The opulent foyer of Vannok’s penthouse gleamed with polished brass and brass-veined marble, reeking of gaudy excess. Gilded automatons, each holding a tray of shimmering synth-champagne, lined the marble corridor. Zendra, her stolen sapphire-blue gown a jarring contrast to the blood-rust stains on her cherished chef’s apron, strode past them with the focused intensity of a berserker entering battle. Her rolling pin, now infused with the shimmering Void-essence of the Leviathan, felt like a comforting extension of her arm. Her industrial-grade spatula, its edge ground to a razor sharpness, tucked snugly into her belt. Three hours. The clock was a physical ache in her chest. She’d ‘acquired’ the gown from a particularly loud socialite in the lower levels of the building, leaving the woman tied with a length of silken cord and gagged with a floral napkin, muttering about a severe case of dress-napping. The apron stayed. It was her uniform. It was her war paint. “Lady Zendra, how utterly *unexpected*,” a smarmy voice slithered from behind a potted, chrome-leafed ferro-fern. Vannok, sleek in a bespoke black suit, materialized with a forced smile. His eyes, however, were narrowed, scanning her for a hidden blade. “I wasn’t aware you’d grace us with your… unique charm.” Zendra didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Where is he?” Her voice was a low growl, barely audible over the clink of glasses and the drone of polite conversation. “Gristle. Where have you stashed my sous-chef?” Vannok chuckled, a sound like gravel grinding. “Oh, the little fire-lizard? Such a fascinating specimen. He’s quite secure. A charming conversation piece for my vault, actually. Perhaps I’ll have him stuffed.” Before Zendra could respond, a sudden commotion erupted near the central champagne pyramid, a towering edifice of polished steel and effervescent synth-wine. A frantic shriek pierced the air. “Intruder! Get away from the vault!” Snipes, looking surprisingly clean in a borrowed servant’s uniform, met Zendra’s gaze from across the room. She gave a quick, almost imperceptible nod. Her face, usually a mask of terror, held a grim, almost gleeful satisfaction. She’d been busy. Very, very busy. Moments later, a high-pitched, triumphant squeal echoed through the penthouse. The massive vault door, disguised as a mural of industrial titans, yawned open. A familiar scaly head emerged, magma-glow flickering in its eyes. Gristle. He was free. He didn't hesitate. With a joyous, guttural roar, the pangolin launched himself towards the tiered champagne tower. His squat body skidded across the polished floor, propelling him into the base of the massive structure. A searing jet of molten rock erupted from his mouth, striking the reservoir’s primary synth-ethanol tank. The detonation was deafening. The entire structure buckled. Gilded automatons toppled like dominoes. A geyser of fizzing, flaming alcohol blasted upwards, showering the impeccably dressed guests with burning liquid. Shouts of panic and surprise turned to screams of genuine terror as the highly flammable fluid ignited their expensive garments. Hair caught fire. Ties smoldered. The air filled with the stench of burning couture and singed hair. “My vintage! My… my *centerpiece*!” Vannok shrieked, his composure shattering. His perfectly coiffed hair was now askew, his face splattered with flaming fizz. He looked absurd, scrambling backwards as the inferno spread, leaving a trail of terrified socialites in his wake. “Guards! Stop that… that *thing*!” But Snipes had done her work well. The few guards who remained conscious were already disarmed, trussed up in intricate knots of tablecloths and curtain cords. The rest were fleeing, convinced the end of Vandercrag had arrived in the form of a rampaging, fire-breathing pangolin. Zendra ignored the chaos. Her eyes locked onto Vannok, who was now stumbling towards his private study, a desperate attempt to escape. She moved with purpose, her heavy ballgown surprisingly unhindering. She needed his core. She needed it now. She burst into his study, the ornate mahogany door splintering on its hinges. Vannok was fumbling with a hidden safe, his fingers trembling. He spun around, white-knuckled around a tiny, antique pistol. “Zendra! Stay back!” His voice was reedy, stripped of its usual bravado. “I warn you! I’ll… I’ll shoot!” She merely stalked forward, her shadow falling over him. The Void-rolling pin rested casually on her shoulder, a silent threat. The spatula gleamed in her hand. “We’re past warnings, Vannok,” she said, her voice flat, devoid of emotion. “Give me the core.” He let out a hysterical laugh, a high-pitched, desperate sound that grated on her nerves. “My core? You think it’s that simple? You think you can just… carve it out like a roast?” He dropped the pistol, his hands fumbling at the collar of his shirt. He ripped it open, exposing his chest. A faint, almost imperceptible glow emanated from a small, surgically implanted device just beneath his sternum. “You always underestimate me, Zendra,” he rasped, his eyes glinting with a mad triumph. “This little beauty? It’s linked. Directly to a ‘contingency.’ A very large, very powerful fission bomb. Hidden deep beneath the Zol-Tarish settlement. One little flicker, one cessation of my vital functions… and your entire barbarian ‘kingdom’ goes up in a mushroom cloud of ash and void-fire.” He grinned, a horrifying, triumphant baring of teeth. “Kill me, Zendra. I dare you. Watch everything you’ve tried to save crumble to dust.”

Infiltrating the Dinner Party