Tavira's knuckles pressed against her grease-slicked tunic. The moon-gem collar threw sharp, pale crescents across Rhydar's throat. This was precisely the opposite of being ignored. This was disaster on a silver platter. The murmurs started among the onlookers along the mezzanine. "Is that… *flesh*?" an artisan near the balustrade asked, pointing toward Tavira's sleeve where a matted tuft of Gloom-Yeti pelt stuck through the hem. "By the Radiant Mother, she smells like spoiled marrow!" A snicker, then another. “She looks like she rolled in a refuse pile,” a girl with hair woven with star-silk ribbons giggled, covering her nose with a dainty hand. “Is that what the un-Spires look like? How utterly *uncivilized*.” The laughter spread, sharp and cutting, targeting Tavira directly. Shame, hot and prickly, climbed her neck, threatening to choke her. Her grand plan of social suicide was working, but now it was overshadowed by Rhydar’s baffling declaration. And worse, she was stuck in this public spotlight, smelling of old meat and desperation. Rhydar, still on one knee, turned his head slowly. The laughter faltered, then died entirely. His gray glare swept over the mocking onlookers. A ripple of unease went through the assembly. He stood, his lean frame radiating an intensity that seemed to bend the light around him. Without a word, a strand of pure sunlight, bright as a newly forged blade, sprang from his fingertips. It was crystallized starlight, tempered to a razor's breadth. He snapped it with a sound like cracking ice, and the air hummed. The brilliant whip lashed out, not touching anyone, but slicing through the space just centimeters from the faces of the most vocal bullies. A girl shrieked, clutching her pearl-encrusted earlobe. Another stumbled backward, nearly tripping over her own elegant gown. Rhydar’s voice, when he spoke, was low, almost a growl. “My companion,” he said, his gaze pinning the cowering trainees, “has just saved my life. Show her the respect she has earned.” His eyes narrowed. “Her attire is… functional. Unlike your gaudy trinkets, it served its purpose.” He then reached into a hidden pocket in his robe. Tavira watched, mesmerized and horrified, as he withdrew a delicate chain woven from moon-gem filament, matching the collar around his neck. It ended in a small, intricately carved clasp. He extended it to her, the leash gleaming pale in the air between them. “For you, Tavira,” he stated, his voice now soft, reverent. “A symbol of your claim. Please, accept it.” Claim? Her claim on *him*? This was beyond a misunderstanding. This was a full-blown alternate reality. Tavira’s hand trembled. She couldn’t. She absolutely could not touch that leash. It felt like holding the thread that would lead her to her own gruesome end. “No!” she blurted, her voice raspy. “I… I can’t. I didn’t… You don’t understand!” Before she could elaborate on the precise nature of her accidental heroism (or lack thereof), a warm, sweet scent drifted through the hall – sun-tarts, freshly baked. Lennis, Tavira’s mentor, a woman whose smile could melt glaciers and whose hair was like spun silver, bustled forward. She moved with a surprising swiftness for her age, her eyes twinkling. “My dear Tavira!” Lennis exclaimed, her voice a gentle balm against the lingering tension. She held a basket overflowing with golden-crusted tarts, each radiating a faint warmth. “Such an impressive display! And just in time for a post-assembly treat.” She beamed at Rhydar, then at Tavira. “Your Gloom-Yeti pelt, my dear, is quite the talking point. Such ingenious avant-garde shielding! Who would have thought of repurposing such… *fragrant* material for protective wear against venomous darts? Brilliant!” Tavira stared. Avant-garde shielding? It was a rotting blanket! She opened her mouth to correct Lennis, to explain that the pelt was just a desperate attempt to smell so bad that no one would ever acknowledge her existence, let alone try to murder her. But Lennis was already turning to Rhydar, her smile unwavering. “And Rhydar, my boy, your devotion is truly commendable. Such quick thinking! It’s clear you have a knack for… *situational awareness*. Given the recent… *unforeseen circumstances* and Tavira’s unique approach to self-preservation, I believe it would be prudent to assign you as her personal Shield-Guard. Effective immediately. Think of it as an ongoing practical exercise in protection magic. And Tavira, my dear, you’ll have a dedicated assistant for your… *experiments*.” Rhydar’s face lit up, a blinding sunrise after a long night. “Yes, Dame Lennis! I accept with honor.” He bowed deeply, the moon-gem collar pulsing with renewed light. The tart pastry smelled of honey and browned butter, perfectly masking the trap snapping shut around her ankles. She fled. The moment Lennis turned to offer a pastry to a bewildered apprentice, Tavira seized her chance. She ducked past Rhydar, whose starry gaze followed her with an alarming possessiveness, and weaved through the thinning crowd. She needed silence. She needed to disappear. The Archives, with their towering shelves and scent of ancient dust, were her only refuge. Inside the vast, hushed hall, light filtered through stained-glass windows, painting shifting patterns on the polished floor. Tavira found a secluded alcove, pulling her stinky yeti pelt tighter around her as if it could somehow make her invisible. Brimby, her cloud-ferret, chirped sleepily from his nest within the pelt, his tiny nose twitching. He usually only stirred for food or mischief. He was definitely stirring for mischief. Tavira watched, her eyes half-closed in exhausted despair, as Brimby’s cloud-like form detached from her shoulder. He drifted silently, a wisp of grey mist, towards the entrance. Tavira blinked, trying to make sense of his unusual activity. Brimby was a creature of comfort, not stealth. But he moved with an uncanny purpose. Through the open archway, she saw Lennis chatting with a knot of apprentices, still holding her wicker basket. As Lennis gestured, a small, dark object slipped from her pocket, falling silently to the ground. It was a carved pebble of blood-agate, about the size of Tavira’s thumb, and it sparked with an oily crimson hue. Brimby, quick as a thought, swooped down. His vaporous paws snatched the crimson pebble. Sinking it deep into his vaporous belly, he drifted back to Tavira's collarbone with a triumphant squeak. The pebble burned bright through his smoky fur. The air warped around the glowing pebble. A miniature, holographic projection burst forth, hovering above Brimby’s head. It was a detailed, three-dimensional map of the Prismatic Citadel, complete with tiny, glowing spires and glass domes. A single, pulsing red dot marked the Assembly Hall, and beside it, glowing numerals carved from red light hovered in the air. `DAYS: 007 HOURS: 014 MINUTES: 032 SECONDS: 009` Each digit dropped in cold silence, measuring out the exact hour the glass spires would shatter.

Leashed and Lethal