So they sent a hunter. The hunter’s name was Divide, a creature of cold logic and sharper edges. Divide cornered Rajaminus in the Shard Market, where the glass flowers whispered.
No one knew what Rajaminus was, exactly. He wasn’t a man, though he walked on two legs. He wasn’t a beast, though his shadow sometimes sprouted horns when the moon was thin. He was a minus—a leftover. An echo of a ritual that had gone spectacularly wrong, or spectacularly right, depending on whom you asked. rajaminus
But the Arithmeticians’ Guild was horrified. They had built a world without subtraction—without loss, without debt, without the ugly leftovers of emotion. Rajaminus was an error in their perfect equation. He was the minus sign that refused to be erased. So they sent a hunter
Divide’s blade clattered to the ground. He sat down among the glass flowers and cried for the first time in a thousand calculations. No one knew what Rajaminus was, exactly