A ripple, like heat distortion over a flame, passed over Zeska’s skin, and the drabness of her illusion violently flickered. Her breath caught, a silent, panicked gasp. Morvan’s fingers, still warm from residual spell-fire, pressed firmer against her clavicle, the very point of magical weakness in her disguise. She felt the delicate weave of concentrated aether, the glowing veil she’d spun, threatening to unravel. Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through her. If he saw even a fraction of the *real* Zeska Vender—the woman with the sharp collarbones and even sharper mind he’d dismissed as a one-night dalliance—her life would be over. The Arch-Magus did not tolerate insult, much less defilement. “Are you injured, Tutor Zeska?” Morvan’s voice was a low rumble, concern etched onto his usually severe features. His emerald eyes, still alight with the afterglow of his protective magic, scrutinized her face. He hadn't pulled his hand away. Not yet. She funneled every ounce of her remaining arcane energy, pushing it into the fraying edges of her glamour. The illusion thrummed, protesting the strain, a dull ache blooming behind her eyes. Her vision swam for a moment, the opulent study blurring at the edges, but the drab, unremarkable features held. The flicker subsided, revealing only the dull, plain woman he believed her to be. “No, Arch-Magus,” Zeska managed, her voice a little too breathy, a little too high-pitched. She forced a stammer, a touch of nervous deference. “Just… the shock. A massive… kinetic discharge.” Morvan’s hand dropped away, abandoning her skin to prickle with an unsettling warmth. He straightened, his gaze lingering, a thoughtful crease between his brows. “Remarkable, indeed. You showed exceptional presence of mind, Tutor.” He glanced at Lillia, who had pulled free from his embrace and was now staring at Zeska with an unnerving, knowing glint in her eyes. “My sister owes you her safety.” “Merely… fulfilling my contractual obligations,” Zeska replied, trying to sound as unheroic as possible. The last thing she needed was the Arch-Magus thinking she harbored any *unusual* talents. Morvan, however, wasn’t listening to her feigned modesty. He turned back, his features softening to something she hadn’t seen since… well, since that morning in her bed. “Nonsense. Such bravery warrants more than a mere thank you. You will join me for dinner tonight, Tutor Zeska. A private meal. I insist.” Her stomach plummeted. A private dinner. With Morvan Teth. The very thought made her palms sweat. This wasn’t just a thank you; this was an interrogation in evening wear. “Arch-Magus, I assure you, my services are strictly academic. And I am quite… indisposed.” “Indisposed?” Morvan's brow arched, a hint of his habitual imperious command returning. “The only thing you are indisposed for is further argument. Seven bells. The grand dining hall. I will not hear another word.” He swept from the study, abandoning Zeska to face Lillia’s smug smirk. “He likes you,” Lillia sing-songed, pulling a loose thread from the ruined curtains. “He likes it when people are brave. And when they throw books.” Zeska merely pinched the bridge of her nose, already calculating the statistical probability of surviving a formal dinner with the man who wanted to execute her. Seven bells found Zeska in the opulent, cavernous grand dining hall, feeling as conspicuous as a single copper piece in a dragon's hoard. The air buzzed with latent magic, the floating candelabras casting dancing shadows across woven hangings depicting the Arch-Magus’s ancestral conquests. Morvan sat at the head of a table built for thirty, yet only two places were set, separated by a chasm of polished darkwood. He looked even more intimidating in formal dark robes embroidered with silver arcane sigils, his green irises glinting in the candlelight. “Tutor Zeska,” he greeted, a faint smile playing on his lips as a silent servant poured a radiant, amber liquid into her goblet. “Please, be seated.” She perched on the edge of the velvet chair under Morvan’s scrutinizing gaze. The first course, a delicate construction of smoked *silken-fin* and powdered *sky-blossom*, arrived, but Zeska could only pick at it. “I’ve been giving some thought,” Morvan began, his voice surprisingly conversational, “to the… incident. The morning after, that is.” Zeska nearly choked on a bite of *silken-fin*. “Arch-Magus?” “Yes. The woman. The one who… left the coppers.” He leaned forward slightly, his stare intense. “As an academic, Tutor, one who clearly possesses a keen understanding of human psychology, I require your insights. From your perspective, why would a woman, after what was unequivocally a… deeply satisfying liaison, abandon the Arch-Magus of Olen-Bosh, offering such a paltry, indeed, insulting sum?” Zeska felt a bead of sweat trickle down her spine. He wanted her to dissect *her own actions*. This was a trap. A cruel, elaborate mental trap. She cleared her throat, adopting her most detached, theoretical tone. “Well, Arch-Magus, assuming optimal conditions for the liaison as you describe, one must consider the possibility of a disjuncture between perceived and actual satisfaction.” Morvan blinked. “Disjuncture?” “Precisely. A woman of… significant experience, as you imply, might find a partner’s performance… lacking in certain nuanced areas, despite his overt enthusiasm. Over-eagerness, for instance, can often be a detriment to sustained… engagement. Or perhaps a deficiency in… intellectual stimulation.” She paused, allowing her words to sink in, watching Morvan’s notoriously arrogant features slowly short-circuit. His chin dropped, losing its unyielding firmness. His green irises, which typically radiated an intimidating intensity, now held a bewildered, almost comical, blankness. “Lacking? Inadequate? *Intellectual stimulation*?” The words came out in a stunned whisper. “But… it was *me*.” Zeska gave a dry, academic cough. “Indeed. A common fallacy, Arch-Magus. Personal status does not always correlate with… bedroom prowess. Furthermore, the act of leaving such a sum, while seemingly insulting, could be interpreted as a perverse form of artistic critique. A commentary on the perceived value of the experience.” Morvan stared at her, utterly speechless, his face a canvas of escalating indignation and confusion. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable, punctuated only by the distant hum of the manor's spell-engines. For a moment, Zeska felt a thrill of illicit triumph. She had disarmed him with pure, unadulterated intellectual condescension. Then, slowly, a different expression dawned on Morvan’s face. The indignation faded, replaced by something… softer. “You know,” he said, his voice quiet, almost stripped of pride, “for all the sycophants who surround me, for all the brilliant minds I’ve met… I’ve never felt so… intellectually seen. So understood, even in my… vexations. You speak with a clarity I rarely witness.” Zeska’s carefully constructed composure faltered. The sudden shift in tone, the genuine openness in his eyes, caught her off guard. She found herself staring, not at the terrifying Arch-Magus, but at a man who, despite his power, seemed thoroughly lonely. A strange, unexpected ache bloomed in her chest. For a fleeting second, the cat-and-mouse game vanished, replaced by a shared moment of… something akin to connection. Just then, a small, furry blur shot from beneath the vast dining table. Pipkin. The hex-fox, commonly a silent, boot-chewing menace, trotted across the polished floor towards Zeska, its tiny, six-legged frame wiggling with strange urgency. Morvan’s softened look vanished, displaced by a familiar irritation. “Pipkin, you infernal creature, get back to the kitchens before you disgrace us both!” But Pipkin ignored him. It reached Zeska’s chair, paused, then with a dramatic heave, gagged. A tiny, glowing object, pulsating with a faint, illegal blue light, shot from its mouth and landed with a delicate clink on the darkwood table, rolling to a stop directly between Zeska and Morvan. It was a gear. A miniature, intricately filigreed cog, crafted from shimmering *aetherium*—a piece of Vandor’s stolen plague-cure machine. A piece Zeska had discreetly slipped into her sleeve during the chaos on the sill. Morvan’s gaze dropped from Zeska’s face to the glowing contraband, his pupils flaring. The soft openness vanished, displaced by a terrifying, arctic chill. His smile evaporated, his lips thinning into a pale line. He picked up the tiny gear, the illegal blue light reflecting in his now-hardened green eyes. “This,” Morvan said, his voice like chipped ice, “is a component from the ‘Terror Phantom’s’ recently stolen apparatus. Highly illegal. Inquisition contraband. Possessed only by those connected to the city’s most dangerous criminal. And now, it appears, by you.” He slowly lifted his gaze, meeting Zeska’s eyes, his expression utterly devoid of warmth. “Guards!” he bellowed, his voice echoing through the vast hall, “Arrest the tutor. Now.”

A Dinner of Errors