“Should I plant her in the nightshades? The roots are hungry.” Ouzira blinked, considering the offer. It certainly sounded efficient. No witness, no mess… well, no *visible* mess. Arghus had a way with making things disappear into the soil. But Muzhari, though irritating, held a certain scandalous charm. More importantly, her diary was a treasure trove, and a living, gossiping Muzhari was far more useful than a rotting corpse beneath the loam. “No, Arghus,” Ouzira sighed, waving a dismissive hand. “The nightshades are reserved for those who truly annoy me, like… certain imperial ministers who decide to impose unexpected taxes.” She shot a pointed glance at Muzhari, who was still trying to look dignified while subtly rubbing her ankle. “Muzhari, you’re officially a co-conspirator. You’ll need your wits and your… *unique* social connections for my nefarious schemes of extended indolence.” Muzhari straightened, a flicker of outrage mixed with bewildered gratitude on her face. “My Lady Baqshi, I assure you, my connections are impeccable, not merely ‘unique’. And my wits are formidable, far beyond aiding mere indolence.” She puffed out her chest, then glanced nervously at Arghus, who remained a towering, motionless shadow behind Ouzira. “Though… perhaps a minor contribution to your… *leisurely* pursuits would be acceptable, given the circumstances.” Ouzira grinned. “Excellent. Now, Arghus, if you could just… clear away the tea leaves. Muzhari, tell me everything about Lady Sarash’s ill-advised liaison with the stablemaster’s third cousin.” As the morning dissolved into a delightful stream of scandalous revelations and sweet jasmine tea, the Qasr-e-Mina Hanging Estates stirred with a different kind of buzz. A tremor, low and resonant, vibrated through the very air, growing in intensity. The crystalline chime-bells hanging from the pavilion’s eaves began to ring an insistent, almost frantic rhythm. It was the herald of an uninvited guest, a guest whose arrival always meant trouble. “Lord Regent Xarvosh is approaching the central greenhouse!” a panicked voice shrieked from the courtyard below. “Everyone to the Sunken Sun-Glass Conservatory! He’s come to demand the Celestial Tax!” Ouzira nearly choked on her honey-cake. The Celestial Tax! That meant blood. And rare plants. It was the one event she dreaded most, a yearly reminder of the precariousness of her pampered existence. Xarvosh, the supposed villain of the original novel, was a man of terrifying power, even if his motives were misunderstood by the masses. His ‘tax’ was simply a convenient excuse to gather the unique alchemical ingredients and, more importantly, the specific blood types of high-ranking aristocrats required to power his great shield against the falling meteor. “Oh, *now* what?” Ouzira grumbled, pushing herself reluctantly from her chaise. “Can’t a woman enjoy her morning gossip in peace? Muzhari, you know the protocols. What’s the least amount of effort I can expend to appease him and get back to my nap?” Muzhari, however, had gone pale. “My Lady, the minister is not to be trifled with. His ‘tax’ is absolute. I’ve heard whispers of what happens to those who… hesitate.” She wrung her hands. “You must present something truly exceptional, or he will take… whatever he pleases.” Ouzira frowned. This was bad. This was *active participation* bad. She glanced at Arghus, who had reappeared with a freshly pruned sprig of moon-orchid, its petals shimmering with an inner, predatory glow. He seemed completely unconcerned, his massive frame steady and unyielding. Reluctantly, Ouzira made her way to the Sunken Sun-Glass Conservatory, a magnificent, multi-domed structure that gleamed like a colossal jewel at the heart of the Qasr-e-Mina. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of crushed petals and sweat. Patricians, dressed in their finest, stood in rigid lines, their faces stiff masks of deference. They clutched vials of their own blood, labeled with ornate family sigils, and presented rare botanical specimens on velvet cushions. At the focal point of the glass dome stood Grand Vizier Xarvosh. He was a striking figure, tall and gaunt, with eyes that seemed to hold the cold, distant light of the very stars he claimed to protect the empire from. His robes, woven from obsidian silk, appeared to absorb all light, making him seem like a void amidst the vibrant greenery. Beside him stood a phalanx of motionless, stone-faced guards, their ceremonial spears tipped with sharp, petrified wood. Xarvosh’s voice, when he spoke, was a low, resonant hum that vibrated through the glass structure. “Esteemed peers of Khursheda, the Celestial Tax is due. The heavens demand their tribute. Let no one misunderstand the urgency of this tribute.” A minor noble, Lord Zayid, a man known for his flamboyant boasts and meager contributions, stepped forward, a smirk on his face. He held a small, withered potted plant. “Grand Vizier,” he announced, his voice trembling slightly despite his bravado. “I present this humble ‘Sun-Kissed Petal’ from my private estate. As for the blood… I find myself rather… *anemic* this season.” A ripple of nervous murmuring went through the crowd. Xarvosh’s gaze, unblinking, fixed on Lord Zayid. “Anemic, Lord Zayid?” he repeated, his voice dangerously soft. “The stars do not care for your bodily humors. They demand sustenance. And that… ‘Sun-Kissed Petal’… is little more than a common weed.” Xarvosh raised a hand, his fingers long and skeletal. There was no theatrical flourish, no arcane incantation. Just a subtle shift in the air, a sudden, crushing *weight*. Lord Zayid’s smirk vanished, replaced by a gasp of pure terror. His feet, then his legs, began to sink into the polished obsidian floorboards. A sickening *crack* echoed through the hall as the pressure intensified. Zayid’s pleas were cut short, a strangled gurgle, as his entire body compressed, leaving nothing but a grotesque, flattened impression in the floor. Not a drop of blood was spilled; the minister’s craft was too precise for such crude displays. Ouzira, witnessing the horrifying spectacle, felt a strange mix of annoyance and dawning dread. “Honestly,” she whispered to Muzhari, “the upkeep on these floors must be astronomical. Does he really have to do that every year? So messy.” But even as she griped, a cold knot formed in her stomach. This wasn’t just a dramatic show of power; this was a direct threat. The man needed blood, and he would take it, one way or another. She tried to shrink further into the opulent folds of her robes, hoping to blend into the vibrant wall of exotic flora. Her prize moon-orchids, with their blood-drinking tendencies, were probably too eye-catching. She’d made a mistake bringing them. *Stupid, Ouzira. So stupid.* But it was too late. Xarvosh’s cold gaze swept over the remaining aristocrats, then paused, landing with unnerving precision on Ouzira. “Ah, Lady Baqshi,” he intoned, his voice resonating with an unwelcome cordiality. “Your reputation precedes you. And your garden… is said to harbor some truly exceptional specimens. I believe your ‘Moon-Orchids of the Deepest Night’ are quite… rare.” Ouzira forced a sickly sweet smile. “My Lord, such flattery! They are merely humble blossoms, cultivated with much care, of course.” She gripped the small, ornate vial of her own blood she’d prepared, hoping it would be enough. Perhaps he wouldn’t ask for *too* much. “Indeed,” Xarvosh continued, taking a slow, deliberate step towards her. “And the rarest blooms require the richest soil. Lady Baqshi, I will take your Moon-Orchids. And a fresh vial of your distinguished blood. A full measure, if you please.” He extended a hand, a small, silver lancet glinting between his fingers. It was clearly not an invitation for her pre-drawn vial. Ouzira’s heart gave an unpleasant lurch. A *full measure* meant a significant amount, enough to make her dizzy and weak for days. She fumbled for the lancet in her own pocket, her fingers suddenly clumsy. *Just get it over with, Ouzira. Prick the finger, give the blood, then back to the chaise.* She brought her thumb up, preparing for the sharp, familiar sting. But before the lancet could touch her skin, a massive shadow fell over her. Arghus, who had been standing silently by her side, moved with a speed that belied his size. He stepped directly between Ouzira and the Grand Vizier, his towering form completely obscuring her from Xarvosh’s view. A collective gasp hissed across the room. Xarvosh himself paused, his expression unreadable. Arghus’s skin, usually a sun-bronzed canvas of scars and muscle, began to shift. It rippled, hardened, and darkened, transforming into rough, impenetrable bark, twisting around his arms and shoulders like ancient, living armor. His eyes, normally a flat, placid grey, now glowed with a feral, emerald light. With a soft *shiiing* that cut through the frozen hall, he drew his massive pruning blade, its polished edge gleaming like a sliver of the moon. It was not a gardener's tool anymore; it was a weapon, heavy and undeniably lethal. Arghus raised the blade, its tip glinting, and pointed it directly at Grand Vizier Xarvosh’s throat.

The Vizier's Tax