Ozarra Vesh, in Kholgai’s arms, was not merely pale. Nimeth’s retainers backed away from the dais, muttering charms against bad luck. They knew the gray crust of soul-sickness, but rarely saw it manifest in seconds. Ozarra’s skin, usually like polished jade, now looked like sun-baked clay, about to crumble. Kholgai’s jaw muscles bunched. He cradled her closer, as if his sheer force of will could reknit her dissolving form. “She needs a healer,” he rumbled, his voice rough with an unfamiliar tremor. His gaze, usually so fierce, darted between Nimeth and the crumbling Ozarra. Nimeth snapped her fan shut, regaining her posture. “A healer? For that?” She gestured to Ozarra’s disintegrating hand, now almost translucent. “No healer in the Qalani Empire can mend a soul-death. But she is not dead yet.” A calculating glint entered her eyes. “Get her to my private sickroom. It’s warded against… prying eyes. And make sure no one else sees her in this state.” She gestured to her escort, who fell in around her. “You,” she pointed to Kholgai, “Bring her. Gently. And keep your Vorakh aura close. It seems to be the only thing holding her together.” Minutes later, Ozarra lay on a plush daybed in Nimeth’s opulent sickroom, surrounded by an array of exotic herbs and gleaming, sterilized instruments. The room hummed with a soft, protective energy from the wards embedded in the walls. Kholgai sat beside her, his large hand wrapped around her wrist, pouring his unrefined aura into her. The effect was immediate, albeit minimal. The crystallization on her skin seemed to slow, but the gray flakes still trickled from her collarbone, dusting the crimson silk sheets. Ozarra’s eyes fluttered open, unfocused for a moment, before sharpening on Kholgai’s worried face. Her lips, dry and cracked, parted. “Zidran… the ledger,” she rasped, her voice thin, like wind through dry reeds. “The key…” “Don’t speak, Vesh. Save your strength,” Kholgai murmured, his thumb brushing her dissolving skin. “I have the ledger. Nimeth will handle the key.” Nimeth, who had been observing from a distance, stepped forward. “She is right, Kholgai. Without the court translation key, that ledger is just useless calligraphy. It sits in the Judgment Chamber archives, and securing it without a ministerial writ is… delicate.” She paused, a predatory smirk touching her lips. “Fortunately, I know precisely who guards such things, and what he cherishes more than his life.” Nimeth turned on her heel and strode out, her retainers flanking her. She marched straight for the Chamber of Judgment, carved into the bedrock under the grand spire. Its archives, a labyrinth of sealed scrolls and esoteric records, were rumored to be impenetrable. But Nimeth had her own brand of infiltration. She found Archivist Kylen, a preening man with a perpetually damp brow and an inflated sense of self-importance, hunched over a desk in a dimly lit annex. He scrambled backward in his chair as Nimeth entered. “Lady Nimeth! To what do I owe this… unexpected visit?” His eyes, usually shifty, were wide with feigned deference. “The monolith blew,” Nimeth said, leaning over his blotter. “Zidran has gone rogue. I need the translation key for the First Ledger, kept in the restricted vaults. Hand it over.” Kylen sputtered, clutching a quill like a lifeline. “The First Ledger key? Lady Nimeth, that relic requires an executive warrant signed by three magistrates!” “Don’t waste my time with bureaucratic drivel, Kylen,” Nimeth snapped, stepping closer. “I know Zidran has been here, rooting through records. And I know you, Kylen. I know about the correspondence.” Kylen’s face went pasty. “Correspondence? What correspondence?” He tried to sound indignant, but his voice cracked. He covertly nudged a small, lacquered box on his desk, his hand shaking. “The sheets of vellum you addressed to Lady Serphina of House Vex, promising eternal devotion and scandalous disregard for propriety,” Nimeth murmured, pacing around his stool. “You know, the ones where you described her ‘eyes like twin pools of starlight’ and her ‘lips, a crimson temptation’. Quite poetic for an archivist, Kylen. But also quite scandalous, given Lady Serphina’s betrothal to Lord Joram.” Kylen’s face was now a ghastly shade of green. “You… you wouldn’t dare,” he whimpered, his gaze flitting to the guards, who stood impassively. “Oh, I would. And I will,” Nimeth assured him, her voice dripping with ice. “I will ensure those folios are read aloud before the High Inquest. Lord Joram does not tolerate romantic overtures toward his betrothed. You would lose your post, three fingers, and your speech privileges.” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a low, menacing register. “Where is the lexicon? Or should I recite your verses to my escort?” Kylen scrambled, sweat pouring down his face. He fumbled with the lacquered box, his plump digits betraying his agitation. “Fine! Fine! It’s in here! But it’s sealed with an arcane lock, and Chancellor Zidran personally oversaw its placement.” He tried to gain a sliver of control, a hint of defiance. “He said only those with… with his direct authority could access it.” Nimeth smirked. “I thought you’d say that.” She produced a small, silver vial from her sleeve. “This is a solvent designed to disrupt Zidran’s arcane sigils. You will open it, Kylen, or I will ensure you spend the rest of your miserable life scrubbing latrines in the outer steppes.” With trembling hands, Kylen applied the solvent, the seals on the box hissing and dissolving. He pulled out a scroll, bound with threads of spun moonlight. It was the lexicon key. Nimeth snatched it, inspecting it to ensure its authenticity. “Excellent,” she said, her voice devoid of any real praise. “Now, forget you ever saw me. Or heard a word of this. Or those love notes end up pinned to the salon pillars.” Back in the sickroom, Kholgai continued his vigil. Ozarra’s dissolution was slow but relentless. He had tried everything. Chants from his tribe, ancient Vorakh healing rituals, even crude herbal poultices from Nimeth’s cabinet. Nothing truly stopped it. Only his constant physical contact, the raw spiritual energy of his aura, seemed to keep her clinging to existence. He held her hand, watching the faint shimmer of her skin, the tiny flakes that still occasionally drifted. A desperate thought struck him. He drew a small, obsidian knife from his belt, nicking his own palm. A single, dark drop of his blood welled up. He brought it to Ozarra’s dry lips, gently prying them open. “Drink, Vesh,” he commanded softly, his voice thick with an emotion he rarely showed. “It’s not much, but it’s pure Vorakh. It will anchor you.” She swallowed, a faint spark of vitality seeming to return to her eyes. He continued, feeding her drop after precious drop, watching her with an intensity that burned. “I don’t care if you only cling to me for power, Vesh,” he confessed, his voice rough, a raw admission that surprised even himself. “I don’t care if this… this affection is a lie. I don’t care if you swallowed those papers to save your own hide. I only care that you live. I always… I always loved you, you know. Even when you were cold. Even when you looked at me like I was a brute. This… this version of you… it’s bewildering, but it’s alive. Just stay alive.” As if in answer, her fingers, skeletal and fragile, tightened almost imperceptibly around his. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor ran through the Pavilion. Then bronze bells clanged from the high towers, signaling a sudden, mandatory inquest. Zidran had called for judgment.

A Haughty Rival's Heist