( Emilia braces herself, moves away from the fear that wants to lance through her chest. Her eyes lift to meet Wangji's, a soberness in them that foretells only grim news: the understanding their Merchant was right to fear an escalation, a rise even as similarities linger. )

There were no human remains. These were no men, but two mannequins sized to their likeness, made of straw and burlap. The dark water was a cold puddle at their would-be feet. I believe — I believe this to be Chrichter's work.

( Though he would not have worked alone, no.

Her hand furls and unfurls, as though phantom pinpricks can still be felt along her fingertips. )