"And so they came - more of them, eager to witness what had unleashed. The ones who thought they could study me, bind me, contain me. They thought they could hold me in a cage of iron or magic or law, but I am the cage. I am the law."

Lark has always kept to the shadows, as her caretaker wanted, hiding a secret she can't fully remember. Immune to the plague devastating Merovale, she is the only one able to touch its victims, but each encounter reveals more questions than answers. As Lark's forgotten past begins to resurface, she uncovers eerie patterns in the disease - and a connection to something far older and more dangerous than anyone realizes. What if the plague isn't spreading... but awakening?

"Emergence" is a story of the chilling unknown that lurks beneath a city on the edge of change and choice. Perfect for readers of Leigh Bardugo, N.K. Jemisin, and V.E. Schwab.

The medical ward was a graveyard in waiting. Shadows pooled thick between the rows of cots, lit only by the guttering lanterns hung from rusted hooks. The air was damp and sour, carrying the copper tang of blood and the sweet-sick stench of death.

Lark moved through it all with the ease of someone long accustomed to the ugly work of survival. Her boots glided over the warped floorboards, her hands streaked with a ruddy film that never quite washed away. The others worked in masks and gloves, their movements careful, precise, detached. But Lark's hands were bare, unflinching as she pressed her fingers to a patient's wrist, checked the faint rise and fall of their chest.

Nothing. Another life snuffed out.

She forced herself to stand, to keep moving. She wasn't allowed the luxury of stopping, not when people were still dying, not when her immunity made her the ward's last hope. They called her a blessing, a miracle. They didn't see the weight of it, the burden of being spared when everyone else suffered.

"Lark!" A man's voice cut through the ward's quiet din.

She looked up to see Mat and Oriana struggling through the entrance, dragging a girl between them. Her limbs hung limp, her head lolling to one side. Even from across the room, Lark could tell she didn't belong there.

The girl's dress, torn and bloodied, was made of pale silk embroidered with delicate threads of gold. No one in the Lower Circle wore anything so fine. The jewelry glinting faintly at her throat and wrists was worth more than most people here would make in their lifetimes. She wasn't a commoner, wasn't one of them.

"Where did she come from?" Lark asked as Mat laid the girl on a cot.

"Found her outside," he said, already moving away. "Didn't see who brought her in."

Lark crouched beside the girl, her dark hair plastered to her fever-flushed skin. Her breaths came shallow and uneven, her lips cracked and tinged faintly blue. Lark grabbed her wrist, turning it to check for signs of the plague's usual progression.

And froze.

There, inked into the girl's skin, was a mark—a small spiral.

Lark's pulse stuttered. She shoved back her sleeve, exposing the same mark on her own wrist, faint but unmistakable. Her mouth went dry.

Her mark had always been a mystery, something she kept hidden, something Arden had warned her never to show.

Don't let them see it. Don't let them see you.

Now here it was again, staring back at her from this girl's pale, delicate skin.

The girl's lips parted, a faint murmur slipping through. Lark leaned closer, her heart hammering.

"What's that?" she whispered.

The girl's eyes fluttered open, unfocused and glassy, her voice a rasp. "The collectors. They... they took my blood. Promised immunity. They told my father..."

Lark's fingers tightened around the girl's wrist. "Who?"

The collectors. She had heard stories of the strange figures moving through the Lower Circle, a shadowy group supposedly pulling the strings behind the chaos. She had always assumed it was nothing more than paranoia.

The girl's body convulsed, her back arching against the cot as blood bloomed beneath her skin. But it wasn't the sluggish spread of plague bruising Lark was used to. This was different. The blood crystallized in sharp, geometric patterns, glittering in the lamplight like frost.

Lark pressed her weight against the girl, trying to hold her down. "Your name," she demanded. "Tell me your name."

The girl's head lolled toward her, her lips forming one last, broken word. "Valetta."

Then she went still.

Lark let out a shuddering breath, her hands still pressed to the girl's shoulders. Around her, the ward buzzed with the noise of dying bodies, murmured orders, the shuffle of feet. But it all blurred, faded, as she stared down at the girl's lifeless form.

House Valetta of the Upper Circle.

She glanced at the spiral on the girl's wrist, then at her own, a cold certainty settling in her chest.

Her caretaker had always told her not to trust people, to stay hidden, to stay safe. She'd never really said why, only that her life depended on it.

And the collectors—the ones who had taken the girl's blood, the ones who had made her promises—might have answers about her past.

***

The Upper Circle was too clean. The stones beneath Lark's boots gleamed white in the moonlight, polished to perfection, as if the plague hadn't dared touch this part of the city. Even the air smelled different, lighter, perfumed with the faint trace of winter roses spilling over wrought-iron gates.

She pulled her hood lower, her fingers brushing the chain of the ward badge tucked beneath her cloak. It was her only excuse for being here, a borrowed identity from the medical ward—a healer sent to collect personal effects for research.

The estate loomed ahead, its spires clawing upward, its tall windows glowing faintly. The gates were unguarded. Why should they be, in a district that practically bled wealth? No thief would make it past the patrols, and no plague victim would ever make it this far.

Still, Lark's heart raced as she slipped inside, the cool metal of the gate creaking faintly. She cursed under her breath but kept moving, the weight of exhaustion pulling at her like an anchor. Fifteen hours of triage, death, and questions she couldn't answer—and still, she wasn't done.

The girl's voice rang in her mind. The spiral mark on her wrist, the glittering fractals of her blood, the collectors. And now, the only lead she had—the merchant's house, quiet and waiting.

Lark rapped her knuckles against the heavy oak doors, their echo swallowed by the estate's vast silence. She forced her posture into something upright, purposeful, despite the exhaustion weighing her limbs. After a long moment, the door creaked open, revealing a servant whose sharp eyes darted over her worn boots and simple cloak.

"Who are you?" the servant demanded, his tone wary. Lark offered a faint smile, pulling the ward badge from beneath her collar.

"Elisa Veyne, healer of Merovale. I've been sent to retrieve personal effects for plague research and to ensure the daughter's room is decontaminated."

The servant hesitated, his lips pressing into a tight line. "Master requested no visitors—"

"Plague spreads easily, even among the Upper Circle," Lark cut in. "Regardless of your master's orders... believe it or not."

The man eyed her hard. With a reluctant sigh, the servant stepped aside, opening the door just wide enough for her to slip through. "Make it quick and don't let anyone see you."

"I'll be gone before you know it," Lark said as she squeezed by.

Inside, the manor was exorbitant. Gilded railings, imported tapestries, marble floors that swallowed the sound of her boots. Lark had seen places like this before, in brief glimpses through carriage windows or the half-forgotten haze of memory. She knew better than to stare now. Wealth was always dangerous, always watching, even in its stillness.

The servant led her to the girl's chambers with a silent nod, his eyes darting away as if even this small act of guidance was a risk.

The room was immaculate—too immaculate. Almost sterile. Lark's stomach twisted as she stepped inside, her boots sinking into the plush rug.

This wasn't what a plague site should look like. There was no copper sheen staining the furniture, no smudges of blood or grime left behind by healers or desperate family members. The air didn't even smell of sickness. It was too perfect, like a painting hung in a gallery.

Lark's eyes roved over the space, searching for anything out of place. The bed was neatly made, the covers pulled taut. The dresser held no trace of dust. Her gaze landed on the desk, its surface pristine save for a single quill and an empty sheet of parchment.

Her fingers found the edge of the desk, running along the underside until she felt a faint ridge. A panel slid free with a quiet click, revealing a hidden compartment. Inside were four small vials, their contents gleaming faintly in the low light. Lark pulled one out, turning it in her hand.

The liquid inside shimmered like crushed glass. Fractals spread along the vial in spiraling, frozen shapes. It was just like the girl's blood. Beside the vials was a sheaf of parchment covered in precise, looping handwriting.

"...Exposure protocols... adaptation resistance... batch four..."

Lark's fingers tightened on the papers. Whatever had been done to the girl, whatever had been done to her—this was part of it.

A faint sound reached her ears, a creak of footsteps on the floorboards outside the room. She froze. The sound grew louder, closer. Lark's heart raced as she shoved the papers and vials back into the compartment, closing it with trembling fingers. She slipped into the shadows behind the heavy curtains just as the door opened.

Two figures entered. One, she assumed based on his expensive garb, was the merchant himself. His broad shoulders hunched as if the weight of his wealth had finally become too much. The other was taller, robed in dark fabric that rippled like water. A copper mask covered the visitor's face, its surface sharp with straight lines.

"She was a failed adaptation," the masked figure said, his voice metallic and distorted. "You should have called for retrieval as soon as her symptoms manifested."

The merchant's voice shook. "I was trying to save her. I did everything you asked. The bloodlettings, the treatments. I traded—" His voice broke, and he scrubbed a hand over his face. "I traded them. The street children. Dozens of them. You promised that would be enough to protect her."

The robed figure tilted his head. "We made no promises. You gambled and you lost. But, you may yet prove useful. We require access to your remaining stock."

"There isn't any, they're all gone!" the merchant snapped, his grief suddenly flaring into anger. "Do you think I'd be here, groveling to you, if there was any left? My daughter is as good as dead—"

"Because you failed," the figure said coldly. "Ensure your future failures do not waste our resources. We'll send for you when we require more subjects."

The merchant collapsed into a chair, burying his face in his hands.

Lark's breath caught as she shifted to peer through the narrow gap in the curtains. The merchant had slumped further into his chair, his shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. The robed figure moved toward the door, their copper mask gleaming dully in the faint light. Lark exhaled slowly, silently, her pulse thrumming in her ears. Just a few more seconds, and they'd be gone—

The mask turned.

Not toward the merchant. Not toward the vials hidden in the desk. It turned toward her.

The air shifted, thick. Lark's body stiffened as the sensation hit her—a familiar heaviness, a cloying pressure that sank into her lungs and skin. It was the plague's residue, but concentrated, suffocating, far more potent than she'd ever felt before. Her immunity dulled the edge of it, but not enough to stop her heart from hammering against her ribs.

"You've been very quiet, little healer," the figure said. His voice was calm, unhurried, but the metallic edge made it feel like nails scraping against glass. "Did you think we wouldn't notice?"

Lark pressed herself deeper into the shadows, her fingers brushing the window frame behind her. Could she make it out? Could she run? The streets below were empty this time of night—or should have been.

"You smell of the ward," the figure continued, stepping closer. "Despair, death and defiance. And something else... immunity? What a rare trait."

Her chest tightened. Every instinct screamed at her to move, to fight, but she stayed frozen. The merchant said nothing, his grief too consuming, his back still turned. However, the masked man made his way toward her. The figure stopped just short of the curtains, his head tilting as if in amusement.

"Tell me," he said, his voice lowering to a soft, poisonous hum. "Don't you ever wonder why your memories fail you?"

The words struck her. Her lungs seized. Her childhood—fractured, incomplete—flashed in jagged pieces behind her eyes. Arden telling her to stay hidden. The warnings never to trust. The mark on her wrist, a puzzle with no answer.

The figure took another step. The pressure in the air thickened, the residue clinging to her skin like a living thing. "You are not so different from her," he said. "The girl. A failed adaptation. But you—"

A sudden sound broke through the room. The low toll of Lucile's bell, echoing through the city streets. Once. Twice. Thrice.

Lark's heart sank. It was the signal from the ward, the call for more hands, more healers. It meant new victims had arrived, that her post was filling without her.

That the plague was still spreading.

The collector straightened, his head cocking to one side with an unnerving sharpness. Lark could feel his gaze through the mask, though no eyes were visible. The toll of the bell faded into silence, leaving only her pounding heartbeat and the faint, metallic rasp of the man's breathing.

Lark pressed her back against the window, her fingers brushing the latch. Cold air seeped through the edges, a tantalizing promise of freedom just out of reach.

"Do not test me," the collector said softly, stepping closer. "You'll find I am far less forgiving than the plague."

"You talk a lot," she said, her voice steadier than she felt.

The collector paused. "Was that bravery," he mused, "or desperation?"

Lark's jaw tightened. The window latch gave way under her weight, and a rush of cold air swept in, stinging her skin. She made to vault out of the open window, but the collector was faster.

The air thickened around her as a wave of unseen pressure slammed into her side. Her legs buckled, and she hit the floor hard, the breath torn from her lungs. Lark struggled to grasp the world around her. What the hell was that?

As the man moved closer, the faint lamplight revealed more of the grotesque details of his mask. No, not a mask. Lark's stomach turned as she realized the copper wasn't just covering his face—it was a part of his face. The metal had fused to his skin, twisting into rough ridges that pulsed faintly, almost alive.

The collector saw her horror and laughed.

A snarl built in Lark's throat. Her fingers brushed against the desk's drawer, still ajar. With a desperate motion, she yanked it open and grabbed one of the vials.

The collector's amusement vanished. "Put that down."

Lark ignored him, her blood roaring in her ears. On something that felt like instinct, she hurled the vial at the figure with all her strength.

It shattered against his chest, splattering him with shimmering fractals. The copper growth on his face and body recoiled violently, pulling back as if burned. The collector staggered, clutching his chest.

But, he recovered faster than she'd hoped, his arm sweeping out. The same invisible force hit her again, slamming her into the desk. Pain lanced through her side, but she bit down on a cry.

"This is why we don't let specimens roam free," he hissed, advancing. "You cannot be trusted with what you have."

Lark's gaze darted back to the desk, to the faint gleam of another vial. Desperation fueled her. As the collector reached out, she ducked low, rolling past his outstretched arm and grabbing the vial in one motion.

The pressure in the air intensified, making her head spin, but she forced herself to move. She swung the vial wildly, shattering it against the collector's outstretched hand. The contents hit his skin.

This time, the reaction was more violent. The copper writhed, pulling away from his hand and face, exposing raw, blackened flesh beneath. The collector let out a guttural sound—pain or rage, she couldn't tell, and she didn't wait around to find out.

Lark jumped to her feet and darted for the open window, throwing herself through it just as the collector raised his hand again. The unseen force hit her midair, the momentum carried her forward.

She tumbled onto the estate's sloped roof, rolling until she hit the edge. Her fingers scraped against the cold stone, barely catching the lip of a gutter. Her body dangled precariously.

The collector appeared in the window, his copper-covered face illuminated by the moonlight. "Run all you like," he called, his growl carrying easily over the distance. "You can't escape what you are."

Lark gritted her teeth, her chest heaving as the pressure in the air thickened again, making her limbs feel leaden. She had no time, no plan—only instinct. With a desperate cry, she launched herself outward, the icy night air rushing against her skin as she began to fall. Another invisible force hit her.

The thrust carried her farther than she expected. Instead of finding the safety of the estate grounds below, her body slammed through a glass dome, the brittle surface shattering under her weight. She fell as shards of glass trailed after her like rain.

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