It was half-past dark when the grieving parents left the deadhouse.

Petra Cooper watched them go from her hidden vantage point. She could see the couple talking about something; they were probably comforting each other, with the husband crying and the wife nearly to tears herself. Plain clothes, bent backs, trembling fingers, and that awful hollow emptiness where light and hope should be. A pair of grey-eyes just like her.

She couldn’t hear their conversation through the fog that shrouded Stygia’s streets, but a part of her was grateful for that; the more she learned about the family, the more guilt she’d feel over stealing their son’s dead body.

She waited for the family to slip out of sight, waited a few more minutes past that, steadied her nerves, and finally left her perch and crept down the street, sticking to the shadows until she was right at the deadhouse door. The fog masked her approach and her skills did the rest. She tested the door and found it locked, but it was nothing a few seconds with her picks couldn’t fix. She was in.

The deadhouses – necromancers called them mortuaries, but Petra considered the street name more fitting – were some of the cleanest buildings in Stygia, or at least they had been as long as she could remember. She’d heard stories of a time before the Renaissance when deadhouses had been hovels of filth and rot, but New World ideas of medicine and hygiene had transformed the deadhouses into the sterile, pristine structures they were today. Corpses were kept in sanitized cold chambers for the benefit of necromancers and the recently-deceased were treated with the highest care.

It was a shame, of course, that none of that care and hygiene found its way to Petra or people like her.

The interior of the deadhouse was cold enough that Petra could see her own breath, but she didn’t intend on staying long; corpse golems patrolled the halls, controlled by the deadhouse’s resident necromancer, and they would deliver her straight to a Judge if they caught her. Not a pleasant way to die.

Petra evaded the golems and snuck a glance into the preparation chamber: inside, a uniformed necromancer was refreshing the corpse’s preservation spells. The quality examination and initial castings had been completed days prior, and by the time the family was allowed to see their son’s body it had already been sold.

She took in the necromancer and memorized his appearance: gold eyes stuck in perpetual boredom, cropped white hair, and a neatly-pressed charcoal uniform with a small name tag declaring him Zivix. Petra curled her lip; necromancer names were so ostentatious.

The grey-eyed thief left the necromancer behind and went looking for the storage closet. Every post-Renaissance mortuary was constructed in the same layout so she found it immediately.

She scavenged the closet quietly, ignoring most of its contents – though she did pocket a few scalpels – and stopping once she found her objective: a spare uniform. It was an assistant’s outfit, more basic than the one Zivix wore and missing a name tag, which meant it was perfect for Petra.

She stripped out of her street clothes and donned the uniform, which was a bit loose on her malnourished frame but not enough to impede movement if she needed to cut a quick escape. She adjusted the sleeves and collar until they matched Zivix’s uniform, then bundled her clothes into a sack and walked out of the closet confidently.

She passed through the halls of the deadhouse, not trying to hide this time. She heard the steady rumbling of a corpse golem walking through the halls and braced herself, trusting the disguise to keep her safe.

Petra saw the brute coming down the hall and had to fight the fear trying to bring her to her knees. The monstrous thing coming toward her might have been human once, but now it was just a nightmare cloaked in flesh.

Slabs of muscle grafted on top of each other were covered in a thin layer of sallow skin and barely held together by lines of black thread. The golem was easily three times her size and could have picked her up and snapped her in half like she was a frail little twig. Rather than make clothing for a creature that vast the golem’s maker had fused metal plating to its flesh in all the vulnerable and unsightly areas, leaving the golem from the outside looking like just as much iron as dead flesh.

As it passed by her the golem leveled a single look at Petra, but its dead eyes swept over her uniform and immediately dismissed her. Petra shivered at its brief attention and didn’t let herself breathe until it had left the hallway entirely.

The thief made it to the back door and stepped outside. Behind every deadhouse was a carriage that took corpses to their new owners, plus a stable to house the carriage’s horses when not on duty. Lucky for Petra, the horses were already prepped and ready with harnesses and horseshoes.

Petra threw her sack into the driver’s seat and gave one of the horses a friendly pat when it looked at her funny. She made some meaningless shushing noises to soothe them and admired the animals: a pair of Stygian horses, skin and hair as bone-white as that of any Stygian human, with fearless eyes used to seeing all manner of undead monstrosities. They settled under her tending and she let out a relieved sigh; the horses hating was just one more way her plan could have gotten her killed.

She leaned against the carriage and gave herself a moment to collect her scattered nerves. The stakes were high, but this was far from the first time she’d stolen from a Judge-controlled operation and she berated herself for getting so anxious.

Petra Cooper was a thief, but she always balked at stealing from the ‘lower class’ – grey-eyes and free undead – so that only ever left her with the dangerous jobs up against necromancers and Judges with guards and golems. She lived her life balanced on the knife’s edge, and one day she would slip up and fall and that knife would split her in two and Petra Cooper would be just one more corpse in one more deadhouse waiting for one more necromancer or daring thief to do as they wished with her cold dead body.

But that was the price of the job.

Okay, enough melancholy. I need to get under the carriage before-

“There you are!”

A bolt of fear tore through Petra’s indulgent contemplation. She glanced up and her gaze was caught by that of the necromancer Zivix, still looking intensely bored but with a new vein of irritation reaching those disks of dark gold. Keep your cool, keep your cool. Just trust the disguise.

“Quit lazing around, minion. There’s work to be done and I refuse to lug a heavy body by myself just because one of my minions wants a break. Follow!”

Petra pushed herself off the carriage and scurried to follow Zivix, relief flooding her internally but not quite drowning out her anxiety. The necromancer had bought the costume but it wouldn’t hold up forever, and now she was heading back into the belly of the beast.

She kept her mouth shut and let instinct guide her as she entered the preparation chamber with Zivix. He tasked her with packaging the body for transport. She trussed the corpse up, slid it into a body bag, then threw another light loop around that bag and zipped it up so it would move as little as possible during the carriage ride.

The necromancer grabbed one end of the body and Petra grabbed the other. Together they hauled it out to the carriage, Petra pushing doors open with her foot. She was gentle with lowering the body into its waiting casket, mindful that Zivix was watching. She tied the casket down with more rope.

Petra closed the doors and slid the locking bar into place, then wiped her brow and watched the necromancer’s reactions. Zivix nodded at the carriage, then turned around and started walking back inside. One chance, Petra.

The grey-eyed thief darted around the side of the carriage and leapt into the seat where she’d left her bag. She seized the reins and gave a purposeful flick, sending the horses into motion. The second that first clatter of hooves on cobblestone rang out, Zivix whipped around and stared at her. Confusion became irritation, and then as their eyes met and Petra smiled and started to laugh, irritation became boiling fury. Zivix screamed something at her, but Petra’s laughter and the clatter of hooves drowned his words.

Petra drove through the streets of Stygia’s second-poorest district, Ashen Row, where the crumbling hovels of the south and east transitioned to an even mix of derelict history and new brickwork. The district took its name from the fire that tore through it about half a century before Petra’s birth, the result of Stygia’s neighbors getting out the torches and handaxes. The corpses of those raiders became the deathless soldiers that marched on their unwise homes, and so, like always, the villages and towns surrounding Stygia shut up, sat down, and returned to paying tribute.

Ashen Row was full of shadowed alleys and sharp corners at odd angles. Its cobbled streets were lit by electric lamps installed a few years prior. Petra recognized most of the shops in the district – shops of wood and brick with hand-carved signs and dirty windows. A butcher’s there, a cobbler, a tailor, and dozens more tucked between or incorporated into the crammed-tight houses that loomed over the street.

Most of the people she passed were grey-eyes with heads down and threadbare coats clutched to their bodies to try and stay as warm as possible in the perpetual chill of Stygia’s climate. A few carried umbrellas just as a precaution; when it didn’t mist in Stygia, it rained.

Rarely – rare enough she couldn’t assign a fraction to its frequency – she saw a necromancer. Flowing dresses and crisp suits, pretty parasols and reanimated retainers, each one with their held high and their green or gold eyes gleaming. One necromancer was carried by her golem, while another walked the streets but used the bodies of his undead servants to avoid puddles. Lowborn Stygians kept to the very edges of the street when a necromancer passed by, shrinking away and only daring to look directly at the necromancers once they were far enough away.

Petra passed one of the uncompromising stone towers the Judges and their lackeys resided in and it sent a shiver of fear down her spine. She kept her head lowered and stirred the horses to keep going. Almost to the market. No pursuers in sight. I can do this. I’ll be fine.

Then someone threw a talking skull into her carriage.

The skull – a plain human one, mostly, but with glowing orange embers in its eye sockets – bounced across the front seat of the carriage and settled into her lap with a soft thump. Petra stared at it, shocked, and then it said, “Blasted necromancer… hey, you there! Drive faster, and take a left!” and Petra yelped.

“What are you? What the seven hells are you?”

“No time for that! Judges on your tail, three, the nasty types. You want to spend your days in very creative agony, be my guest, but if you don’t, then drive.” The voice that issued from the skull was acerbic and raucous, but the picture it painted was disturbing enough that Petra obeyed almost on instinct.

She sped the horses up and swerved them left at the nearest turn. “How’d they find me?”

“Been on you the whole time, kid. Usin’ you, likely, to flush out whoever you’re sellin’ to.”

Petra swore under her breath. I’ve been played. She sped the horses up again, stirring them into a gallop. “Why are you helping me? Who threw you?”

“Someone who cares, and that’s all you need to know until you are safe. Just focus on driving.” She imagined the skull would have grabbed the reins itself if it had any hands.

“Fine.” The girl was immensely curious, but she could hardly ask questions if she was being flayed in some underground torture chamber or being murdered and reanimated in an infinite loop. She’d heard nothing but horror stories about what happened to those seized by the Judges and found guilty.

The horses galloped out of Ashen Row, careening wildly into the streets of Grand Boulevard. These streets were bustling with grey-eyes and undead rushing to fill orders and demands, and more than one civilian yelled at Petra as she blatantly ignored driving laws. Grand Boulevard had gorgeous parks, towering spires, and some of the best-kept buildings in the lower city, but Petra had little time to admire them with how fast her carriage was rushing past.

“Where are we going?” she shouted over the wind.

“Do you really need to know?”

“Yes! Obviously! I am driving, you ass!”

The skull grumbled, “Feisty one. Fine.” Reluctantly it said, “Eastern Terrace, one of the cliff-side manors.”

Petra’s grip on the reins briefly slackened as she stared at the skull in shock. “That’s where the necromancers live! The scary ones, the ones with power, the ones-”

The blare of a horn trumpet cut off the rest of her outrage. One quick glance behind her confirmed her fears: the Judges had decided to abandon subtlety.

Three cloaked figures rode skeletal horses in pursuit of Petra’s carriage. The heavy grey cloaks obscured their features, but each rider wore a tabard in Stygian green-and-gold with the sharp, angular symbol of the Judges emblazoned proudly. They bore no visible weapons, but every Judge was a living weapon that needed no mortal armaments. These were the beings that killed rogue necromancers. Petra didn’t stand a chance.

“Shit, shit, shit!” She sped the horses up, pushing them to their limit. “C’mon, faster, faster, please!”

They’re watching, they’re all watching, ten thousand eyes staring at you, seeing you, mocking you. This is how you die. The Judges will kill you and they’ll put your corpse on a pike and the whole city will watch you.

The skull next to her muttered something she couldn’t hear, then said louder, “We’re almost there, kid. Eyes ahead, just keep those eyes pinned to the road, okay? You’re gonna live, I promise.”

She didn’t believe the skull, but she forced herself to comply.

Cobblestone streets. Turn here. Faster. Streets. Walls. Faster. Don’t let them catch you.

Chittering. Noise like metal scraping metal. Chill down her spine.

Petra’s stolen carriage passed out of Grand Boulevard and she gripped the reins so tightly her hands were going numb.

Stygia was divided into the lower city and the upper city. In the lower city, commoners lived and worked for the benefit of their overlords, while necromancers only visited briefly to conduct business and tour markets. The upper city was the exclusive domain of the necromancer caste and was partitioned into the three Terraces: Western, Northern, and Eastern.

Of the three, Eastern Terrace was home to the worst by far; necromancers like the Stygian High Council, Kazrezar the Constructor, and Zazzyl Hope-Ender. Only the strongest, smartest, wealthiest necromancers were allowed to reside there.

For a moment, Petra wondered if death-by-Judge might be preferable to the cruel mercies of a necromancer. She imagined being made into an experiment, a plaything, or something worse. But then the cold keening of the three Judges behind her filled the air and all thoughts of surrender vanished.

Petra guided the carriage up the steep road into the Terraces. The hisses and shrieks of her pursuers were getting closer and closer, unimpeded by her wild driving or the harsh slope of the path.

“Any time now, bonehead!” Petra glared at the skull and witnessed the incredibly peculiar sight of its amber light-orbs rotating in place, like it was trying to approximate an eye-roll.

The skull muttered, “I get enough of that from the boss. Just keep east and I’ll tell you when you’re close.”

“Urgh, you are so useless! Fine.” Petra rolled her eyes right back at the skull and kept the horses steady. She dared not snap the reins again for fear the horses would rebel and abandon her to the Judges.

They passed estate after estate, opulent mansions adorned with lightning rods and dressed in moulding made to resemble bone. Every one of the gaudy structures carried its own unique brand of ego, all shouting to the world, “A necromancer lives here!” Petra gritted her teeth and resisted the urge to spit at them.

Servitor undead and idling necromancers looked up as Petra’s carriage rushed past, or perhaps their gazes were drawn to the hooded Judges upon their skeletal steeds.

I hate this. I hate this. This is the worst day of my life, and probably the last!

And then – “There! Up ahead, kid, third one down, that’s our stop!”

Petra wasted no time complying. Her gaze locked on the indicated property, a reclusive abode nestled against a sheer cliff leading down into the roiling ocean. It resembled a castle out of myth, a fortress like the ones that the old kingdoms were said to have, if perhaps a bit lean and vertical. Three stone towers rose out of a cramped main hall, the highest tower proudly bearing a lightning rod. A few squat buildings with thatched roofs leaned against the false castle, looking almost barn-like in structure.

The estate’s wrought-iron gates swung open as the carriage approached and Petra guided her stolen vehicle inside. Her heart sank with every meter. A tall, lean woman – the necromancer, it had to be – stood waiting at the end of the path. Petra brought the carriage to a halt just in front of the necromancer and held her breath.

The necromancer swept her gaze over Petra and the thief shivered. The necromancer’s eyes were like cold emeralds, devoid of any emotion beyond calculation or fascination. Her features were angular, her skin and hair bone-white, her head held high; she looked the classic Stygian necromancer. Her hair was tied up in a bun and she wore an elegant black robe with a grey shawl and a near-to-overflowing satchel at her side.

The necromancer’s assessment of Petra was quicker than Petra’s assessment of her and in only a few seconds the necromancer turned away from the thief and wordlessly walked past her. She calmly stood in the path of the three dark riders and adjusted the collar of her dress.

This close, the aura of the Judges paralyzed Petra with fear. She could only watch as the two sides spoke.

“Assembled Judges, you have my greetings and attention. Nils, Sigrid, and Helmut, what business brings you to my estate?” Her voice was cold, smooth, and controlled, like every word had been clinically selected. No emotion lurked within her voice, no sign of confusion or hint of deception. She managed to sound almost disinterested while talking to three soulless killing machines.

The lead Judge stepped down from its horse. As soon as its boots hit the ground, the monster transformed. Cloak and belts melted away to be replaced by more chitin, claws and mandibles sharpened and lengthened, and new legs tore out of an elongating body. In seconds the Judge went from an insect-like humanoid to a monstrous, muscular centipede.

It chittered at the necromancer, and although it spoke no language, the intent of its words was forced into Petra’s mind by the creature’s intrinsic telepathy. WE ARE HERE FOR THE GIRL. STEP ASIDE, STORM-TAMER.

Storm-Tamer? That’s a title, right? Why does that sound so familiar?

The necromancer replied, “The girl is my employee. If the Judges have a concern with my business, please address those concerns to me.”

She’s lying to Judges?! Who the hell is this lady?

Petra started looking around for escape routes. Maybe if Petra dove off the cliff while the Judges killed the necromancer, she could land in water. Is it the ground that kills you or the fall?

The talking skull – which was still in her lap, she realized belatedly – whispered, “Don’t even think of running, kid. The boss is stickin’ her neck out for ya.”

Petra winced and quietly sighed as she sank back into the seat and accepted her fate.

The lead Judge chittered again, slowly and menacingly, mandibles gnashing. THE GIRL STOLE FROM MY MORTUARY. WILL YOU SHELTER A THIEF, LADY VIZLA?

Lady Vizla.

The Lady Vizla. The Storm-Tamer. The Bloodstained Prodigy. The Enigmatic Inventor.

Petra’s blood ran cold and in an instant she forgot all about the Judges and her fear of them.

Vizla folded her arms. “Tell me, Helmut: what did she steal?”

More gnashing, full of rising fury. A BODY AND A CARRIAGE. Helmut pointed a claw at the stolen carriage.

“The body of Lars Carpenter. The body I purchased two days ago and which now rests on my property, delivered by one of the carriages that solely exist to transport bodies to their new owners.” Vizla raised an eyebrow. “A truly ingenious theft.”

I stole from the Bloodstained Prodigy. I tried to steal a corpse from the woman who killed six rivals in two years without once getting caught. I-

The Judge hissed and Petra could feel the malice radiating from its hideous spiked form, but as soon as it began to speak again with that awful mandible mouth, Vizla cut it off.

“I have no time for games. Present a case with substance or leave. You waste energy on a prey-less hunt.” Delivered by any other necromancer that speech might have sounded sneering, but from Vizla it was a cold statement of fact.

Helmut hissed again… and slowly shifted back to its humanoid form. It mounted its steed, gave one last glaring look at Vizla, and then all three rode off.

The necromancer waited until all three had vanished from sight before turning from the road.

Vizla walked up to the carriage and Petra tensed up, but Vizla seemed to ignore her completely. Vizla snatched up the skull and looked at it with the faintest signs of worry escaping her indifferent mask. “Are you damaged? Did they see you? How do you feel?”

“I’m good, boss. Y’know, aside from the lack of appendages.” The skull sounded almost embarrassed to receive such doting attention.

Vizla snapped her fingers and a headless corpse golem emerged from a nearby shed. It walked over to Vizla and presented its neck socket. The skull fit perfectly in place and was reunited with its body. Vizla fiddled with the connection and made minute adjustments.

“Relax, relax. I’m fine.”

Vizla pursed her lips but nodded. “Very well. Take care of the body and the carriage. Quickly, before Helmut gathers anything to use against us.”

“You got it, boss.” The talking golem opened the carriage, hefted the body, and jogged inside with it.

Once the golem had entered the estate proper, Vizla turned to the still-paralyzed corpse thief and said, “You may leave now. You should keep your head down for a few months. The Judges will be watching you.”

And then she was looking away again, and walking back inside, and Petra’s paralysis broke.

“Wait!” the thief cried out.

The necromancer took another step, then paused. She didn’t look back.

This is crazy. You’re crazy. This is your stupidest plan yet. Petra shook off her negative thoughts and pushed herself out of the carriage, stumbling to the ground with her sack in hand. “Listen, I… I appreciate you saving me, and I know you didn’t need to and you took a big risk, but, just, hear me out: I want a job. My name is Petra Cooper, and I want to work for you, Lady Vizla.”

That made the necromancer turn around. Vizla tilted her head and stared at Petra like she was a fascinating puzzle box that Vizla wanted to crack open and examine. “I have no need and you are unqualified,” she delivered flatly.

Petra took a step forward, daring to venture nearer to the terrifying woman. “I can be useful. I know this city better than your other assistant, and I know to keep my mouth shut when Judges come looking in to your illicit dealings. And I know you have those kind of dealings, because you lied to those Judges like it was your thousandth time. You don’t like their kind any more than I do.”

Vizla frowned. “Imprecise. I do not blame a servant for the crimes of its master.”

Petra hesitated, confused by the necromancer’s words, but she kept talking out of desperation. “If I go back on those streets, I’ll die. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but one day I’ll slip up and be a corpse on a necromancer’s table. People like me don’t get to play it safe. We don’t get to keep our heads down, because this whole city is owned by people like you.”

A crack in the facade. For a moment, for one single infinitesimally small instant, emotion shone clear as day in Vizla’s emerald-green eyes. Emotions too complicated for Petra to parse, but a sign she was getting somewhere.

The thief continued, “I don’t have necromancy. I don’t have power. But I’m quick, and sharp, and I can learn whatever you need me to know. I want to learn. The way you dealt with those Judges… Lady Vizla, I don’t want to be gutter trash. I want to be like you. So please, I’m begging: teach me how to bend the law instead of breaking it. Teach me to be like you.”

Vizla was quiet, still, more a statue than a person. Petra’s heart raced with terror and anticipation warring against each other. Please.

The moment stretched on, Petra afraid to break the silence and ruin her opportunity. It was the golem that spoke next – returned from its trip inside and ready to drive the carriage back to the deadhouse.

“Hey, boss, what’s the kid still doing here?”

And the Lady Vizla said, “Skull, you have a new coworker. Meet Ms. Petra Cooper. Ms. Cooper, meet Skull.”

Skull groaned. “What are we, a home for wayward strays?” But he stretched out a hand and Petra tentatively shook it. “Welcome to the business, Petra. You better impress the boss if you wanna stick around.”

Petra smiled. “I know I will.”