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“We have to do something, Uncle!” cries Stoicheia. The hall is collapsing; above, Ferlighi roars with laughter and picks off another victim. “We have to use the words!”

Logos is gray-faced with terror. “They are forbidden,” he says. “We must not dilute them!”

“I’d rather dilute them than die!” Stoicheia shouts.

Ferlighi utters a thunderclap and scatters them. By the time Stoicheia makes her way back to him, Logos is unmoving, eyes gray and glassy.

“Priceless®!” giggles Ferlighi, and traces bright circles in the air. “And now, child, you too–”

Nike,” Stoicheia whispers, and her feet are like unto wings.