The enforcer filled the splintered doorway, Morovan’s broken-griffin crest catching the lantern light on his shoulder guard as his bruised-plum eyes locked on me. “Corenza. You dare.” Without breaking stare with our intruder, Davorin hooked fingers behind my neck. “Our audience is waiting, my dear.” His thumb grazed the sensitive skin behind my ear. The action was swift, unexpected, and utterly devoid of hesitation. Before I could process the implication, his head dipped. His lips met mine with an aggressive possessiveness that was meant to be purely for show. But the pressure, the surprising heat, the faint scent of ozone and something clean, metallic, like a storm approaching – it wasn’t just an act. My habitual lethargy vanished, replaced by a stinging jolt like exposed brass wiring. My fingers, unbidden, curled into the lapels of his tailored coat, clinging. The kiss deepened, consuming, demanding a response my body gave freely, despite my mind screaming about the sheer inconvenience of it all. It was the furthest thing from the polite, passionless pecks Morovan had ever offered. This was a statement, a challenge, a branding. Then, as suddenly as it began, it ended. Davorin pulled back, his eyes still molten gold, his lips slightly swollen. He scanned my face, searching for balance, an unusual pause marking his features. Warmth crawled up my collar. Damn him, and damn my pulse for racing over the sharp tang of his mouth. Across the deck, the intruder bared his teeth in a ragged snarl. “The feed is live, my love,” Davorin murmured, pitching his tone just loud enough to carry across the floor. Then, his gaze hardened, snapping to the enraged enforcer. “It seems Morovan’s dogs are ill-trained. Pity.” The brute lunged, drawing a blade of blackened storm-steel. “You will regret this, Kingpin!” Davorin didn’t even stand. From his seated position, he brought up a boot, catching Kaelix squarely in the chest. The guard skidded across the lacquered timber, slamming into the cabin partition with a thud that rattled the deck planks. The storm-steel blade clattered away. “Amateur,” I muttered, leaning back against the velvet cushion. “He telegraphs his moves a parsec away. And that footwork? Unbalanced.” Davorin glanced at me, a quick, almost imperceptible smirk. “Your critical eye remains as sharp as ever, Corenza.” Davorin rose in a smooth shift of dark wool. The guard scrambled upright, wrenching a compact steam-pistol from his belt, but Davorin closed the gap instantly. His fist cracked against the man's jawbone with a brittle snap. The pistol discharged harmlessly into the ceiling, showering us with gilded dust. “His stance is still too wide,” I observed, crossing my legs. “Leaves him open for a knee strike to the mid-section.” Davorin drove his knee straight into the man's ribs. The guard wheezed, folding inward, and an elbow driven down between his shoulder blades dropped him limp against the deck. Davorin stepped back, shaking out his hand. He looked at me, a brow arched. “Satisfied, Professor?” “Adequate,” I conceded, giving him a languid nod. “Efficient. Though a little rough around the edges for my taste.” He merely chuckled, a low, rich sound. “I’ll endeavor to refine my technique for your next performance review.” He kicked the fallen weapon away. “Come. This barge has lost its charm.” Minutes later, we were soaring over the labyrinthine canals of Pelagosa, the barge left to drift, its public display of our ‘romance’ already sparking a frenzy on the syndicate feeds. Davorin’s skiff, sleek and black as obsidian, skimmed the canal mists on humming pneumatic runners. We ascended higher and higher, the city sprawling beneath us like a jewel-encrusted circuit board, until the colossal, multi-tiered fortress known as the Spire of the Drowned loomed into view. Its crystalline facets glittered, reflecting the city lights, its upper levels piercing the perpetual mist that clung to Pelagosa’s highest reaches. Inside, the fortress stood as a triumph of industrial engineering and ruthless discipline. Obsidian flagstones stretched beneath shimmering defense wards and gliding brass servitors. But it was the central atrium, a dizzying vertical expanse of interconnecting bridges and platforms, that truly commanded attention. Davorin steered me into an opulent lounge nestled on one of the mid-tiers, overlooking Pelagosa through a sweeping panoramic viewport. “Make yourself at home,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the room. “Consider it your temporary command center.” My eyes immediately located a monstrosity of a sofa. Deep crimson velvet spanned wide enough for four people, deep and yielding. Perfect. I sank into the cushions, and Vex melted out from my shadow to curl across my knees, a purring ballast. I sank into the cushions, sighing in contentment. This was more like it. From here, I could dismantle empires without lifting more than a single digit. “Excellent choice,” I declared, settling Vex into a comfortable position. The shadow-mink gave a soft chitter, then, with a delicate cough, regurgitated the comm-link it had consumed earlier. It landed on a nearby low table, inert. “Now, for the evidence.” Davorin, who had been observing my immediate commandeering of his most expensive piece of furniture with an amused glint in his eye, picked up the comm-link. He activated a small, wrist-mounted device. A pulse of energy shot from it, coaxing the comm-link to life. A holographic projection shimmered into being above the table: a grainy, yet undeniably clear, image of Lyssina, Morovan’s mistress, her face contorted in a sneer. Her voice, tinny but distinct, filled the room. *“—No witnesses, Kaelix. Not a single thread. Make it look like a street mugging. Her new body is fragile. It won’t take much. Ensure Morovan hears the news from the broadcast. Let him believe she died running from a canal guard after ‘escaping’ him.”* The hologram flickered, then vanished. Davorin slowly lowered his hand. “Lyssina. So she’s not just a pretty face and a pliable bedmate. She ordered the hit.” His voice was flat, devoid of surprise, yet sharp with a dangerous edge. “A new body, she said,” I mused, stroking Vex’s soft fur. “She knows. How could she know?” “Perhaps she overheard Morovan,” Davorin suggested. “He’s known to monologue when drunk or enraged. Or perhaps… she has her own sources.” He moved to a console, his fingers flying across a data slate. “That makes things more interesting. And more urgent. I’ll be back.” He was gone before I could question him further. Mute clockwork constructs drifted past the archway, routing ledger rolls and distillates between stations. I watched the holographic projections of the city outside, a restless energy humming beneath the Spire’s controlled calm. Vex purred, seemingly unconcerned, its tail twitching lazily. Not long after, Davorin returned. He wasn’t pristine anymore. His coat was torn, a streak of crimson marred his cheek, and his knuckles were scraped raw. He carried a heavily encrypted data-slate, its casing scarred. “Lyssina’s personal archives,” he announced, dropping the slate beside the comm-link. “A brisk break-in at her townhouse. Her celebrated ancestral crest turns out to be entirely fraudulent. Not a drop of genuine blue blood in her veins. Just a serial con artist with excellent taste in silk.” “Fascinating,” I said, a slow, predatory smile spreading across my face. “A fake noblewoman attempting to murder me to solidify her position. Morovan will *love* that particular broadcast.” My eyes gleamed with anticipated satisfaction. “Any other delightful tidbits?” Davorin activated the data-slate. A file unfurled, its contents projected above the table, spiraling golden text against a dark background. “This… is not delightful,” he said, his voice unusually grim. The words coalesced into a binding thaumaturgical pact, its glyphs burning a sickly bile-green. My gaze snagged on a particular phrase, highlighted in an ominous red. *“…the subject’s resurrected life force shall be irrevocably soul-tethered to the heartbeat of the original benefactor, Morovan Keldaris. Should the benefactor’s heart cease to beat, the subject’s stolen vitality shall extinguish instantaneously, returning to the alchemical ether from whence it was drawn.”* My slouch went rigid. Air drained from my lungs in an abrupt gasp. This body, this new, inconveniently energetic body, was not mine in the way I’d thought. It was a borrowed vessel, a temporary shell, its very existence hinged on the man I intended to ruin. If Morovan died… I died. Instantly. And I had sworn to dismantle him without letting him die. This changed everything. This wasn’t just about vengeance anymore. This was about survival. My survival. And Morovan, in his escalating paranoia, was becoming a walking, breathing, ticking time bomb.

Sofa-Bound Sabotage