1

The city, the mushroom fields, the decrepit factories latched onto the boundary walls like steel tumours – the pyromancers burned them all.

The concrete heart of the Floor of Nine had been reduced to an amorphous heap, and the surrounding fields purged of organics. Pyro field teams converged to the Hill from all directions, seeking a temporary reprieve from the heat.

Sam was exhausted. The day's work had wrung every drop of energy from her body. Still, she trudged across the blackened ground with her shoulders squared and her chin held high, for she was wearing the gold-on-black of the House of Dawn. The sunrise sigil glittered on her coat, her gloves, and her plague mask. She was above the mundane occupation of pyromancy. Her apprenticeship was concerned with the raising of the dead, and she would not let this team of asinine firebugs see her dissatisfied with such an honour.

A farmhouse appeared over the ridge. Twenty pyros in white robes have it surrounded. They were led by an apprentice in a bright-orange suit. A window flew open on the farmhouse roof. Three faces peeked out, a woman with two young girls.

It was too late to look away. The apprentice was already waving at her. Ignoring him now might precipitate a formal complaint against her conduct.

The apprentice had the posture of a corpse. His shoulders were slumped, his trousers tattered, as if chewed through. His hair hung limp with a coat of ash. He shook Sam's hand with the strength of a windblown leaf.

"Help me," he muttered. "I was on the palisade. Had a long day."

The pyros watched the house from every approach. The woman was yelling, but the rising wind swallowed her tirade.

"Maestro Finley doesn't allow witnesses," the apprentice said, mostly to himself.

"You don't need me," said Sam.

"Where are you from? Please, I need a take a break."

"I was also on the palisade."

"I don't care."

The pyros parted ranks, revealing an ambler on approach. The thing was barely held together. Its neck was broken; its head dangled and bounced. The left half of its face was putrefied; chunks of rotten flesh had fallen away, revealing a mess of tendon and bone. Jittering in its eye sockets were two pieces of quartz, one twice the size of the other. There was a cut on its hip. Purple infusion gushed out in spurts, drenching its orange overalls. Dehydrated intestines slapped its calves with every step.

It held out a piece of paper. The apprentice ignored it, mouthing words no one could hear.

At the window, the woman turned quiet. Her face and the faces of her children disappeared into the house. A pyro took the slip and slapped it into the apprentice's chest.

Sam looked away, and looked away, and looked away. After an eternity, the apprentice spoke.

"Burn them."