The parchment smoldered with lingering green luminescence. *Soul-tethered.* To *Morovan.* The man I meant to dismantle with economic ruin and scandal, preferably while supine upon a divan, now served as my sole anchor to this realm. “Soul-tethered?” Davorin’s voice, rough with concern, cut through the haze. He stood beside the sprawling data projection, his eyes narrowed on the glowing script. His black silk tunic, still damp with the residual chill of Pelagosa’s lower canals, clung to the muscular expanse of his shoulders. “This is… extreme. Even for guild-drafted covenants.” I dragged a hand across my face, feeling the clammy residue of the sprint, the fight, the revelation. “Extreme understates the insult. It’s a galvanic leash,” I murmured, sinking deeper against the bolsters. “If his pulse falters, my borrow-bought heart stops.” “So, your goal shifts,” Davorin observed, turning from the projection to meet my gaze. His eyes, usually pools of obsidian calm, held a flicker of something unreadable. “From dismantling his empire to… babysitting him?” “More like keeping a very active, very paranoid, very targeted human shield alive,” I corrected, my mind already racing, sifting through the implications. “His recklessness just became my mortal threat. Every competitor, every defrauded factor, every canal enforcer with a grudge against him aims directly at my neck. And Morovan collects vendettas like Vex gathers tallow shavings.” Vex, curled on my lap, let out a soft rumble of agreement, his shadow-fur rippling. He nudged his head against my hand, a silent offer of comfort. I scratched behind his ears, the familiar feel of his coarse fur a grounding presence. Davorin’s lips quirked, a ghost of a smile. “Then we alter the schedule. The Glass Atrium reception convenes tonight,” Davorin said. “Morovan intends to peacock for the banking houses. We keep him within arm's reach while baiting the merchant cartels.” “A gala?” I sighed, the very word a burden. My new body might be energetic, but my soul remained a staunch advocate for horizontal living. “All that standing. The forced smiles. The insipid chatter. Can’t we send a drone with my face projected onto it?” “Corenza.” Davorin’s tone brooked no argument. “Open display is our lever. Our courtship demands witnesses, and you must stand close enough to prevent that tether-bound dolt from tumbling off a pier or taking shrapnel from a destabilized steam-charge.” *** The Glass Atrium vibrated with orchestral strings, the ring of crystal goblets, and the brassy hiss of pressurized gas luminaries. Pelagosa’s elite, clad in their most audacious silks and polished chronometals, moved like an iridescent current beneath the soaring, vaulted ceiling of reinforced chromaglass. Beneath our feet, the floor-to-ceiling windows offered a dizzying view of the city’s upper tiers, a sparkling cascade of light and shadow. Surveillance orbs, brass spheres no larger than apples, drifted above the velvet crowd to pipe high-definition feeds directly to the municipal printing wards. My arm was linked through Davorin’s, a deliberate, possessive gesture for the cameras. He wore midnight-blue formal wear, an understated contrast to the peacock display around us, but it only amplified the raw, dangerous energy that always simmered beneath his calm exterior. He looked like a predator who’d accidentally wandered into a formal garden party, utterly out of place yet undeniably dominant. My gown, a shimmering sheath of obsidian black, was cut to emphasize the unfamiliar curves of my new body, a tactical choice for the cameras. It was itchy, but Morovan needed to see me thriving. We were halfway through a forced conversation with a simpering textile magnate when the air around our table crackled. A hush fell, then a ripple of whispers. Morovan Keldaris, flanked by two hulking bodyguards and the ever-present, deceptively elegant Lyssina, strode directly toward us. His tunic, dyed an obtrusive verdigris, boasted stiff silver frogs. His gaze dragged across my throat before shifting to Davorin. “Davorin.” The syllable dropped like lead shot. “Coveting high society, are we? Or are you simply hired muscle for my former wife’s pathetic masquerade?” Davorin’s grip on my arm tightened almost imperceptibly, a silent warning. “Morovan. It’s always a pleasure to see the city’s most desperate man trying to salvage his dwindling reputation.” His voice was calm, but the edge was steel. Morovan’s teeth ground audibly. “Corenza, my sweet. What astonishing vitality. Canal rumors suggested a fatal descent from the aqueduct. One must watch one's footing near open water. Tragic accidents occur so easily.” Floating copper lenses pivoted toward us, aperture rings clicking into focus. “My health is impeccable, Morovan,” I replied, trailing two fingers along Davorin’s cuff. “Davorin provides such exquisite accommodations. Regular rest works wonders. You might sample a quiet evening indoors; it would soften that bilious complexion.” Morovan’s collar grew tight against mottled red skin. His hand struck our mahogany table, rattling stemware. “You treat this city like your personal parlour, Davorin? Parading discarded goods?” He swept an arm toward the floor tiles. “Step into the ring. Let the cameras record an audit of blood.” Davorin did not even set down his napkin. “Brawling on imported marble violates guild peace, Morovan. Grievances require written warrants stamped by three magistrates. Save your posturing for the docks.” Morovan’s hand twitched toward our tray. He lifted the goblet nearest Davorin, knuckles masking the rim. A gray granule dislodged from beneath his signet ring and dissolved into the violet liqueur without a ripple. A neuro-paralytic resin, fast and odorless, intended to fake an apoplexy. He offered the glass to Davorin with a mocking flourish. “A toast, then, to… new beginnings.” Davorin reached for it, his expression unreadable. “One moment, my heart,” I said smoothly, laying a soft palm over Davorin’s wrist. “You know how bitter that vintage runs on an empty stomach. Take the port on the left. The bouquet suits you better.” Before anyone could react, Vex, who had been a silent, shadowed lump on my shoulder beneath my hair, stirred. A ripple of shadow, swift as thought, crossed the polished surface of the table. Two distinct *clinks*, too subtle for human ears to register above the gala's din, but clear to my enhanced perception. The glasses had swapped places. Morovan had just poisoned his own drink. Davorin, catching the subtle signal from my eyes, picked up the *other* glass, the one now on the right. He raised it in a toast. “To new beginnings, indeed, Morovan.” He took a slow, deliberate sip. His eyes never left Morovan’s face. Morovan sneered, seized the remaining glass, and threw his head back, draining the liquor in a single swallow. “To your swift ruin, Lord of the Drowned.” He lowered the goblet with a smug clatter. Then, his eyes glazed over. His face, already flushed, turned a stark, alarming white. A guttural gasp escaped his throat. He clutched his stomach, his knees buckling. A choked retching sound, then a torrent of bile and half-digested food splattered onto the pristine marble floor, coating his expensive, emerald tunic in a disgusting mess. He collapsed, convulsing, his body wracked with violent spasms, a pathetic heap of poisoned hubris on live television. Chaos erupted. Gasps rippled through the crowd. Lyssina, her perfect noble façade cracking, recoiled with a shriek of disgust. The floating recorders whirred closer, brass apertures snapping wide to preserve every retch and shudder. His guards rushed forward, trying to form a shield, but it was too late. His weakness, his vulnerability, was on full, grotesque display. And then, a new sound. Not the panicked gasps of the socialites, but a series of sharp, splintering cracks from above. The chromaglass ceiling, massive and seemingly impenetrable, began to spiderweb. Shadowy figures, too numerous to count, dropped through the fractures, ropes uncoiling silently from their hands. A dozen masked assailants swung down on weighted cables, drawn daggers catching the chandelier glare as they converged upon Morovan’s convulsing body. A hollow knot snapped in my chest. If his lungs ceased drawing breath, my new marrow would rot where I stood.

Poison and Paranoia