“Relocating? To my estate?” Tassia’s laugh was bright, a little too loud in the sudden, heavy silence of the faction hall. She clapped her hands together, a sound like two pebbles striking. “Oh, Renzio, you always were a dramatic one. What, are you planning a hostile takeover of my herb garden? My basil has absolutely *nothing* to do with your… whatever this is.” She gestured vaguely at the glowering soldiers, their masks reflecting the cool, dim light. Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, though it carried through the unnerved crowd. “Besides, it’s not exactly ‘safe’ when your personal bodyguards look like they’ve just witnessed a spectral cheese grater.” Renzio's dark smile deepened. The dark presence at his back, a formless pool of rippling jet, seemed to *press* against the air, chilling it. “Safety, Tassia, is a spectrum. And this spectrum, for you, requires maximum oversight. The grounds have been… adapted. Consider it a strategic re-purposing. For your continued well-being.” He glanced at the still-frozen entrance, then back at her, his eyes glinting. “And your tomatoes are fine. Mostly.” “‘Mostly’ is not ‘fine’!” Tassia declared, hands on her hips. “And ‘adapted’ invariably means ‘ruined’ where you’re concerned.” Yet, for all her bluster, Tassia found herself back at the Palazzo di Fiori within the hour, albeit one now festooned with grim-faced Sentinels of the Umbra-Lumen faction and a surprising lack of her beloved Pyre-glass roof. The ice remained a formidable, shimmering husk around the outer walls, but the interior, miraculously, had thawed. The air inside the main receiving hall hummed with an unfamiliar, cold energy. Renzio, lounging with unnerving grace on her antique velvet divan, motioned to a figure hovering nervously near the hearth. “Ah, Tassia,” Renzio purred, a predatory warmth in his tone. “Just in time. Look who finally decided to grace us with his diplomatic presence.” Ignazio, pale and impeccably dressed in a silk tunic the colour of crushed berries, stood stiffly, a scroll clutched in his white-knuckled hand. His perfectly coiffed hair looked a shade more disheveled than usual. He swallowed hard, his gaze darting between Renzio’s imposing figure and the lingering traces of ice Tassia had tracked onto the polished marble floor. “Tassia! My dearest… Tassia.” His voice cracked. “I came to… to broker a peace. Between the Umbra-Lumen and the Verdant Pact, of course. Not… not for this.” He waved a hand vaguely at the Sentinels who stood like statues, their masked faces utterly impassive. Tassia, already surveying the room for evidence of irreparable damage to her prize-winning orchid display, barely spared him a glance. “Peace? Oh, Ignazio, you always did have a flair for the dramatically ineffective. No, no, you’re here for tea. And service. Renzio, would you be a dear and fetch the apron from the kitchen? The one with the embroidered petunias. Ignazio looks like he’s about to faint, and we can’t have him spilling on my new carpets.” Ignazio’s jaw dropped. “An apron? Tassia, I am a representative of the Senate! I am here on a matter of utmost political urgency!” Renzio, to Tassia’s perverse delight, actually rose. His height seemed to consume the room. He retrieved a ridiculously frilly apron from a nearby hook – how had he known it was there? – and held it out with a polite, but utterly unyielding, smile. “Lady Vendramin’s wishes, Senator. Consider it… cultural exchange.” Ignazio blanched, but the look in Renzio’s eyes was not one to be argued with. With a strangled sigh, he reluctantly donned the floral monstrosity. The delicate ruffles sat ill against his formal attire. His fingers, skilled in delicate calligraphy, fumbled with the ties. “There, much better,” Tassia declared, settling into a gilded armchair. “Now, Ignazio, be a darling and brew us some of that spiced jasmine. And don’t skimp on the honey, Renzio likes it sweet.” Ignazio moved with the jerky grace of a marionette, neck burning crimson. The kitchen, still bearing the faint scent of charcoal from the previous night’s hurried repairs, became his temporary prison. He clattered around, muttering darkly about “barbaric demands” and “diplomatic protocol.” Minutes later, a silver tray laden with steaming teacups and a porcelain pot appeared. Ignazio, his face a mask of profound suffering, set it down before Tassia. As he reached for the handle, a flicker of movement caught Tassia’s eye. A figure, cloaked in the deep purple of the opposing faction, the Night Veil, seemed to coalesce from the gloom near the garden entrance. His hand, quick as a striking viper, extended towards the vessel. A tiny, almost imperceptible vial, no larger than a bee’s stinger, glinted in his fingers. A single drop of viscous, green liquid splashed into the waiting brew. Ignazio, still focused on his own misery, didn’t notice. He began to pour. Renzio, however, did. His gaze sharpened, not on the assassin, but on the porcelain. A low growl rumbled in his chest. Before Tassia could even process the image of the purple cloak, before Ignazio could even register the chill that suddenly permeated the air, Renzio’s shadow *moved*. It detached itself from his form, solidifying into a monstrous, coiling tendril of pure, inky blackness. It didn’t just reach; it *surged*. The assassin, mid-motion of replacing the vial, was enveloped. There was no scream, no struggle. Just a gasp of displaced air, a sickening wet *slurp*, and then nothing. The darkness receded, melting back into Renzio’s form, leaving not a trace of the Night Veil agent. The only evidence was a faint, lingering scent of burnt ozone and something acridly metallic. Ignazio, halfway through pouring Tassia’s cup, froze. His eyes, wide and terrified, were fixed on the empty space where the assassin had been. The tea stream wavered, then stopped. Tassia, for her part, blinked. Then, with a practiced ease that belied the sudden surge of adrenaline in her veins, she offered a bright, brittle smile. “Oh, Renzio, darling, what a neat party trick! But perhaps a little… impolite, for a tea ceremony. Not to mention messy. Now, Ignazio,” her voice was unnaturally chipper, “I do believe that pot has been… compromised. Could you be a dear and brew us a fresh one? And perhaps, this time, ensure there are no unsolicited additions from our… more creatively-minded guests.” Ignazio stared, a silent scream in his eyes. He slowly, painstakingly, set the kettle back down. His hands shook so violently the cups on the tray rattled. Just then, the grand doors to the Palazzo burst open, slamming against the magically climate-controlled walls. Fiorella, Tassia’s best friend, stood framed in the doorway, a whirlwind of emerald silks and righteous fury. Her elaborately styled crimson hair was slightly disheveled, and her cheeks were flushed. She marched in, past the stone-faced Sentinels who didn’t even flinch at her dramatic entrance, and strode directly to Tassia. “Tassia! There you are!” Fiorella cried, throwing her arms around Tassia with bruising force. “I heard about the ice! The *ice*, Tassia! And the Umbra-Lumen setting up shop here! Honestly, leaving you alone for five minutes is like leaving a particularly attractive, unguarded pot of honey out for a bear! But don’t you worry, my love. We will get through this. And what’s more,” she pulled back, her eyes sparkling with determination, “I’ve decided. The upcoming Carnival of Whispers is the perfect opportunity. I’m going to personally help you find a handsome, *normal* boyfriend. One who doesn’t have a terrifying shadow monster for a pet, or a penchant for ruining gardens, or a career in political espionage. Someone sweet. Someone *safe*.” She beamed at Renzio, who had been quietly watching the exchange, his expression unreadable. Renzio’s smile, when it came, was slow. He raised his delicate porcelain teacup, his fingers wrapping around the thin material. His irises, dark as jet, now glowed with a faint, internal luminescence. The cup, with a soft, grinding sound, crumbled to dust in his bare hand. “Oh, I assure you, Fiorella,” Renzio said, his voice a low, silken rumble that made the air thrum. “I will be Tassia’s personal chaperone.”

Tea and Treason