“You are three minutes late.” Lord Varkhas’s voice grated like grinding gears, a low thrum that vibrated through the iron deck. Fuchsia flakes, still drifting through the artificial calm of the hangar bay, clung to the spikes of his obsidian-scaled shoulder armor. He raised a gauntleted hand, brushing the shimmering dust from his formidable plating as if flicking away an irritating insect. Talasya, already on her feet, adjusted her goggles. “Sorry, Lord Varkhas. There was… unforeseen turbulence. And then a bit of a sparkly explosion.” She gestured vaguely at Bresal, who was still sprawled amidst the glitter, looking as though he’d been violently redecorated by a cloud of cotton candy. “But the cargo is intact, mostly.” Varkhas’s gaze, sharp as obsidian shards, flicked to the remains of the metal cylinder that Talasya had drop-kicked. It lay in two jagged halves, the internal mechanisms exposed. A tiny, ornate pressure gauge, its needle frozen, was still attached to one piece. From the other, a small, intricate spout protruded. Steam, faintly scented with cardamom, still wisped from the fractured seam. He knelt, his movements surprisingly agile for such a massive man, and carefully picked up the larger half. “Intact enough,” he rumbled, his thumb tracing the delicate filigree on the spout. “They did not believe I could force them to build a kinetic pressure kettle that would brew my tea at precisely the moment of arrival. The 'Emperor’s Zenith' brew requires exact timing, or the leaves turn acrid.” He looked up, his eyes now holding a glint of something akin to approval. “They called it a ‘bomb.’ Said it would detonate if mistreated. Foolish syndics. A useful lie, however.” Bresal finally pushed himself up, his limbs feeling like wet string. The last fragments of the Engine’s pink detonation countdown still hovered before his retinas, fading into sparks. He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the inevitable, for the ripping agony as his soul tore itself apart. He waited. Nothing. Only the faint, sweet scent of cardamom and the subterranean thrum of the dreadnought’s turbines. He opened his eyes. The world was still there. Talasya was still there, cheerfully explaining the intricacies of wind shear to Lord Varkhas. The neon powder still coated his tunic. But the digital overlay, the terror-inducing prompts, the relentless countdowns, the visions of centaurs – all gone. A hollow, sudden silence filled his skull, an empty space where the prompt chime used to screech. He gasped, a sound torn from deep in his chest. “It’s… it’s gone.” His voice was a raw whisper. “It’s really gone.” Lord Varkhas straightened, dropping the kettle piece onto the deck with a clang. “You two have made an impressive mess of my landing bay. But you have also cleared the Sky-Veins of Jhalong for good. My reconnaissance reports indicate the syndicate’s distribution network is in ruins. Their supply lines, disrupted beyond repair.” He gestured to a nearby aide, who approached with a heavy, leather-bound pouch. “Your hazard pay, Sky-Diver. Triple the usual rate.” Varkhas extended the pouch to Talasya. It clinked with the sound of thousands of gleaming brass *skylings*. Talasya caught the pouch, checking the wax seal. “Triple? Oh, this is fantastic! A ground-level apartment will finally be within reach!” She beamed, completely missing the warlord’s slight, almost imperceptible softening of his stern features. Bresal, still reeling from the sudden, blissful emptiness in his skull, stumbled forward. A manic, tearful laugh bubbled up from him. He threw his arms around Lord Varkhas’s waist, burying his face in the warlord’s armored side. “Thank you! Thank you! You saved me! My soul! My beautiful, un-detonated soul!” Varkhas stiffened, a low growl rumbling in his chest. He looked down at the weeping, glitter-dusted form clinging to him with an expression of utter bewilderment, then to Talasya, as if seeking an explanation. Talasya merely offered a small, sympathetic smile. “He’s a bit sensitive about deadlines, Lord Varkhas. It’s a guild thing.” Varkhas sighed, a sound like grinding stone. He gingerly pried Bresal off. “Right. Guild things.” He then activated a wrist-mounted comms unit. “Guildmaster Kaelan, this is Varkhas. Your operative, Talasya, has successfully completed the ‘Emperor’s Zenith’ trial. I commend her punctuality and… unique problem-solving skills. Consider the Sky-Master promotion approved. Effective immediately. And send someone to sweep my deck. This sparkly filth is intolerable.” Bresal collapsed onto the deck, sobbing with relief, the comms message barely registering amidst his euphoria. The infernal engine had gone dead. He was free. *** Weeks later, the persistent, low thrum of the wind against her windows was gone. Instead, Talasya awoke to the muffled rattle of vendor carts across the cobblestones below. Her new apartment, nestled in the quiet, historic sector of Jhalong’s lower levels, was a sanctuary of calm. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and blooming moss, not the metallic tang of ozone and high-altitude rain. Her Sky-Master badge glinted on her uniform, now neatly folded on a nearby chair. She’d taken to walking to the Guildhouse for her new administrative duties, a slow, meandering stroll through bustling market squares and beneath ancient, arching bridges. Bresal, to her surprise, had requested a permanent reassignment to ground-level sorting duty, a humble role he seemed to relish. He’d even stopped flinching at sudden noises, though he still occasionally twitched if anyone so much as looked at a pressure gauge. “Less wind,” he’d explained to her, smiling placidly with lingering twitchiness in his left eyelid. “Much, much less wind.” Talasya still thought about her old routes, the exhilarating rush of the high-altitude air, but the quiet of her new home was a profound comfort. She poured herself a cup of the Emperor’s Zenith tea, a gift from Lord Varkhas, and savored its complex, spicy warmth. The lower tier hummed around her with market chatter, oblivious to the cartel network she had dismantled or the parasitic entity she had shattered. A sharp, hesitant knock rattled her door. Talasya set her teacup down, a small frown creasing her brow. She wasn’t expecting anyone. She opened it to find Lord Varkhas standing awkwardly in her doorway, his massive frame seeming to fill the entire corridor. In one hand, clutched in a surprisingly delicate grip, was a vibrant bouquet of scarlet sky-blossoms. His dark eyes, usually so imposing, shifted uneasily. “Sky-Master Talasya,” he rumbled, his voice a shade softer than she’d ever heard it. “I was wondering… do you do off-the-clock deliveries?”

Ground-Level Peace