(This is the story text from the corresponding Radio Cataclysm podcast episode. If you prefer audio, you can subscribe here. Read and listen early on Patreon.)

The family sat around their small kitchen table. The Colonel had not come down yet, but the rest of the Sparassa had come up from the basement. They were fully dressed in their sleek plate-and-silk armor. Their masks were designed for fear and function, rather than to strictly resemble the huntsman spiders they were named for. Their chelicerae didn't move as they spoke, as the Colonel's did, but they were fully articulated with a thousand pound bite strength and retractable fangs. Their mouthpieces amplified their voices and added a sub-20Hz buzz, producing a physiological sense of dread in the unprotected listener.

“The Colonel said you'd be wanting these,” said Captain Solomon. She held two sacks of potatoes.

“On the counter,” said Sheryl.

Solomon set the potatoes where she pointed. “We're to ready the horses, if that's all.”

“That'll be all, Captain,” said Sheryl. Solomon nodded and led the other two Sparassa outside.

Meg Jr. was silent. She glared at Sheryl, but she was secretly glad the Lieutenant had dismissed the others. She wasn't even afraid of spiders, but the soldiers made her gut feel like pudding. She sat close to her brother, her hand on his back. Chuck wore a fracture cuff that Sheryl had placed on his arm. Junior had objected, but her mom scolded her and let Sheryl apply the device. After anesthetizing the area, it would set the bone and give the healing process a jolt.

“How is your wrist feeling, Chuck?” Sheryl asked.

“It feels like my whole arm's asleep,” he said. “It doesn't hurt anymore.” He smiled and poked at his hand. “It tingles.”

Sheryl looked through the medikit and took out a small packet. She tore it open at the end and held it out to Chuck. “You should eat this,” she said. “It's called Medigel. It'll help your arm heal faster.”

Chuck reached for the packet, but Meg Jr. grabbed it first. She sniffed the open end. “What is it?” she asked.

“Be polite,” said Dan, meekly. He looked like he was trying not to be sick.

“It's all right,” said Sheryl. “It's a suspension of tiny robots called nanobots. You can't see them without a microscope, but they're programmed to help the body heal itself. They work wonders. If you spread them on a cut, it'll heal by the end of the day. As long as it's not too serious. If you take a few doses, you can heal a broken bone in a fraction of the time it usually takes.”

“If it works so well, why is your face covered in scars?” said Meg.

“I haven't always had it when I needed it,” said Sheryl. “And scars are tricky. You'll probably have a scar on your bone,” she said to Chuck. “Even though you can't see it. But in a way, it's a good thing. Your bone will actually be stronger than before.”

“Awesome,” said Chuck. Meg Jr. tasted a little bit of the gel and, after a second, handed the packet to Chuck.

“Lieutenant, is it?” said Megan. “We aren't hiding anything else. We were only taking precautions when we hid the kids.”

“We hide them when ravagers come, too,” said Dan.

“Not that Churls are anything like ravagers,” said Megan quickly.

Junior scoffed, but didn't say anything.

“But even ravagers don't come down this was too often,” said Megan. “It's just us out here. We're all we have.” She locked eyes with Sheryl.

A commotion in the living room broke the tension. “There's no hurry, Jaut. Just don't make promises you can't keep,” the Colonel was saying. “It's been well more than five minutes.”

Bob muttered something inaudible as he ushered his recruits out the door.

The Colonel strode into the kitchen, still in full armor and mask. Chad followed, carrying the broken knife and the log from the oven the way he carried everything: as if he'd always had them, but never owned them. The Colonel circled the table, looking around the room with his shining ocelli. He tapped the fracture cuff on Chuck's arm. The boy flinched. “Rickets,” said the Colonel. “No Sun, no Vitamin Lamps. Small wonder the boy's arm snapped like chalk. If you lived in a city, you'd be charged with neglect.”

“We take supplements, shithead,” said Meg Jr. “From the caravans. Don't blame vitamins for what your lapdog did.”

“Meg, hush,” said Megan.

Sheryl didn't say anything, but she knew what the girl said was true. She'd broken countless limbs in her career. Hers and others'. She could tell a strong bone from a weak one.

The Colonel peeked out the back window. “Charming garden,” he said. “I suppose you could live on it. My spiders found a great hoard of potatoes in your cellar. Not a bad start to the day. Carbohydrates, a bit of protein, vitamins. But a bit bland without salt.”

“There's some in the drawer, there,” said Dan, pointing.

The Colonel opened the drawer to find a mason jar full of salt, along with an assortment of dried herbs in smaller jars. “A great quantity of it,” said the Colonel. “I'll be taking this for our mage to use. And this stone. Strange place for it.” He held up a piece of volcanic rock that was nestled between the rosemary and sage. “Light the stove, Chad. These old wood burners take time to heat up.”

Chad opened the firebox on the pot-bellied stove. “Pardon, sir, but it's empty,” he said. He replaced the log Chuck had used as a makeshift club, but that was the only trace of wood in the kitchen.

“Of course,” said the Colonel. “I imagine you have your children fill it every morning. We didn't spot a woodpile outside. Tell me, where do you keep your fuel?”

“There isn't any,” said Dan.

“There must be,” said the Colonel. “There are plenty of dead trees around. Surely, this isn't all you have? A piddling stick.”

“It's magic,” said Chuck.

“Indeed?” said the Colonel.

Megan took a deep breath. “It's a relic from the war,” she said carefully. “It burns, but isn't consumed. Safer and cleaner than burning wood.”

“Safer,” said the Colonel.

A clomping sound from the living room heralded the appearance of a shortish man holding a stack of luggage that towered past his head. Most of it was Churlian military issue hard cases and duffel bags, but at the bottom of the stack was a large trunk. The load must have weighed hundreds of pounds, but he didn't waver under its bulk.

“Fawth, you arrive at last,” said the Colonel. “Leave the steamer trunk. Take the rest outside. Once you've loaded the horses, come back in. And bring the loot chest.”

Fawth set the stack down, then picked up all but the trunk and carried it out the front door without a word.

“That's my grampa's trunk,” said Meg Jr.

“Is it?” said the Colonel. He flipped it open. “That would be your mother's father, or your father's father? Or both?”

Megan cleared her throat. “The trunk belonged to my father,” she said. “He was a mage with the Pyroclasts. Those are his things. From the war.”

“Relics like your little fire log?” The Colonel snapped open the clasps and flipped up the lid. “Not just any mage,” he said, pulling out a red robe embroidered with the symbol of the Pyroclasts and a number of decorations indicating rank, battalion, and several distinctions of merit.

“He was a battlemage,” said Megan. “A Lieutenant.”

“And he fought for the Pyroclasts? Sworn enemies of the Empire?”

“Former enemies,” said Megan.

“Well, that would explain this,” said the Colonel. He lifted a small log from the trunk, not much more than a stick, really. It was of the same type of wood as the log from the oven. “It's not just for cooking, is it? This is a flame staff.”

“It was a flame staff,” said Megan. “Now it keeps us warm and cooks our food. He broke it in three. One for the stove, one for the fireplace, and one to remind us. The rest of those things are mementos from the war. He oversaw the artificing of all of the things in that trunk. Some, he even made himself. But they're not harmful. Most have been disarmed. The rest aren't dangerous.”

“Is he still with us?” said the Colonel.

“No,” said Megan. “He passed away a few years ago, of Ashen Plague. He did everything in his power to keep this home for us. When the weird bombs fell and the land turned to pudding, we saw the street signs and cars and the houses across the street sink into the ground like stones.”

“Atomic tenderizers,” said Sheryl.

“Whatever you call them. It was like watching a painting melt. Our neighbor across the way, Mr. Hauer, ran out of his house and into the street, and he just vanished. All that was left were ripples, as if the pavement was water. I was only five years old. I remember it like yesterday. It was luck or providence that my dad was home on leave with an injured leg. He used a negation orb to shield the house. We floated in a sphere of protection, like a bubble in a maelstrom. He was a powerful mage, but it nearly killed him saving the house and a few acres out back. I think it did shorten his life by a couple decades. He's buried out back of the farm, if you want to check. This place is all we have, and he fought back against the sunderance of the Earth itself to keep it for us.”

“I tip my hat,” said the Colonel. “The Retort was not an easy thing to survive. I'm always impressed when I hear of somebody who managed it.” He rummaged in the trunk, pulling out items and examining them with a detached sort of interest. “Even so,” he said, “and with all due respect to your late father, this is a bit of a conundrum. I'm not sure what some of these items are, but I am sure they'd all be considered contraband. These should have been surrendered after the war. I'll give you the benefit of the doubt and assume it's due to ignorance, living as you do in the middle of nowhere.”

“We're familiar with the terms of the treaty,” said Dan. “Those laws apply only to offensive weapons of a magical nature, or newly developed magic of any kind. These items are all defensive or practical. All of the offensive items have been disarmed. And none of them were made after the war ended.”

“If you're familiar with the treaty, then you also know that during wartime, martial law supplants everything. And it gives me considerable leeway. I'm free to take all of these if I choose.” He held up a silver sphere ringed with symbols.

“Try it, and you'll lose that hand,” said Meg Jr.

The Colonel laughed. “She has great spirit, that one,” he said. “Reminds me of a certain Lieutenant when she was young.”

The one called 'Fawth' returned. He was lean and muscular, and not much taller than Junior. He had a hard look in his eyes, seemingly reserved solely for the Colonel. He stood in the doorway, holding a large chest and glaring.

“Just set it there, Fawth,” said the Colonel, pointing. Fawth obeyed without a word, setting the Colonel's loot chest next to the steamer trunk. The Colonel turned to Megan. “You took a bit of convincing,” he said, “but you did eventually offer room and board and supplies in service of the war effort. It would be rude of me to leave you without recompense.” He set the silver sphere back in the trunk and opened his own chest. The contents glistened, even in the filtered light. Gold necklaces and bracelets, cufflinks, earrings, diamond rings, antique coins of silver and gold, a rainbow of loose gemstones. A few of the smaller trinkets and gems tumbled to the ground. “I consider myself a fair man. How about one item from my chest for each item I take from yours?”

“Hell no,” said Meg Jr.

“Meg, shh,” said Megan. She nodded at the Colonel. “That's more than fair.”

“You can't just take our stuff,” said Junior. “The war's been over since before I was even born!”

“The old war, maybe, but there's a new war now,” said the Colonel. “This self-described 'Lord' Plumwine commands a grotesque army of homunculi and lumbering gobbets of meat. You may not want us to win, but you'll definitely want them to lose. It's only been a week or so since their attack, so I'd forgive you for not knowing, out here in the boondocks. Although you can see the purple sky for yourself. That's their doing. They've taken control of the Cloud and jammed our communications. Your devices won't have been affected. Don't ask me why. Primitivity, no doubt. There are more ways for an automobile to break than a bicycle. Whatever the reason, non-Churlian equipment doesn't seem to be affected by the jamming signal. And you do own several radios and a television. Strange for a house with no electricity.”

“It comes and goes,” said Megan. “The lightning herds. Sort of electrical storms that march across the land. We bottle it up in battery jars, but we've been out of juice for weeks.”

“Then I suppose you can't have heard about Plumwine, let alone colluded with him,” said the Colonel.

“We'd never collude with an enemy of the Empire,” said Dan. “Or the Empire itself. But we'd offer room and board to either, as we should have done when you came to the door.”

“You'd offer room and board to an enemy of the Empire?” said the Colonel.

“No, I- That's not what I meant.” Dan looked down. “I'll just stop talking now.”

“What my husband means to say, is that we're done with war. We take no part in it. My father gave it up after the Retort. That's why he broke his staff and committed himself to keeping a home here.”

“A home? Here? Miles from civilization, living on potatoes and well water? Chad, do you have a power pack?”

Chad fished a small item out of his pocket and handed it to the Colonel.

“My thanks,” said the Colonel. He held up the item, a plastic box the size of a deck of cards. “This is a quantum battery, contained in a small case fitted with half a dozen different power ports, with converters for direct current and practically any other antiquated electrical requirement under the Sun. In terms you can understand, it will power your TV.” He carried the television in from the living room himself and set it on the counter. He plugged the cord into the three-pronged port on his power pack and switched the set on. “In addition to jamming our broadcasts, Plumwine has been sending a message of his own. Meant to be received by antiques such as this, I suppose. It doesn't matter which station we turn to, they're broadcasting on most frequencies.”

A barely audible hum filled the air as the set powered on, the dust standing like hair in the static on its screen. The audio came through before the picture warmed up. A monotonous voice recited a string of numbers, then said, “This message repeats.”

“Excellent timing,” said the Colonel. “We've caught the beginning.”

The man onscreen looked human, but there was something unnatural about him. His movements were strangely precise. He was shown in close-up, cut off at the shoulders. His eyes had a purple tinge. Sheryl looked away, then, with an effort, looked back.

“Greeting, friends,” he said. He spoke with a clear, concise cadence. Every word was thoroughly pronounced. “I speak to you today as a representative of the nation of Arteria. I used to be known as Samuel Elkin, a name given to me by the wealthy families of Churlia. I once fought for the Churlian Empire, unquestioningly. I was what they call a warchild. An orphan, taken from one of the countless lands they have pillaged. I will never know which one. Perhaps yours. Perhaps my parents and yours were neighbors. Perhaps you and I are even family. I may never know my real name, but my new name is Damson of Arteria. You have never heard of the Arterians, but you have much in common. They are, like us, are humans, and though we differ in some ways, we are in many ways the same.

“Many scores of years ago, the Empire of Churlia performed cruel and ghastly experiments on some of its poorest citizens. They sought power, immortality, and many more. These experiments were grotesque failures. When the Churls saw the ruination they had wrought upon the lives they deemed disposable, they turned their backs on their victims. They sailed their island to the bottom of the globe, and abandoned these people to the cruelty of the iciest continent, Antarctica. Cursed with longevity, these victims of the Empire made a new home here, building a nation from a people and a place the Churls considered garbage. Those same curses the Churls afflicted them with, they have turned into virtues. I have seen it firsthand. I was part of an elite squad of Churlian soldiers. Our mission: genocide. We were to wipe out the Arterians, once and for all. Thankfully, we failed. I was injured, and abandoned by my comrades, left to die in the snow.”

The picture cut away as Damson's speech continued, narrating a grainy montage of a lifeless soldier being discovered in the snow, doctors standing over a spot-lit operating table, and Damson's unconscious face enveloped in a purple fog. “Lord Plumwine graciously took me in and shared his healing animus with me,” he said. “Thanks to him, I am once again whole, and stronger than ever before. I bring you today a message of peace and unity from all of Arteria. Like you, we appreciate freedom, work hard, and values.

“We have known of the Churls' thirst for power and control for centuries. In the year Two-Thousand, the rest of the world learned of it, too. No longer content to pull their web of puppet strings from the shadows, they revealed themselves as the war-mongers you know them as today.”

The footage onscreen was now a compilation of news reports and home-shot video of the Churlian invasion of Y2K. Many of the worst events from the invasion and the following war were highlighted in a brief but brutal montage. The raising of Mount Philada. The blackened sky. The Nuclear Consumption. Yellowstone. Meg and Chuck had never seen footage of these events, only heard stories from their parents and Grampa Chuck.

“The footage, as well as the speech, is tailored to location,” said the Colonel. “In other countries, they'd hear this propaganda in their local languages and see footage of what happened in their neck of the woods. Of course, it's all old news, with no mention of everything the Empire has done for the world since the war ended.”

“Propaganda?” Megan whispered.

The footage played on as Damson continued, “We watched the War of Churlian Expansion from our icy prison, all too familiar with the Churls' thirst for power and disregard for life, but unable to help. We have spent the past three decades working tirelessly to rectify that. We mined our home for resources, built our numbers exponentially, and devised a plan which, if you are listening to this, you have already witnessed. Our army is vast. Our will is strong. We have struck a devastating blow to the Churlian oppressors, but our goal is one of peace. We have attacked only military targets. We have wrested control of the Cloud from the Churls' iron grip, preventing them from coordinating a counterattack, and more importantly, placing control of information back in the hands of the people. We have taken these first steps on our own, but we cannot take the next steps without you by our side.

“How many of you live in poverty, still rebuilding the homes destroyed in the war? How many of you are ill with diseases unheard of before the Churls invaded? How many of you have never seen the Sun, while those who kowtow to your oppressors live in opulence, eating fresh fruit while they tan their faces under a Sunrise Window?” Meg Jr. raised her hand.

“In the coming days and weeks, you will begin to see these Domes of Strength appear in a city near you.” The footage switched from highlights of the war to a static shot of an Arterian airship descending from the purple shroud. A long tube lowered from its belly and stopped at a height of about three hundred feet. Silvery material poured from the end of the tube, spreading through the air as if covering an invisible surface.

Damson explained, “Constructed in a matter of minutes using cutting edge Arterian technology, these domes will be the safest place for you and your family. Inside, you will be provided with food, shelter, work. If you wish to join the fight against the Churls, you will be trained and made strong. Your illnesses will be cured. Your wounds healed. The Churls want you weak. We will make you strong. Together, we will fight back against the Churlian elites and their empire of destruction. Report to your nearest Dome today, and take back what the Churls took from you.” The speech ended with another shot of Damson, but this time the camera zoomed out as he spoke, revealing a cavernous room carved from ice and rock. Filling the room were hundreds of pneumatic soldiers standing in orderly lines, holding laser rifles. “Together, we can make our world whole again. Together, we can make our world stronger than ever before.”

“Believe it or not, there's more,” said the Colonel. “But you get the idea.” He switched the TV off.

“He sounds all right to me,” said Meg Jr. “Am I supposed to be afraid of them just because they clobbered you?”

“You think this is only between the Arterians and the Empire?” said the Colonel. “That's propaganda, dribbled out by a brainwashed drone. Note the color of his eyes. The same sick power that turned the sky purple. It's Plumwine, speaking through him.”

“He's right,” said Sheryl. “I've... seen it happen. He's been infected. Brainwashed. That's not Sam Elkin.”

“Yeah, he said that,” said Junior. “That's the name you people gave him when you slaughtered his family. You think he's brainwashed now? What do you call whatever you did to him when he was a kid? Probably younger than Chuckles.” She put a protective arm around her brother. “I know all about the 'War Orphans.'”

“Would you have us leave a child behind, helpless and alone among burning ruins, knowing that their parents were traitors to the Empire?” said the Colonel. “The orphan program gives them a chance to do something meaningful with their lives. Traitors raise traitors. Empires raise model citizens.”

“The Arterians are dangerous,” said Sheryl, changing the subject. “Those soldiers standing behind Elkin are hollow suits of armor with little clones of Plumwine inside. They have something new, as well. Some kind of meat construct that consumes everything and everybody it touches. We're not even sure what it is, but it comes from Plumwine's flesh. It's not an army. It's not a nation. There are no Arterians. It's Plumwine. He's the only one, aside from Elkin now. That purple fog is his animus, his lifeforce, his will. It powers the soldiers and keeps the clones alive. It runs through the veins of his meat puppets. It infects your mind and confuses your thoughts. It'll happen to everybody who enters one of those domes. It might be happening already. He'll infect the minds of everybody on the planet, and consume the rest with his hordes of flesh. He'll start with us, but he'll finish with you.”

“If we get to see the fall of Churlia, that suits me just fine,” said Meg Jr.

“Meg, that's enough,” said her mother. “If my father were still alive, he'd be horrified to hear you say such things. He renounced fighting after the Retort, before the war was even officially over. The house settled into place, the land hardened back up, and we looked around and saw how little was left of the world around us. I know it's better in some places, but it's a lot worse in some places, too. I don't want to see any empires fall. I don't want to see any more death and destruction. We're trying to build something here, as best we can. Trying to make a bad place better. We don't want any trouble. And we don't want any part in the war. So just tell us what you want. If you want my father's arcanic devices, you are welcome to them. Just take what you need and please go.”

“Very well,” said the Colonel. “If that's what you truly want. Breakfast is off, Chad. We don't want to burden our hosts with our presence any longer than we have to.” The Colonel upended the potato sacks, letting their contents tumble out onto the counter and linoleum. “Hold this.” He handed one sack to Chad, who held it open like a child on Beggar's Night. “I'll abide by my earlier offer,” said the Colonel. “One of mine for each of yours.” He took an item from the steamer trunk, a small cube with a different constellation of stars printed on each side, and dropped it into his sack. He picked an emerald from his chest and dropped it into Chad's open sack. “One for one,” he said. He continued that way, taking things one at a time from Grampa Chuck's trunk and paying for each with a trinket from his loot. Meg seethed in silence. Her mother hugged her around the shoulders. She shrugged away.

“I'll have to have my mage examine most of these,” the Colonel said as he neared the bottom of the trunk. “Altogether, though, not a bad haul. I'll leave the robe. I'm sure it has sentimental value to you. And this,” he held up the piece of flame staff that had been stored in the trunk. “Clever, I must admit. And heartwarming, turning a weapon into a household implement. How is it activated? A phrase? A song?”

“A word,” said Megan. “And you have to be holding a piece of volcanic rock that used to top the staff. Each piece is activated by a different word. Heart, and Hearth, and Home.”

“That would explain this,” he said. He picked up the pitchstone he'd found in the spice drawer. “Every staff needs a stone. Staves are difficult to break, and with good reason. You're right that this is not a newly developed weapon, but it is a weapon still. And it may not be new, but it has been changed. Much like the Forsaken Quarter itself. In some ways, it's no longer as dangerous as it once was. In other ways, much more so. Magic and technology, considered by some to be one and the same, can be wonderful things in the right hands. Handled properly. Take my friend over there.” He pointed at Burts Fawth, still standing silent in the doorway. “He's the product of a secret facility called Woulf Labs. A secret kept by the United States military. I needn't go into details. Suffice to say, the entire laboratory is a violation of our treaty. Without the guidance of Churlian scientists and engineers, they've grown cocksure and dabbled in things they're not ready for. Things they can't control. Using a combination of biological manipulation and cybernetic enhancements, they attempted to create an army of supersoldiers. They did not fail, but they were not prepared for the success they found. Two of their creations ran amok, releasing countless more in their escape. This man is one half of that duo. Say hello, Fawth.”

“Hello,” muttered Burts. His expression didn't change.

“Here he stands, no longer running amok, standing quietly until spoken to. He would kill me if he could, yet I do not fear him. He loathes me, yet he will fight for me. Under the right circumstances.”

“Please,” said Megan, almost in a whisper. “If you're going to do anything, please don't do it in front of our children.”

“Oh, If I'd wanted to kill you, I'd have done it last night,” said the Colonel. “If I decided in this very moment that I wanted you dead, I'd have no compunctions about doing it myself. Not a single person here could or would stop me.” He drew his sword. The blade swished through the air toward Chuck's head, moving so suddenly and so fast that nobody in the room had time to register what was happening. Nobody but Burts. The supersoldier leapt like a frog, straight at the Colonel's sword arm. He may have made it in time. He may have intercepted the strike and saved Chuck's face from being sliced in half. He may have, but the Colonel stopped himself before Burts had a chance. The sword never reached the boy's skin. It was sheathed as quickly as it had been drawn. Burts, too, had been stopped. As soon as he'd moved toward the Colonel, something had overridden the impulse. His body was no longer under his control, but his momentum carried him through the air. The Colonel caught him by the throat and held him aloft. Burts shook, then stiffened. Every muscle in his body seemed to contract. Then he slumped, awake but drained of vigor. The Colonel let him fall, and he collapsed in a heap.

“Settle down,” said the Colonel over the screams of the family, and the timbre of his voice commanded silence. “Merely a demonstration of the value of control. Woulf Labs built this man up from a weakling, made him strong and durable, gave him blood that would heal nearly any wound. They also programmed him to fight, but they forgot to give him one thing. An off switch. A brake to his accelerator. I've given him that. I've given him control, and with that one addition I've improved him manyfold. This staff,” he held up the log, “you control it with a word and a stone. On and off. But it's not stable.”

“We've not had any trouble with it,” said Megan. “Not in thirty years.”

“Thirty years is nothing,” said the Colonel. “You have thaumatic storms in the Quarter. The electrical storms you bottle up for power.”

“Lightning herds,” said Meg Jr.

“Whatever you call them, lightning herds, thaumatic cyclones, it's not just electricity. It's thaumatic energy. The same thing that allows your crops to grow without sunlight. The storms can be quite intense. And they never stop. They only move. I know this because they make it quite difficult to map this part of the continent.”

“Again,” said Megan, “for thirty years, we've lived with them. We fill our battery jars when they come through. We're not ignorant. We know about the thaumatic radiation that lingers in the soil. It feeds our plants, as the Sun no longer can since you blotted it out. It's not a threat to us, it's our lifeblood.”

“You've been lucky so far,” said the Colonel. “But the same energy that fills your battery jars can be highly unstable. Unless you've learned to control it.” He raised his left hand. A thin metal probe slid out between his middle and ring fingers. “Just a simple thaumaturgical wand,” he said. “Good for disrupting basic wards and deflecting certain attacks. It can also do this.” He held the wand a millimeter away from the piece of staff. A blue spark jumped between the objects. The staff burst into flames. It burned thick and bright, the heat warping the air above and around it. The Colonel held it fast, not flinching or showing any signs of pain. “Just a small thaumatic discharge, and the staff conflagrates immediately,” he said. “This could easily happen during a thaumatic storm. Your father must have known that, or he wasn't much of a mage. You must have a plan to deal with something like this. As you said, you're not ignorant.” He set the pitchstone on the table. The metal of the stove popped and creaked with sudden expansion. “Oh, yes. The staff may be broken, but its components are still twinned. Now that its containment spell is disrupted, when one piece conflagrates, the others follow suit.”

Sheryl ran to the living room. Sure enough, the log in the fireplace was burning as well. She yanked on the lever that opened the flue, then ran outside.

Dan grabbed the pitchstone from the table. “Home,” he said. Nothing happened. He closed his eyes. “Home,” he said, louder this time.

Megan grabbed the stone from his hand. “Home,” she said. “Heart and Hearth and Home, never shall I roam.”

“Oh, that won't work anymore,” said the Colonel. “The staff's containment field has been disrupted. You'll need more than a bit of doggerel to control it now. I'd think fast if I were you; even I can only hold this flaming log for so long before I have to drop it.”