The scent of stale sweat and mildewed stone clung to the air in the detention chamber. Revna Kestel sat on a narrow, backless bench, the cold iron of her manacles biting into her wrists. The patrolmen, clad in their braided coats, had been surprisingly efficient, but efficiency did not equate to intelligence. They had not bothered to search her, assuming the glamour of Casimir’s name and the Weeping Siren necklace were her only defenses. Her real weapon, a sliver of concentrated caustic acid hidden in her boot heel, remained. She had no intention of using it yet. Not when a more entertaining solution was already in motion. “Apprehended for the theft of the Weeping Siren necklace, an unregistered relic,” the judicial agent, a stout man named Borne, had declared. “You’ll be held until the Guild of Arbiters can sort this mess.” Revna had merely offered a cool, unimpressed glance. “The necklace was a gift. My fiancé purchased it at auction. Perhaps you should read the auctioneer’s records.” Borne had scoffed. “Right. And Renz just lets his ‘fiancée’ get dragged off by the City Guard. You’re a street rat, Kestel. You always were.” She said nothing, merely watched his mouth twist, already calculating the quickest route to ruin him for that pronouncement. It was a reflex, a habit honed by years of scraping by. Every insult was a ledger entry, every slight a debt. And the Morvaths, above all, would pay in full. She closed her eyes, listening. The thick stone walls of the district precinct muffled the city’s din, but not completely. She heard the distant clatter of hooves on cobblestones, the mournful blare of a foghorn from the Veridian Docks. And, closer, the frantic, familiar patter of Jorik’s footsteps. He would be a disaster, she knew. A glorious, chaotic disaster. Jorik, meanwhile, was having the worst night of his life. He’d barely managed to slip away from the Undercroft chaos, ribs aching with every panicked gulp of air. The precinct squad had arrested *Revna*. Revna! The woman who had taught him how to tell a genuine pre-Rendellian curse tablet from a mass-produced tourist trinket. The woman who had, begrudgingly, fed him when he had nowhere else to go. He had to get her out. He crouched low, a shadowy blot against the gaslit alley outside the Precinct’s rear entrance. The air was thick with the smell of damp earth and something acrid, like burnt sugar. A single, grimy window offered a sliver of view into what looked like a guard breakroom. “Okay, okay,” he mumbled to himself, adjusting his spectacles. “Revna said: ‘Distract, disorient, disable.’ Right. Simple.” He clutched a small, ornate vial in his shaking hand. It contained a specialized sleep gas, designed to be odorless and fast-acting. Revna had explained its properties with meticulous detail, but Jorik’s mind had been elsewhere, imagining the various ways he could accidentally blow himself up with it. He watched two burly guards inside, one polishing a truncheon, the other poring over a crude drawing of a mythical beast. Their laughter rumbled through the thin glass. Jorik took a deep breath, fumbled for the vial’s stopper, and pulled. With a flick of his wrist, he hurled it through the open window. It shattered with a muffled pop. Instead of the odorless gas Revna had described, a plume of shimmering, iridescent vapor erupted, swirling like liquid starlight. It was the wrong vial. He’d grabbed the one labeled ‘Truth Gas – Experimental, Do Not Inhale.’ He panicked, clutching his head. He was so dead. Revna was going to kill him. And then the Morvaths would kill him. And then the city watch would probably arrest his ghost. Inside, the guards inhaled deeply, their laughter abruptly dying. Borne, who had just stepped into the room, blinked, staring blankly. A beat of silence. Then, the polishing guard, a man with a handlebar mustache, dropped his truncheon with a clatter. “You know, Borne,” he said, his voice unusually soft, “I’ve always admired the way your uniform fits. And your smile. It’s very… disarming.” A tear welled in his eye. “I think I love you.” Borne, looking utterly horrified, staggered back. “What in the—? Get away from me, Renford! You’re mad!” But then his own eyes began to water. “Though… I *do* appreciate that you always share your butterscotch drops. And your laugh sounds like a happy badger. It makes my chest feel… warm.” He sniffled loudly. “I-I think I’ve been secretly in love with *you* since the Veridian Festival of Lights five years ago, Renford!” Renford gasped, then burst into exaggerated sobs. “Oh, Borne! My sweet, stout Borne!” The third guard, the one drawing the mythical beast, slammed his fist on the table. “Fools! Both of you! Don’t you see? This is a trap! And besides,” he wailed, tears streaming down his face, “I’ve always harbored a secret desire to become a interpretive dancer! And my greatest regret is never telling my mother how much I despise her cabbage stew!” Jorik, pressed against the wall, stared in abject horror. “Oh, gods. Oh, gods, oh, gods.” He’d created a catastrophic emotional meltdown. This was worse than the time he’d accidentally enchanted the guildmaster’s prized topiary to sing opera. But the keys! He could see them, hanging on a hook by the door, forgotten amidst the outpouring of suppressed affection and culinary grievances. With a fresh surge of adrenaline, Jorik burst through the back door. The guards, oblivious in their tearful confessions, barely registered him. He snatched the heavy ring of keys, his fingers fumbling. “Sorry! Very sorry! Just borrowing these!” he squeaked, and bolted. Revna heard the distant wails of emotional distress, then the clang of keys approaching her cell. The heavy iron door swung inward, revealing a disheveled Jorik, his face pale, spectacles askew. “Revna! I… I did a thing! I think I made them fall in love with each other. Or hate cabbage. I’m not sure which is worse.” “Brilliant, Jorik,” Revna said, a rare, genuine curve to her lips. “Next time, aim for ‘unconscious’.” She held out her manacled wrists. He fumbled with the keys, finally freeing her. The moment her hands were loose, she moved, a whisper of motion, grabbing a discarded constable's jacket from a nearby hook. “Come on.” They emerged into the narrow alleyway behind the Precinct, the gas lamps casting long, dancing shadows. The cold night air bit at Revna’s exposed skin, a stark contrast to the stifling warmth of the auction hall. Her gaze swept the shadows, her instincts screaming danger. It wasn’t the city watch she worried about now. Casimir wouldn’t leave her to face this alone. And then she saw him. He stood in the center of the alley, beneath a sputtering gaslight, a dark silhouette against the brickwork. Around him, a haphazard pile of unconscious precinct enforcers lay scattered like discarded dolls. Three, four, five of them. His fine coat was rumpled, his usually immaculate hair disarrayed. A dark plum bruise was already blooming high on his cheekbone. And his knuckles, scraped raw, were bleeding freely. Casimir Renz, the man whose wealth could buy armies, had eschewed his lawyers, his enforcers, his entire network of influence, to fight for her with his bare hands. The careless facade was gone, replaced by a raw, furious intensity that halted the air in her throat. His gaze, sharp as a honed blade, locked onto hers. It was a silent question, a confirmation, a primal claim. He held out a hand, his bloody fingers trembling almost imperceptibly. “Revna,” he said, his voice rough, devoid of its usual playful lilt. “Are you hurt?” She shook her head, a strange tremor coursing through her. She took his hand, her fingers closing around his bruised knuckles. The contact was jarring, intensely real. She expected him to pull her close, but he merely squeezed her hand, his eyes burning into hers. “We need to move,” he said, his gaze flicking to the darkening street. Just as they reached the mouth of the alley, a low rumble vibrated through the cobblestones. A black carriage, drawn by two massive, obsidian-coated horses, rolled silently into their path, blocking their escape. Its polished doors, devoid of any crest or marking, opened with a soft click. A figure emerged, tall and gaunt, his silhouette framed by the carriage’s interior light. Lord Morvath. And in his hand, a blade, dull and wickedly curved, pressed against the throat of a small, terrified figure. Miri. Her niece. Her lips trembled, a small, choked sound escaping into the cold.

Truth Gas and Broken Knuckles