Ouzira’s breath caught, not in a delicate gasp, but a sharp, startled puff. The hand. It was undeniably, shockingly, a hand. Pink-palmed, with short, blunt fingers and a glint of a signet ring on the smallest digit. It looked… well-manicured. She slowly lifted her gaze, past the dripping fingers, up the muscled forearm, past the sharp curve of a bicep, to the face. The green eyes, so familiar yet now thoroughly foreign in their intensity, met hers. The scar that bisected his brow, a faint hairline in her memory, was now a jagged ravine, twisting into the corner of his eye. His lips, once thin and tight, were full and curved, though not in a smile. It was a predatory set. “Arghus?” she whispered, the name feeling too small for the man towering over her. Her voice was raspy, dry as the desert wind. He inclined his head, a movement both deferential and profoundly unsettling. “My lady. You slept well. The new moon-orchids are thriving.” His voice was a low rumble, deeper than the earth itself, carrying the faint scent of turned soil and something metallic. He gestured with the hand, a slight, almost elegant flick of his wrist. A droplet of crimson arced through the air, landing with a soft *splat* on her silver saucer, right beside the half-eaten candied pomegranate. Ouzira stared at the droplet, then at the hand. “Is that… is that why you’re holding it?” she asked, her voice a little too bright. “For the night-blooms? I thought we used the crushed bone meal for them. And a little… well, a little *less* fresh.” She swallowed, attempting to appear casual, like one often discussed the merits of human appendages as plant food. “Bone meal is for the flowering cycle, my lady,” Arghus stated, his gaze unwavering. “For root development, especially of the *Sanguina nocturna* variety, fresh nutrients are superior. The one who left this was attempting to introduce a slow-acting poison into your evening infusion. I intercepted him by the kitchens.” He said ‘intercepted him’ with the same inflection one might use for ‘plucked a ripe fig’. Ouzira blinked. Poison? Again? That was the third time this week. Her rivals were getting terribly predictable. Still, she’d assumed it was just bad luck, or perhaps a rogue spice. She certainly hadn’t imagined Arghus was out there… intercepting. “Oh,” she said, her voice small. “Well, that was… very thoughtful of you, Arghus. But couldn’t you have just… told him off? Or, you know, confiscated the poison? You didn’t have to… collect a souvenir.” She tried to sound chiding, but her mind was already calculating if she could still finish her pomegranate without losing her appetite. The answer was yes, probably. Arghus’s green eyes held hers. “He was arrogant. He believed he was already beyond the reach of consequence. Arrogance, you see, is the best fertilizer.” He paused, then took a step back from her hammock, turning towards a cluster of iridescent, bell-shaped flowers that glowed with a faint, internal pulse. With a fluid motion, he flicked his wrist. The severed hand flew through the air, landing with a wet thud right into the dark, loamy soil at the base of the largest stalk. A few moments later, the blossom pulsed brighter, its internal light deepening to a rich, venous red. Ouzira watched, fascinated, then shivered. The pale petals were beautiful, but also vaguely terrifying. She really needed to start reading those plant cultivation scrolls the Head Botanist kept sending her. Just then, a sharp, indignant squawk echoed from the entrance to her pavilion. “Ouzira Baqshi! You slothful slug! Are you awake, or have you finally dissolved into a puddle of indolence and candied dates?” Ouzira sighed, rolling her eyes. “And here I thought my afternoon couldn’t get any more… stimulating,” she murmured, kicking her legs out of the hammock. She smoothed the creases from her silken loungewear. “That would be Lady Muzhari A’shara. Try to look less… agricultural, Arghus.” Arghus merely grunted, his gaze still fixed on the flowerbed, though his posture seemed to coil, like a desert serpent before striking. Muzhari, a woman whose entire persona was a meticulously sculpted affront, strode onto the patio. Her robes, the color of bruised plums and stitched with shimmering silver thread, billowed dramatically. Her chin was perpetually lifted, her delicate nose twitching as if she constantly smelled something vaguely offensive. Today, it was likely the faint, sweet-metallic tang lingering in the air. “There you are, you wretched woman!” Muzhari declared, stopping abruptly near the decorative marble balustrade that separated Ouzira’s personal terrace from a rather perilous drop down the cliff face to the lower estates. “I’ve come to impart some truly delightful news. It seems the Grand Vizier has taken a sudden, keen interest in the cultivation of… *unprofitable* noble houses. And yours, my dear, is considered quite the barren patch.” Her smile was a predatory slash, revealing perfectly even, pearly teeth. Ouzira merely offered a languid stretch. “Unprofitable? But my ornamental gourds are the talk of the market, Muzhari. And my petulant petunias are simply divine.” She ignored the deeper implication, choosing instead to focus on the surface-level insult. She preferred her reality to be soft and unthreatening, like a marshmallow. Muzhari scoffed. “Gourds and petunias won’t save you from the Royal Guard’s ledger, Ouzira. His Excellency is compiling a list. A list of those whose lands yield little, whose influence wanes, and whose bloodlines are deemed… expendable. Your name, I hear, is quite high on the parchment.” She took a triumphant step closer to the railing, her heel catching on an errant root from one of Ouzira’s less-tamed flowering vines. Her brows shot up in comical horror as her balance failed. Muzhari shrieked, a high-pitched sound that ripped through the usually placid terrace. Her arms flailed, her plum-colored robes flapping like a distressed bird. She tumbled forward, her perfect coiffure coming undone as she plunged towards the edge of the cliff. Ouzira watched, a stray candied pomegranate seed clinging to her lip. She blinked. “Oh dear,” she mumbled, more concerned about the possibility of Muzhari landing on her rare, glowing moss garden below. She glanced at Arghus, who remained entirely still, a silent sentinel by the planters. He hadn’t moved a muscle. Just as Muzhari’s head disappeared over the parapet, a large, calloused hand shot out. A blur of motion lunged from behind Ouzira, from the shadow of a colossal *Jalebi* tree, and Arghus leaned over the drop, his fingers clamped around Muzhari’s ankle. She dangled there, a ludicrous spectacle, her face crimson, her expensive robes riding up to reveal frilly undergarments. “Let me go, you brutish peasant!” Muzhari shrieked, scarlet with mortification. “Release me at once!” Arghus’s face was stone, his green eyes devoid of any flicker of emotion. He held her with terrifying stillness, as if she were merely another root to be tugged from the soil. From the folds of Muzhari’s plum-colored robes, disturbed by her vigorous thrashing, something tumbled out. A small, leather-bound book, intricately embossed with a stylized peacock feather. It landed with a soft *thud* at Ouzira’s feet. She picked it up, her brow furrowing. “What’s this?” she wondered aloud, flipping it open. Her eyebrows lifted, a slow smile spreading across her face. “Oh, my. It’s a diary! And it’s full of… names.” She cleared her throat dramatically, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “*‘The Royal Guard Commander, Zarkon, has a truly revolting birthmark shaped like a wilted fig on his left posterior cheek. And his wife, the demure Lady Sarika, is surprisingly adept at… knife-throwing contests with the stable boys.’*” Muzhari froze, her face draining of color, then flaring red again. “Give me that back, you meddling shrew!” she screamed, her dignity completely shattered. She struggled, trying to kick Arghus, but he held her firm. Ouzira ignored her, delighting in the scandal. “*‘Lord Khayyam, the Vizier’s own nephew, has been secretly practicing the forbidden art of elemental tea-leaf reading with the Qasr-e-Mina’s chief eunuch, and frankly, his prognoses are always dire. Also, his breath smells of fermenting dates.’* Oh, Muzhari, this is simply *divine*! You’ve captured all the juiciest secrets of the court!” Muzhari hung limp, defeated. “Please,” she whimpered, her voice cracking. “Do not read any more. I beg you, Ouzira. It’s… it’s a compendium of personal observations. Strictly for my own amusement.” Ouzira closed the diary, tapping it thoughtfully against her chin. Her smile was sweet, but there was a glint in her eye. “Well, this *does* explain why you’re so remarkably well-informed about who’s being audited by the Vizier. All these little tidbits… they’re quite valuable, aren’t they? A treasure trove of high-society vulnerabilities.” Muzhari’s gaze darted between Ouzira’s face and Arghus’s unyielding grip. Sweat beaded on her brow as she swallowed dryly. “I… I can be of service, Ouzira. I know things. Things that can protect us both from the Vizier’s… *interest*. Silence on this… this compendium… and I pledge my full allegiance. My network of informants is vast. My tongue is sharp. Together, we could be… formidable.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “We could even discover who truly wants you poisoned. And then, we could make *their* lives a living misery.” Ouzira considered this. A snobby, gossipy ally with an intricate spy network? That sounded like a perfect way to keep herself out of trouble, without having to lift a single lazy finger. A co-conspirator in indolence, disguised as ruthless political maneuvering. She looked at Muzhari, then at Arghus, who still held the rival noblewoman dangling effortlessly. “Alright, Muzhari,” Ouzira finally said, her smile widening. “It’s a deal. Welcome to the noble art of self-preservation through scandalous information. Arghus, you can put her down now. Gently.” Arghus lowered Muzhari, his movements still precise, still utterly devoid of emotion. Muzhari scrambled to her feet, adjusting her robes with shaky hands, her eyes still warily on Arghus. As Ouzira turned to offer Muzhari a calming cup of jasmine tea, Arghus stepped closer to her, his large frame shielding her from Muzhari’s view. His deep voice, a low thrum against her ear, was barely a whisper. “Should I plant her in the nightshades? The roots are hungry.”

The Best Fertilizer is Arrogance