Jivya’s breath caught, a tiny, ragged sound lost in the cavernous hall. Her name. Her fiancé’s name. Her life, unraveling in the hand of the man whose lips she still sometimes felt ghosting hers in the dead of night. His dark eyes, having swept past her, now returned, a cold, dissecting stare that made her stomach clench into a hard knot. She forced a blank, wide-eyed stare back, a vacant expression perfected over weeks of hiding. It was a mask of utter, harmless incompetence. A Jaya Almasi mask. “As you were,” Zarren Omidvar finally dismissed, his voice a low rumble that resonated through the burnished brass pillars. He strode from the podium, his long, dark coat swirling around him, the crumpled contract still held casually. He didn’t look back. The interns, a sea of terrified young faces, began to disperse, muttering in hushed tones, each one eyeing the other with suspicion. Jivya, moving with practiced clumsiness, made sure to bump into a particularly ornate alchemical stand on her way out, sending a small cascade of glass beakers clattering to the floor. The distraction was intentional, her apology over-the-top, drawing annoyed glances but no real attention. Her first assignment was a stroke of cruel irony: processing new intern intake forms directly in the chief executive’s outer office. A small, circular desk sat in the corner, strategically placed to offer a full, unobstructed view of Zarren’s towering, obsidian-wood desk. A burnished metal plate on his door read: *Chief Administrator Z. Omidvar, Sun-Forge Executive.* Jivya chewed on her lip, a nervous habit she’d been trying to break. Her own intake form, with her forged ‘Jaya Almasi’ name and messy, left-handed script, lay on the top of the stack she was meant to file. If Zarren saw it, compared it to the impeccable, right-handed cursive of Jivya Darabi on the contract… her entire plan would evaporate in a puff of poisonous fumes. She eyed the ornate, steam-heated urn of Sun-tea on a nearby service cart, its radiant amber liquid bubbling gently. A plan, as convoluted and perilous as one of her father’s political maneuvers, began to form. It was a terrible plan. It would inevitably lead to disaster. But it was *her* plan. Zarren emerged from his inner office, a stack of data slates in one hand, his gaze distant. “Almasi,” he stated, not looking at her, “bring me a cup of the Solarium blend. And organize these by project codex. Alpha first.” Jivya’s heart gave a frantic thump. This was it. “Right away, sir!” she chirped, her voice just a shade too high-pitched. She practically skipped to the Sun-tea urn, deliberately knocking a tray of nutrient paste off a small side table as she went. The paste splattered across the gleaming floor, eliciting a sharp sigh from Zarren. “Apologies, sir!” she squeaked, grabbing a brass cup and filling it to the absolute brim with the shimmering infusion. The vessel scalded her fingers, the incandescent brew steaming. She approached his desk, the stack of intake forms clutched precariously in her other hand. Her own form, the deadly one, was on top. As she reached his desk, with a deliberate, clumsy lurch, her elbow ‘slipped.’ The Solarium tea, a golden cataract, cascaded over the edge of the cup. It splashed directly onto the stack of forms, soaking them in fiery broth. Her own form, top of the stack, was now an illegible, tea-stained mess. “Oh! Oh dear! Sir, I am so, so sorry!” Jivya gasped, dropping her jaw in feigned horror. She made a show of patting fruitlessly at the damp puddle, smearing the ink even further. “I am just… I am always so clumsy! The vintage is so bright, it just… dazzled me!” Zarren’s hand shot out, his fingers closing around her wrist with surprising speed and strength. The tea stopped its descent, held in a fragile suspension just above his data slates. His thumb pressed against the frantic pulse point in her wrist. Her throat locked. The space between them shrank, thick with static. His eyes, dark as the deepest well, narrowed slightly as he looked at her, then down at the ruined forms, then back at her face, which she tried to keep as utterly, adorably vacant as possible. A faint flicker—annoyance? Suspicion?—crossed his features. “Your pulse is racing, intern,” he observed, his voice low, a rasp that set the hair on her arms on end. He didn’t release her wrist. The proximity was suffocating, the heat from his hand seeping into her skin. “Is it the Solarium roast… or something else that dazzles you?” Before Jivya could stammer out a suitable, ditzy response, a new voice boomed from the doorway. “AHA! Master Omidvar, I presume? Minoo Rashidi, Chief Safety Auditor, reporting for duty! Here to ensure your esteemed Sun-Forge meets all current brass-reclamation and structural integrity standards!” Jivya nearly choked. Minoo. *Here?* Her cousin, clad in an ill-fitting, orange high-visibility vest that clashed spectacularly with the Forge’s polished brass, stood with a gleaming, newly purchased toolkit. He winked conspiratorially at Jivya over Zarren’s shoulder, a signal that he was, indeed, here to pilfer brass scrap for their escape fund. Zarren finally released Jivya’s wrist, turning slowly to face Minoo. The intensity of his gaze was a physical thing. “Chief Safety Auditor?” he repeated, his tone flat. “I was not informed of any audit.” “Oh, a formality, a mere oversight!” Minoo blustered, waving a dismissive hand. “The Brass Scavenger’s Guild, you see, they’re very particular about their, ah, *salvageable materials*. Especially after that rather unfortunate incident at the Midnight Spire masquerade a few weeks back. Right, Jaya?” He shot Jivya another, far too knowing, look. “Bit of a chaotic night, eh? Where were you that evening, cousin? Can’t quite recall.” Jivya’s face, already flushed from Zarren’s grip, drained of color. Minoo, her brilliant, chaotic cousin, had just mentioned the masquerade. And then asked her for an alibi. In front of Zarren. This was going spectacularly well. “I… I was home!” Jivya stammered, flailing for a believable lie. “With a… a terrible case of… of Specter’s Sickness! So much… luminous vomit!” She gestured vaguely. “Yes! Minoo brought me a special broth! Didn’t you, Minoo?” Minoo scratched his chin, feigning deep thought. “Did I? Can’t rightly say I remember, Jaya. I was rather busy that night, you see, investigating a potential brass-rust outbreak near the Grand Canal docks. Very serious business. But if you say so! Always trust a family member’s memory over your own, that’s my motto!” Zarren’s eyes, which had been fixed on Minoo’s theatrics, flickered back to Jivya. His expression was unreadable. He opened his mouth, but was cut off by a sharp, insistent ringing from his internal comm-panel. “Omidvar here,” he answered, his voice devoid of any warmth. Jivya froze, straining to listen. She could hear a gruff voice on the other end, speaking quickly. “—Lord Kasim’s personal seal, Director. Undeniable. The contract belongs to *him*,” the voice crackled. “Orders, sir?” The blood drained from Jivya's hands. Lord Kasim. Her fiancé. The city gates. Zarren’s grip tightened on the comm-panel. “Lock down the city gates. All outward-bound traffic through the Harbor Gates and the Eastern Ascendants must be halted. Institute a full, city-wide search. The spy is not just a traitor; they are a direct threat to the Darabi-Kasim alliance. Find them.” He slammed the panel back into its cradle. “This city will be turned inside out.” Just then, a muffled *POP!* echoed from the direction of the intern breakroom, followed by a faint scent of burnt sugar and ozone. A plume of shimmering, iridescent smoke, the tell-tale sign of a minor alchemical mishap, drifted into the hallway. Minoo, who had been peering intently at a loose brass pipe under Zarren’s desk, jumped up, looking guilty. “Ah, an unauthorized thermal reaction in the common area!” Minoo declared, trying to sound official. “Probably just some over-enthusiastic intern with a weak flux capacitor. Don’t worry, Director, Chief Safety Auditor Rashidi is on the case!” He scurried off towards the smoke plume, calling back, “I’ll just… confiscate any ‘hazardous’ brass components on my way!” Zarren watched him go, then turned his gaze, glacial and furious, back to Jivya. He gestured at the tea-soaked forms, now a pulpy mess. “Darabi’s ghost could do better,” he muttered under his breath, before glaring up at her. “Your incompetence is… quite remarkable. Perhaps you could be useful elsewhere. My private vault requires a thorough cleaning. You will start immediately. And do not touch anything that is not dust.” Jivya took a sharp step back. His private vault. Where, she knew from the terrified whispers of senior interns, Zarren kept his most sensitive research… and his personal evidence board for the ongoing hunt for the ‘spy’.

Tea, Treason, and Terrible Advice