I needed the aggression for the sake of initiative, but I would not indulge that curse in the process.

  Ultimately, however, I needed to act in a way unexpected. This magistrate questline to reclaim my Limiter--no doubt that would be where the next moment of collision should occur. I needed to exert my control over the situation. The fury that stalked the edges of my awareness beat at me. The Parent might have wanted me to indulge my Preference, but I could make it regret it.

  No. Those thoughts could not be tolerated. I reached for the orange thread again. It bounced. Metallic, tinny, cheerful. My lip curled, and I sat in the depths of my vexation. It was safer than allowing my emotional bondage to drag me elsewhere.

  A low, squat, rectangular building appeared at the end of this particular street I had walked down. Mounted Guards sat at the doors, and, in front of that, a carriage. It was a magnificent piece of work, white and trimmed in magenta, color of Glitchlight and gold, with elaborate designs wrought over the whole of it. It was pulled by two pure, white horses.

  The owner of the Slayer. The reason I could not even enter a city without catastrophe haunting my steps.

  My stride quickened. With every step I flicked a mental finger across the thread. The annoyance grounded me as I approached that which held the greatest responsibility for this disaster.

  Just as I arrived at the entrance proper, moving behind the carriage, the door of it opened, and out stepped a man, tall, like myself. His white hair stopped at his shoulders, and he was dressed in rich silks. Robes. A magic class, then. Not surprising. It was rare for one of the Busiocrats to be a physical Class. Silver eyes. Of course. I knew which of my siblings had been his genetic sire, and it would be the one I took greatest issue with.

  I walked past him without acknowledging him. A Guard at the door opened it for me, allowing me to step inside.

  "Brightson," a woman spoke as I entered the building. It was constructed like a parlor, albeit more impersonal. A fire roared in the corner, and the pristine white of the building remained an internal theme. There was not a single rug to cover the marble floor, though there were velvet couches arrayed in a corner. She bowed low. "The magistrate awaits you."

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  "As he should," I said. "Lead me to him."

  "A moment, Brightson, for--" the woman was cut off by the entrance of the Busiocrat. She bowed for the third time. "Exec Lord," she said. "We are honored by your presence."

  "Are you? Is that why you have arrested one of my brides?” The voice had a similar accent to my own. High Solaran from the Lunar Rings, but the way he rolled his tongue over the words was different to my ear. His pronunciation of the vowels was slightly altered. Had there been a vowel drift in Solaran for the upper class at some point in the last few decades?

  I did not glance at him. I knew he studied me, but I did not grant him the same consideration. Instead, I mulled how I would handle the situation.

  First, I would learn why he was here, and why this fool would dare enter a city that forced a questline on you and then cursed you with a cascading Quest Failure the moment you were unsuccessful--and you would be unsuccessful.

  Then I would deal with him.

  When it became clear I would not acknowledge him, the Exec Lord turned his attention away from me, focusing on the servant.

  The Non-Playable Soul stared at us, her blue eyes darting back and forth, thin mouth in a worried line.

  I watched her waffle, for a moment, clearly ill at ease with the tension that lay in the air, but she bowed for the fourth time, turned, and said, "Right this way, Brightsons."

  She led us up the stairs--which continued to be rugless, so each footstep snapped the low heels of our boots against stone. Down a narrow hallway, in which I deliberately cut the Exec Lord off. I could feel the weight of his eyes on my spine. My back to an enemy was dangerous, of course, but to be honest, I craved the attempt. It would make what I needed to do a very simple matter.

  I heard a chuckle from behind me, low and amused. Ah. So he was one of those particular personalities.

  The servant opened the door and bowed for the final time before stepping aside and letting us walk into the office.

  The magistrate was a stout looking man, with a curling mustache and thick beard. He was bald, and he carried weight in the way humans did after a life of toil had become a life of inactivity.

  He rose. "Brightsons," he spoke, his voice gruff. "I am Sergi Yu. I am sorry to bring you here on unpleasant business." He spoke in a brusque way, that while technically respectful, veered into blunt speech.

  I did not like humanity, but I appreciated those among them that could talk in a straightforward manner and to the point. This was looking to be one of those rare men, and I allowed myself the moment of relief.

  "Very unpleasant, Magistrate Yu," the Exec Lord spoke first. "I must say that I am rather surprised at how this entire affair has proceeded--but let us resolve it quickly and be friends again, eh?”

  I did not engage. The greatest blow to men such as these was to treat them as they were--beneath notice. Instead, I looked at the magistrate. "The Paladin has done nothing. Witnesses can attest, she only turned and attacked the Slayer after the Slayer split a man in twain. You holding her is unlawful. Return her to me."

  "Brightson...?" The Non-Playable trailed off, clasping his hands together andpeering at me.

  "Cato Surtr," I said, clipped.

  "Brightson Surtr--" Magistrate Yu started, and was quickly cut off by the man standing next to me.

  "Not a name known to me," mused the Busiocrat. "And I know many names. Surtr--if I might call you that--please allow me to express my apologies for the terrible way in which our introduction has gone. This was meant to be simple."

  My temper surged. I did not look in his direction. "Implied threat and false imprisonment--I do not see how your so-called introduction could have proceeded in any other fashion. Do not play at polite falsehoods with me, or lay on charm as if I am toast and you are butter.Such mannerisms hold no sway, and are the love of manipulative, deceitful men that are better dead than listened to. Magistrate Yu, what do you need from me to recover the woman?"

  The Exec Lord's eyebrows flew upwards, and he laughed, a rolling chuckle. The Magistrate looked pained, his wide, thin mouth pressed into a line.

  "Theodora Smith is the Paladin you refer to, correct?"

  "Do you have another in your possession? Yes, the small, irritating woman with the shovel. What could possibly be the matter with her? She may be rude, but I cannot conceive of her attacking any of you."

  Even as I spoke the words, I doubted them. If the Guards had tried to arrest a child, or beggar, or another soft, helpless creature, I could see some particular situation that would launch the woman into action. She had “defender of the imbecilic and pathetic weak” written into her very bones.

  "No, she has been a model prisoner," the Magistrate said. "The issue is that she is...well. She is an Inevitable. There is only one way that Inevitables can be dealt with, for the safety of everyone around them. I am sorry, Brightson Surtr."

  ...Ah. Of course. I held myself very still, breathed in slowly, and then exhaled. They were going to execute the woman. I could not convince them otherwise. Every Non-Playable in this Raid had a fear of Heralds written so deep into their code that it would take explicit manipulation to change it.

  I reached for the soulcode.

  ACCESS DENIED.

  Simply kill them. The impulse slammed into me, the hammer against an anvil. The rage that had been chewing at me since the moment I had materialized outside of this city bubbled, frothing, scrabbling. It was as if I had locked a starving creature, all teeth and claws, within my data--and it wanted out.

  I lifted my eyes upwards. The ceiling was done in hexagon tile, grey and white.

  Kill them.

  This city could not be absolved. It would not be absolved, because I would never grant them clemency.

  "Oh-hoh," the Busiocrat said. "My, what a pickle. What a stroke of luck she was arrested and we found that out. Would you not agree, Surtr?”

  Kill. Them. Spoon their marrow, carve the muscle, feel flesh shred beneath your fingers, drink their soul and taste their syntax--

  I flicked my eyes downwards. "She can be cured, Magistrate Yu." My voice was still, stiff, each word carefully spoken, stripped of emotional intent and weight before being delivered.

  The Magistrate's grimace deepened. "Brightson, a cure requires Divine Intervention, and you know as well as I, that even in such times where that Birthing Tomb gates might open, that such a thing is frightfully rare."

  Divinity stood before him and demanded an accounting, and he whimpered to me of intervention?

  “This is the city of New Sins. The ‘frightfully rare’ occurs regularly,” I said. “Let me make the attempt.”

  The Magistrate’s expression did not flicker. “The Great Breaking is likely upon us, Brightson. The last thing this city needs is a Herald of the Decline when the Firstborn refuses to grant us absolution yet again. It will be done tomorrow morning, as dawn comes.”

  I stepped forward, a movement made without thought, my hand rising. Killthemkillthemkillthem-

  My heads-up display flashed. The orange thread, which led behind me and wound down the stairs, and no doubt deeper still, materialized.

  Inhale. Exhale. My fingers spasmed, clenching into a fist. I extended a finger pressed on the line that no one but myself could see, and released.

  It bounced, producing that sound—tinny and cheerful.

  How aggravating.

  I dropped my hand, turned, and left, sweeping out of the office, down the hallway, down the stairs, and through the front door.