Ephemerida
Dharmo rakshati rakshitah.
— Didasutra 1:108
9913 Vasanta 16 · Damapolis, Nandha kshetrea
Uroikoi could speak of nothing else. Through the chaos and shock, one question crystallised: exactly what did happen at the tshandromakhy?
“Namaskaram, Uroikos. This is Anahitos: Imanykh. And, I am your host, Ektheos Anahitos.”
Lysandros was no stranger to the bright prakshalux lamps of Ephemerida’s main studio: evenly placed to provide full coverage from all angles. As the broadcast’s stinger climaxed, he sat on the divan opposite his colleague and host.
“In Damapolis and across Aruno imanykh, uroikoi are still in shock from the chaos at the Vasanta tshandromakhy nykh purvi.”
Ektheos was a young uros with fiery ambition, good looks, and a sharp tongue. Ephemerida’s general audience had tripled in size when Anahitos first appeared on one’s teleorasa.
“I have with me esteemed Ephemerida journalist, my syntros and mitros, Lysandros Krytan.” Ektheos turned from Camera Two to face Lysandros. “Namaste, Lysandros.”
“Namaste, Ektheos.” Lysandros cupped his hands and nodded his head, and began to feel an itch deep under his skin.
“First of all, how are you?”
“I’m fine.” Except for this itch. “A little shaken, but fine.”
“I’m so glad to hear it.” Ektheos turned back to Camera Two. “An unknown assailant released a chemical agent of an unknown type during the tshandromakhy, nykh purvi. The Nandha Rashtraphylax has restricted access to the tshandralaya, the central plaza and market, including all transport services, and have asked the oikarkhoi across Nandha, Magria, and utar Amaya, to cooperate with the Prahari as the situation unfolds.”
Ektheos looked down briefly and swallowed, then looked-up at Camera Two with a solemn expression and touched his earpiece.
“Uranon dev! I have just received an update that the number of deaths has climbed to sixty-seven and… oh, zas!” His expression softened into an open smile, “The Rajnahprahari have announced that Lord Gautamos is safe and unharmed… and… that tshandromakhy was a success!” He turned to Lysandros, elated. “Twins! Oh, how exciting—” then back to Camera Two “—It’s official, Uros Basileus Megas, Gautamos Minos has produced not one, but two heirs! Oh, may we all live a healthy life together!”
Lysandros stared vacantly at his colleague, his attention momentarily distracted by the itch just under the skin.
Sixty-seven innocent uroi have died! Gautamos is not the story here!
“Lysandros, this is wonderful news, despite the tragedy.” Ektheos’ buoyant curls danced about his rectangular face as he shook his head. “Please tell us what you saw nykh purvi. What can you add to our story imanykh?”
“May we all live a healthy life together.” Lysandros spoke the customary words with a hoarse voice, and reached for the kailasa in front of him. He saw them then, two red striations at the wrist below the palm. He raised the kailasa to his lips and sipped at the water it kept, and in his peripheral vision saw that the striations extended along the inside of his forearm. As though the sight of it made it real, the maddening itch intensified along those strange lines in his skin.
He placed the kailasa on the table and cleared his throat.
“The Basileus had just made retobole, when from across the tshandralaya came these terrified voices. At first, we all turned to the dais, upon which the Basileus and his kunaroi, and the Kiriarjunos and the Natalarjunoi stood. They seemed to be the first to react, as the Arjunoi on the far-side of the dais, even some of the Hekatonkaloi on that side, collapsed on the spot.”
“Chilling, Lysandros. What happened anvam?”
“The remaining Arjunoi and Hekatonkaloi rallied around the Basileus and the Kiriarjunos and moved them away from the disturbance. By that time, many more uroi had collapsed, some where coughing… I saw very many tauraih and androi with blood in their eyes.”
“Blood?”
“Yes, it looked like they were crying tears of blood.”
“Mahadevoi!”
Through the glare of prakshalux lamps, Lysandros observed the subtle shift in Ektheos’ expression—from practised concern to genuine horror. The itch along his forearms had become nearly unbearable, but masurodi of investigative work had taught him to maintain composure under pressure.
“There was an uros,” Lysandros continued, and fought the urge to scratch. “Just before the chaos erupted. He was arguing with another uros, perhaps he was andros, I cannot be sure, near the utari colonnade.”
“Can you describe this uros?” Ektheos leaned forward, his professional demeanour momentarily broken.
Argh, this itch! Lysandros noticed with growing alarm the thin rust-coloured lines now crept past his elbows beneath his kurta sleeves. He took another sip from the kailasa, stalling precious moments to organise his thoughts.
“Tall, perhaps two meters. Short hair. Varuno complexion. He wore a simple-cut black suit… He carried himself like tauraih, yet I did not recognise him from any prominent oikoi.”
The studio lights grew warmer then, more intense, as beads of perspiration began to form on his forehead. With growing discomfort, he pressed on, knowing this might be his only chance to share what he had witnessed.
“The argument became heated. I moved closer to investigate—that’s what we do at the Ephemerida, after all.” He attempted a weak smile. “The two uroi seemed to struggle over something the tall uros had in his hand.”
Ektheos touched his earpiece again, and nodded at some unseen instruction. “And this was when uroi began to collapse?”
“Yes, sampratam,” Lysandros confirmed. “The tall uros struck the andros several times, then fled immediately. His companion…” Why is it so hot in here? “His companion was amongst the first to fall.”
Through the haze of mounting fever, Lysandros noticed the frantic gestures of production assistant off-camera. More deaths had been reported, and the toll was climbing.
“Dhanyavad, Lysandros.” Ektheos said, his voice carrying the weight of professional gravity. “We’ll take a brief pause for our sponsors, but please stay with us. When we return, we’ll discuss the Prahari response and…”
The rest of Ektheos’ words faded into background noise as Lysandros stared at his trembling hands. The red lines had spread to his fingers now, intricate patterns like a second set of veins beneath his skin. In that moment, he understood with terrifying clarity—he had not just witnessed the attack.
He was part of it.
“Pardon me, Sri Krytan, I need to adjust your rupakarna.” A tall and slender kalos began to dab at Lysandros’ forehead with a soft gauze. “Why are you nervous, sira? You do this often enough—”
“What?” Lysandros felt exposed. “I’m not sick.”
“No, I said nervous—”
“Are you alright, Lysandros?” Ektheos spoke over the kosmetikos impolitely. “Stop fussing over him. That’s enough.” And waved his hand belligerently at the kalos.
“Do you have a mirror?” Lysandros clutched at the kosmetikos’ hand as the kalos turned away.
“Just this small one.” The kosmetikos reached into his kit to retrieve the small mirror, and handed it to Lysandros.
“Twenty truti,” called the studio manager.
“Dhanyavad.” Lysandros positioned the mirror so that his neck was visible in the reflection. And just where the itch was most intense, he could see new rust-coloured striations climbing-up his neck: fine, painful lines that he imagined were being carved into his skin.
Oh, mahashakton!
“Namaste, and welcome back to Anahitos: Imanykh. For those of you joining us now, our top story imanykh is the aftermath of the violence at the tshandralaya nykh purvi, where the number of fatalities has now climbed to a tragic two-hundred-and-forty-three. Coming up, we will speak with Prahari service representatives from the Niraksakis and Pharmoko, to better understand the greater implications of this tragedy.”
Lysandros fidgeted as his fever worsened, and that insatiable itch crept painfully along his veins. The floor-to-ceiling display behind the anchor’s divan transformed to show a map of Jamburo, with large red patches dotted across it.
“As you can see,” Ektheos continued, “reports of contagion have surfaced in almost all of the major cities of Aruno. More than thirty-four-hundred infections have been reported across Aruno, with roughly one-hundred-and-twenty cases being reported each horo. As is the case with Stra, Tara, Athenopol, and Mipona, travel to and from Damapolis has been suspended.”
Lysandros looked at the map covered with red patches, as fear gripped his orkheis. He winced quietly with pain and looked down at the burgundy channels that had formed at his wrist.
“Lysandros, if I may return to your previous comments. I’m curious about the argument you witnessed. You mentioned that one of the uroi had something in his hand. Do you suggest that this something was the cause of so many fatalities?”
Throat constricted and dry, Lysandros’ voice scratched as he spoke. “Yes, that’s not a suggestion, Ektheos. Asuron is still at his—argh…”
“Asuron?” Ektheos wrinkled his brow. “Is that the tauraih you saw?”
“He is not tauraih, no. Asuron Zaknaphein is at the centre of this.” Several wet coughs rocked Lysandros then. He wiped his lips across the back of his hand and did not notice the blood. “Do you remember the nine uroi from Panepistimio Uroiko, that died Pragya purvam? Zaknaphein was responsible for those deaths, and he’s at it again.”
“Lysandros, that is a bold claim. Can you substantiate—”
“He has done this to us!” Lysandros tugged at his collar desperately.
“To us?” Ektheos stood-up from the divan, a look of surprised fear distorted his sundaron face. “What is that on your neck?”
Another bout of wet coughs shook Lysandros, and as he coughed, blood sprayed into the air in front of him, and onto the pale-blue of Ektheos’ satin kurta.
“Ahh! What is this—Lysandros!”
Lysandros leaned forward onto the table in-front of him and coughed again. Blood splattered and pooled onto the table, into which Lysandros then slumped.
The itch now burned… everywhere; yet Lysandros could do nothing. Whatever had infected him had now consumed him.
Frantic voices shouted around him, of which only a few made any sense.
“Mahadevoi, are we all infected?”
“Call the Pharmoko, quickly!”
“Save yourselves!”
“Don’t touch him!”
From his slumped-over vantage, Lysandros opened his eyes for the last time, and saw the same panic-stricken looks he had seen at the tshandralaya nykh purvi.
