The tremor of Yaraim’s broken voice still vibrated in the vault. “A plague, Mistress. A blight upon the upper city. Safura… she’s spun it, convinced the magistrates it’s Master Vost’s designs.” Basir’s face, already gaunt from relentless work, paled further. His gaze snapped from the exposed conduits to Nabiya. Now, his name was being dragged through the mud, branded a public menace. Nabiya smoothed her expression into a serene mask. This was it. The final act of her past self’s script, violently rewritten by circumstance. She had to improvise, not just for the manor, but for Basir’s very existence. “A plague?” Nabiya tilted her head, a familiar, airheaded lilt returning to her voice. “But Master Vost only makes pretty patterns with light and wind, doesn’t he? Not… yucky sickness! Oh, Safura always was such a drama queen.” She patted Basir’s arm, a performative flutter. “We’ll just tell everyone the truth, darling. They’ll believe us.” Basir stared at her, then a slow, knowing smile touched his lips. He understood. The bubblehead was back, but this time, it was a weapon. “Of course, my dear,” he said, his voice surprisingly firm despite the news. “The truth. And where better to deliver it than at Safura’s charity gala?” Yaraim, clutching his mangled arm, blinked. “The Glimmerfeast, Master Vost? Tonight?” “Precisely,” Nabiya chirped, already visualizing the sprawling, sun-drenched penthouse. “It’s her grand debut, isn’t it? The entire Stratum’s elite, all gathered to fawn over her and her… shiny new husband.” Her smile didn't reach her eyes. “What a perfect place for a little truth to come out.” Within the hour, Basir, surprisingly agile despite his usual frailty, had rigged a temporary power conduit to the vault door. Nabiya, having quickly tended to Yaraim’s wounds and given him strict instructions to safeguard the manor, was already slipping into a gown she’d once despised—a shimmering, cerulean confection designed to catch every ray of light, utterly impractical for a canyon-runner. “Are you sure about this, Nabiya?” Basir asked, his dark eyes scrutinizing the deep crimson stain on her dress, a remnant of a near-fatal stumble from the Skyhaven Perch. “The magistrates are already swayed. Safura’s influence… it’s vast.” Nabiya met his gaze, the frivolous act momentarily dropping. “Then we’ll make it crumble, Basir. From the inside out.” She dabbed at a fresh, sparkling lip-gloss. “Besides, who can resist a little spectacle?” The Skyhaven Perch shimmered, a beacon of opulence high above the Qalari Stratum. The Glimmerfeast Gala was in full swing, a cacophony of tinkling glasses, hushed whispers, and the lilting strains of a kithara orchestra. Magistrates in ceremonial robes, industrialists in gleaming silks, and socialites draped in rare krystite jewels milled across the polished onyx floors. Safura, radiant and smug in a gown woven from threads of pure aurum, held court by a towering fountain of imported red vinya. Dalun, his face perpetually etched with fatigue, stood beside her, a trophy husband paraded for all to see. He looked more ghost than man, skin sallow from whatever horrors he inflicted in the hidden basement. A hush fell as Nabiya and Basir entered. Nabiya, linking her arm through Basir’s, swept in with a theatrical flourish, her cerulean gown rippling around her. Her smile was wide, almost childlike, her gaze darting around with an exaggerated awe. Basir, though visibly uncomfortable in his formal attire, held his head high, his intensity a stark contrast to Nabiya’s frothy demeanor. Safura’s smile froze. Her eyes narrowed, venomous. “Nabiya,” she purred, her tone layered with mock concern. “To what do we owe this… surprise? I thought you’d be too busy mourning your humble lot.” “Oh, darling Safura!” Nabiya gushed, pulling Basir closer. “We couldn’t possibly miss your big night! Basir just *insisted* we come. He said you were positively glowing, and he was right!” She winked at Basir, a subtle, private signal. Basir played along, a slight, almost imperceptible smirk touching his lips. “Indeed. My wife has impeccable taste, Safura. And an even more impeccable sense of timing, it seems.” Safura’s teeth grit, but she maintained her public facade. “Such a shame you’ve come all this way, Nabiya. You’re just in time to hear the Council announce their decision regarding your husband’s… regrettable research.” Her gaze flicked to a cluster of robed figures near an ornate table laden with glistening canapés and crystal flutes. Nabiya’s eyes, bright and vacant, followed Safura’s gaze. “Oh, are those the dignitaries? How important! I simply must say hello. Basir, darling, hold my clutch. I just *have* to try one of those little sparkling cakes.” She disentangled herself from Basir, a vision of dizzying grace as she weaved through the crowd. Her path, however, was not toward the dignitaries directly. It was a precise, calculated trajectory toward a serving tray carried by a nervous attendant behind the carved obsidian column that masked Safura’s safe. The column was an aesthetic choice, but Nabiya knew from her past self’s blueprints that it also concealed a discreet locking mechanism, a pressure plate activated by a specific impact. “Oh, dearie me!” Nabiya exclaimed, her voice carrying across the hushed chatter. She executed a clumsy, exaggerated stumble, her hands flailing wildly. Her elbow, with practiced precision, slammed into the laden silver tray. Crystal flutes shattered, and a torrent of exotic fruit tarts and glistening caviar cascaded to the floor. The attendant gasped, horrified. But it wasn’t the broken china Nabiya was after. As the tray hit the floor, her foot, in a seemingly accidental slip, stomped down hard on a subtle, nearly invisible panel set into the onyx. The stone groaned, a low, grinding sound lost amidst the clatter. With a sharp *click*, a hidden section of the obsidian column whirred open. A small, concealed safe, built into the base, sprang open. And out spilled a chaotic torrent of documents: brittle, leather-bound ledgers, loose scrolls sealed with the insignia of the Qalari Medical Guild, and a stack of chilling, crude sketches that depicted emaciated figures with glowing, unstable wind-sigils etched onto their skin. Silence fell over the Glimmerfeast Gala, a sudden, suffocating vacuum. Every eye riveted on the papers scattered across the pristine floor. Councilor Sorav, a man known for stern integrity, bent down, his brow furrowed. He picked up a ledger. His stare fixed on the parchment, then darkened with venom. “’Project Chimera… Subject 7: Lyssa, female, 8 years old. Failed resonance. Disposition: Terminated.’” He read the words aloud, his voice low and guttural. “’Subject 8: Ren, male, 10 years old. Partial resonance. Severe epidermal necrosis. Disposition: Re-trial.’” Sorav dropped the ledger as if it had burned him. His gaze snapped to Dalun, who had gone utterly ashen. Safura’s golden gown seemed to dim, her triumphant smile replaced by a mask of horrified disbelief. “What… what is this?” Sorav demanded, his voice echoing through the stunned hall. “These are… these are children! The abducted canyon orphans!” Safura, her carefully constructed world crumbling around her, shrieked. “A setup! She’s trying to frame me! It’s all a lie!” Her eyes, blazing with pure, unadulterated hatred, locked onto Nabiya. Before anyone could react, Safura lunged. From the intricate folds of her aurum gown, she produced a slender, gleaming hairpin, its tip coated with a dark, glistening venom. She aimed for Nabiya’s throat, a feral snarl twisting her elegant features. Nabiya, however, was already moving. Her ditzy persona dissolved, replaced by the honed reflexes of a canyon-runner. She didn't flinch. As Safura’s hand arced toward her, Nabiya’s own hand shot out, not to block, but to deflect. Her palm met Safura’s wrist with a sharp, precise strike, sending the poisoned hairpin skittering across the floor. Then, with a fluid, almost balletic movement, Nabiya spun, her cerulean gown a blur. Her leg swept out, not in a kick, but a perfectly timed trip. Safura, caught off balance, cried out. Nabiya used the momentum of her sister’s own lunge, adding a subtle push with her hip. Safura tumbled backward, a flailing, golden cascade. With a magnificent splash, Safura landed squarely in the fountain of imported red vinya, the crimson liquid soaking her aurum gown, staining her hair, running down her enraged face. The gathered crowd gasped, then a ripple of horrified murmurs spread through the gala. Dalun, utterly broken, sagged against the column. Sorav, his face taut, pointed an accusatory finger. “Dalun Hesh! For crimes against humanity, under the authority of the High Council, you are hereby placed under arrest!” Guards, who had been mingling discreetly, materialized instantly, seizing a limp Dalun. Safura, soaked in red wine and sputtering with fury, struggled to rise from the fountain, her gaze fixed with terrifying madness. Her stolen marriage, her carefully cultivated prestige, her forged empire of lies, shattered in a single, devastating moment. “You… you ruined everything!” Safura shrieked, her voice hoarse with despair. She lunged again, not at Nabiya, but frantically tearing at her bodice. She pulled out a small, crudely fashioned prototype glyph, humming with a sickly, unstable light. It looked like a raw, unrefined version of the artifact Basir had worked so hard to stabilize. With a guttural scream of pure, insane rage, Safura slammed the volatile prototype against the onyx floor. A blinding flash erupted, followed by a deafening roar. The very foundations of the Skyhaven Perch groaned, then shuddered. The onyx floor beneath their feet cracked and buckled, splitting open in a spiderweb of destructive force. The kithara orchestra shrieked, guests scrambled, and the gala floor began to shear away, sending Safura, still screaming, plummeting toward the deep, shadowed abyss below, directly toward the Sunken Manor.

Champagne and Sabotage