When Elemér stared at the back of the Envoy's neck protruding from the collar of her green vest, he thought of strangling her. It would have been easy now while they were still disembarking from their windship, and the two suns blinded all curious onlookers, who gathered at the ramp to greet the rare foreigners venturing into their lands. Had Elemér been reckless, he might have placed a hand on her pale throat and choked the life out of her. But he was a cautious man.

As the Envoy's supposed bodyguard, Elemér had learnt all too well that representing 'the most sublime nation in the Anomaly' meant hiding his daggers beneath a luxurious cloak and wrapping his insults in polite words. They came from the 'civilized' Magor Domain, after all. And killing his Envoy in cold blood on a metal strip over a crowd was not a seemly act. Nor was it 'civilized'.

Elemér's task was simple: he accompanied the Envoy of the Magor Domain to the secretive land of Senrei to sign a trade agreement. At least, that was the formal story. The truth, however, was far more complicated since his Envoy never needed protection. Few Magor ever did, especially abroad.

Their magnificent state relied on spinners—artists capable of shaping the world, creating beauty with a flick of an eyebrow. Since all Magor, including Elemér, a mediocre painter, were artists, they rarely feared foreigners. With such powers at their fingertips, the Magor did not care about petty savages who squabbled over such pointless assets as lands and resources. As long as they remained out of the Domain's sight, they could do whatever they wished. So, like any other Magor, Elemér despised most outsiders. Except for the Sen.

As Elemér descended, inhaling the soft smell of nutmeg, mint and evaporated morning dew, he could not but gape at the sight of intertwined streets with slanted roofs, pagodas and strings of colourful lanterns suspended in the air. This was what happened when spinning artists met engineers. Dipping his head, Elemér grudgingly acknowledged their prowess and ingenuity. In certain ways, the Sen were as technologically advanced as the Magor, and their progress made them a threat.

Oblivious to his scrutiny, they all stared at him and his Envoy. Tall, with long black hair and large hazel eyes, Elemér stood out in a crowd anywhere but in his native Magor Domain. The ethereal balanced features considered standard among the Magor and those, who converted to their nation, adopting their ways, were a rarity among other people. Lady Emőke, the Envoy, too, was tall, dark-haired and light-eyed, her gaze shining with the intensity of emeralds. A perfect Magor Envoy accompanied by a perfect Magor civil servant.

What did not match any standard was the wooden box with a geometric engraving of a portal she carried in a bag tied to her waist. Elemér counted thirty vials inside it, each of them empty. Every couple of weeks, Emőke received an empty bottle from shifty strangers and tucked it away. Like a clamshell, the box swallowed all suspicious trinkets dropped by Emőke's careful hand. Each time a new vial appeared on her palm, Elemér felt an odd sort of terror, a dark foreboding.

Once a vial found its way into her box, a new pale scar emerged on Emőke's arm, and she hid it. Or tried to. But Elemér knew it was there. He never understood why worry tugged at his stomach at the thought of her scars. Emőke was not supposed to survive this journey. So why did her injuries matter? If everything went according to plan, she would perish from his hand. But not now. Elemér had to wait.

"This must be our escort, hölgyem," he said quietly, leaning forward as they cut their way through the crowd towards a Sen official dressed in multi-layered robes of blue silk with his hair tied in a ponytail. Lifting a pale hand, Emőke interrupted him.

"Lord Elemér," she addressed him in Sen, "we are not supposed to speak the Language away from the Domain. I expect you not to endanger our nation in the future."

"Forgive me, lady Emőke," he apologized. "That won't happen again." His last clipped words died in the rustle of dry leaves and the trills of the tiny bells that decorated the roofs. Oblivious to his courtesy, Emőke lowered her hand.

"I know you're trustworthy. The High Architect wouldn't have assigned you this duty otherwise."

Before Elemér could comment on their surroundings, a high-pitched voice cut through his thoughts like a flash of lightning through the clouds.

"Lady Emőke of the Magor?" The young Official with an intricate cord on his waist dipped his head. When he stopped in front of them, his long ponytail flapped his back, and his sleeves revealed manicured hands. "I am Xie Fenmian, the General's Secretary. I am here to welcome you to Linsi. We thank the Flow for having brought you to us."

Emőke clasped her hands before her chest and bowed like a perfect Sen bureaucrat.

"I am honoured to walk the land of Senrei with the Flow."

Although she observed the rituals and sounded impeccably polite, there was something artificial about her. And it was not her traditional Magor jacket, waistcoat and pants with elaborate string decoration. Elemér, with his oversized square, felt coat fit into the crowd better than she did. As a spy, he wanted to be discreet, while Emőke, with her mask of a face, was there to make a stand. But why?

When Xie Fenmian invited her to follow him to a palanquin, she refused, saying she would prefer to walk through the newly built Arcade. Then, turning on her heel, Emőke headed towards an impressive structure that brought together rows of merchant stores covered by domes. As an architect, Emőke had all the reasons to visit the local sights. But Elemér knew she was not interested in excursions. Not now, at least.

"Are you certain you wish to take this route? It may not be the best choice," the Secretary murmured, somewhat surprised by her decision, thin eyebrows climbing his forehead like tiny caterpillars ascending to the top of a cabbage leaf.

"I have a bodyguard," she said, shooting Elemér a sidelong glance. "Worrying about my safety is unnecessary."

"But the crowd in such a busy market space...." Xie Fenmian never finished his sentence.

"Crowds don't bother me. Not in a land as civilized and pacified as yours."

Pacified? That was undoubtedly what General Min Lian projected all over the Anomaly. Having suppressed a rebellion and executed the notorious leader of the dissidents, he could not but boast about his accomplishment. The reality, however, was far less glamorous. And Emőke knew their political secrets better than Elemér did. Still, she chose to thread through the crowd in her conspicuous Magor attire instead of making her way along the canals to the General's residence.

If nothing else, it suited Elemér, making his murderous plans so much easier. What if something happened to the Envoy on her way? He couldn't risk attacking her in the open, though. Cold sweat beaded on his arched brow: what if Emőke knew about his plans and intentionally chose a safer route? No, she could not. Dismissing the absurd thought, he delved into the spice-infused passages of slanted roofs, bells and wooden shutters.

"Stay by my side, lady Emőke." Elemér stepped forward, narrowing his eyes and staring at the curious customers and merchants whose gazes followed the Envoy.

"It is unnecessary, Elemér." Shivering, she withdrew from him as if Elemér's hand was a hot metal rod extended to singe her. "The fair town of Linsi is not known for burglaries and murders."

"Those people are staring at you. All of them."

"I am a Magor Spinner. What would you expect?" When she replied with her customary nonchalance, envy gushed through him, impairing his breathing.

Yes, she was a Magor artist. More so than he could ever be. He tried, though. The Abyss knew he did. He could have resigned himself to a life among other nations of the Anomaly, perhaps. But Elemér could not.

She was arrogant. And Elemér hated her. Did Emőke think that her fraternization with the barbarians would pass unnoticed? One troublesome and brilliant spinner was enough for them—the half-blooded bastard nicknamed 'Lightning'. They couldn't afford to have another lunatic stir trouble abroad. The Magor were unlike others and had to keep their uniqueness at all costs.

They only celebrated uniformity in their features. After all, even mediocre artists like Elemér could summon threads in the Domain. Because they were Magor. Their nationality was a privilege rarely shared. But the Envoy did not understand this simple truth. So Emőke stayed away from the Domain, befriended the scandalous Lightning, and even shared their secrets with foreigners. Or so claimed the High Architect. Regardless of her circumstances, Emőke had to pay for her mistakes.

"It's a strange city," Elemér pointed out with casual condescension when they cut another corner and entered another sheltered arcade filled with souvenirs and juicy meat buns. She nodded but did not answer.

A sudden jerk of her head startled him, forcing the Spy to draw closer. As they made another turn, leaving the Linsi Arcade, a nausea-inducing sight presented itself. As colour left Xie Fenmian's rosy cheeks, notes of metal, earth, and clove filled the air. Petrified, Emőke came to a halt with the abruptness of an automaton. Looking at her, Elemér couldn't decide if the reflection of dread in Emőke's unblinking eyes or the reality disgusted him more.

With a fake smile plastered to his face, Xie Fenmian guided them through the rows of butchered human remains, pools of dark blood, and barely breathing individuals hanging from hooks in the shacks that lined the street. Adorning a wary frown, Emőke never looked away. Instead, she followed Xie Fenmian without losing her footing or sight of the people before her. Only the dazed stare of her glassy eyes gave her away: something stirred beneath Emőke's mask.

"These are the so-called 'Moon-Marked', aren't they?" Elemér asked, drawing closer.

"Yes. People whom the General and his likes consider cattle," she replied, her voice even, her face impassive, but her hands clasped behind her back so tightly that the blue veins and white knuckles showed. Xie Fenmian, by her side, wore a serene expression of forced tranquillity. A distasteful man, if there was any.

Pursing his lips, Elemér addressed Emőke again, "You've travelled a lot in Senrei. How much of the gossip about them is true?"

He knew the story but wanted to hear it from her, a lover of all things Sen. It was better if Emőke believed he was dim and not a spy working for the High Architect, lady Anikó, who would rather see her dead.

"All the rumours are true," Emőke answered. "They can block spinners—all of them. Some can even control our threads for a time. But I wouldn't call their tricks effective since we can resist their control with sufficient practice. Unfortunately, their bones retain some of their powers. Therefore, certain Sen nobles and bureaucrats butcher the Moon-Marked like cattle."

"Controlling spinners is a prize worth all the blood," Elemér said, watching Emőke step into a pool of dried red.

"Nobody can fully control a spinner," she said, ignoring her stained shoes. "The General and High Officials can only use the remains of the Moon-Marked for their purposes if those Moon-Marked die in agony. And even then, their control is but an illusion. Nothing more."

"Still, their bones are precious," Elemér said. "Their unique power is the only thing that can counteract spinning." When they cleared the horrible market, he flinched and added, "They are a danger to the Domain. If the General breeds those Moon-Marked, our nation may lose its advantage."

"No," Emőke objected.

"You surely see it! How can we not lose to human weapons like these?" Frowning, Elemér did his best to read her impenetrable expression but failed.

"They are people." She paused, then added, "Only the Magor can destroy the Magor Domain. Gods and demons excel at destroying themselves."

Why did she refuse to see the truth? He didn't know.

All he said was, "Thankfully, the General's opponents are dead. And nobody can protect those Moon-Marked now. We will have them exterminated before he can breed them. By the time he becomes the Chairman, he'll have no human weapons."

He knew Emőke had asked the High Architect to offer them Sanctuary. But, predictably, the High Architect had refused: they could not manifest threads even if they became part of their nation. And keeping creativity-suppressing monsters around was less than ideal for their society. But Emőke did not see it. Somehow, she remained willfully blind, her icy glare sending shivers down Elemér's spine.

When she spoke again, there was something sinister about her voice, something that made the day darker and turned even the square divided by the clear canals into an ominous place.

"You can't protect your country by killing everyone around."

"That strategy worked fine for the Sen," he objected. He would kill Emőke soon enough to prove the point.

"It does not work."

"Why not?"

"Someone always survives. And when they do, they come after you. And you can never be ready for them."

When those words left her mouth, a creaking sound of splintering wood pierced Elemér's ears. Brandishing a curved sword, a masked man jumped from the roof of a local administrative building and pushed two young women into the canal. Then, in two leaps, he reached Emőke, his sword aiming at her chest. Barring his way, Elemér let out his green threads, capturing the sun's brilliance and turning the building's porch into a slide.

An artist's threads could play with reality, shape it to their will, cut through steal, and a Magor's threads knew no boundaries. Yet, Elemér faltered. Captivated by the moment, he forgot about the deafening beats of his heart that now rang in his ears.

A mere threadless attacked him. Yet, the commoner was skilful, nonetheless. To Elemér's shock, the man avoided his traps with a cat's dexterity. Moreover, he felt no pain, even though Elemér cut his shoulder, and he did not stop, even though the Spy barred his way.

Letting him kill Emőke would have been perfect. Elemér knew that. Yet, he fought with the desperation of a cornered wolf while Emőke stood at the paved edge of the canal next to Xie Fenmian. Xie Fenmian's shrieks distracted Elemér while he reflected blows and rolled on the polished pebbles, scaring locals.

Reason and instinct contradicted each other, and Elemér couldn't stop his strained muscles from protecting his Envoy. Perhaps, he convinced himself, his ardent protection would help him avoid suspicions. Once Emőke died, nobody would blame her sincere bodyguard.

Swirling, the attacker almost reached Emőke, who did not release her threads even when his sword grazed her neck. Elemér threw him away in one desperate turn, dealing a blow and exposing his side. Cursing, he felt the prickle of pain brush his ribs. A shallow cut would remain—an annoying reminder of his slowness. But the assassin would not bother them. All he could do was push the Envoy to the ground and scurry away. What remained of the killer was his blood dripping from Elemér's sword to Emőke's face as she lay on the pebbles.

Her price for turning away from her people was hell. And the Spy had to send her there. Only she did not seem to fear the underworld and the ruination it brought. Perhaps, just like the Spy, she thought that no demon could be worse than those surrounding her here and now.

The assassin was gone—injured by Elemér and scared by the stomping officers who made their way to the square. Elemér did not know how he managed to vanish without a trace, but he did not care. All he knew was that Emőke was, most likely, insane. In the face of death, she smiled, clutching her box with empty vials in a linen bag.