Jolvan Cright, framed by the skeletal remains of the door, resembled a badly painted portrait of fury. His emerald ring, a bauble I’d once coveted, now pulsed on his finger like a malignant, green eye, mirroring the venom in his gaze. “What in the blazes are you doing here, Tazien?” he roared, the sound echoing off the brass contraptions. His voice was thick with entitlement, that familiar, infuriating note that grated on my nerves like rusted gears. I folded my arms, a wisp of steam rising from the stew pot between us. “Oh, Jolvan. I’m making dinner for my companion. A novelty, I know, given your preferred method of ‘companionship’ involved me serving *you* cold coffee and colder platitudes.” My voice, even to my own ears, dripped with saccharine disdain. I saw Varek flinch slightly in his chair, his gaze dropping to the floor, probably bracing for the inevitable escalation. Old habits die hard, and my old habit was to avoid confrontation entirely, especially with Jolvan. This new habit, however, was far more entertaining. Jolvan’s face mottled, a patchy red spreading across his pale skin. “Companion? This… cripple? You left me at the altar, Tazien! You publicly humiliated me! And now you’re here, slumming it in the lower wards with this… this *tinkerer*?” His lip curled, a sneer that made my fingers itch to introduce his perfect teeth to my cast-iron skillet. “Slumming it?” I raised a brow, feigning mild amusement. “Darling, I’m building a future. You, on the other hand, are dissolving one. Funny how that works out, isn’t it?” I took a step closer, my voice dropping to a stage whisper that still carried clearly in the suddenly silent workshop. “Tell me, has old Master Korvan been asking after his interest payments? Or maybe the Ash-Marketeers are getting impatient about that substantial loan you took out to ‘diversify’ your family’s dwindling portfolio?” Jolvan froze. The rage bled from his face, replaced by a ghastly pallor. His eyes darted nervously, first to me, then to Varek, who remained utterly still. The emerald ring seemed to dim. “What… what are you talking about?” he stammered, his bravado crumbling like dry clay. “Oh, you know,” I purred, leaning in conspiratorially. “The one you took out under your father’s name, naturally, because your own credit is… shall we say, *non-existent*? The one you used to buy that ghastly, oversized carriage you so proudly paraded through the Upper Esplanade, instead of, say, investing in actual, solvent ventures? The kind of debt that would make your dear old Pappa’s hair spontaneously combust if he ever caught wind of it.” His jaw went slack. The air turned heavy, sour with Jolvan's sudden sweat. Varek lifted his head slightly, watchful and sharp-eyed as he studied Jolvan’s contortions. “You… you wouldn’t dare,” Jolvan whispered, his voice hoarse. “Dare?” I gave him my most charming, most venomous smile. “Darling, I dared to leave you standing alone in a room full of gawking socialites, didn’t I? What’s a little financial ruin compared to that?” I gestured vaguely at the mangled door. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have dinner. Go pay your respects to Master Korvan before he sends his… persuasive collectors to pay *you* a visit. They tend to be far less gentle with doorframes than you are.” Jolvan stared at me, mouth gaping. He opened his mouth, then closed it, a strangled sound escaping him. He spun on his heel, stumbling over the splintered wood, and scrambled out into the downpour, the remnants of the door swinging uselessly behind him. The clatter of his retreating carriage wheels faded into the constant patter of rain. I let out a theatrical sigh, then turned to Varek. He was staring at me, utterly bewildered, the spoon still clutched in his hand. “See?” I said, picking up the ladle. “Problem solved. Now, eat your stew before it gets cold. I didn’t slave over a hot pot just for you to get distracted by a preening peacock.” His gaze, still wide, flickered from my face to the still-steaming bowl. He seemed… stunned. My aggressive affection was probably a jolt to his system, like a shot of high-proof ember-coal spirits. He picked up the spoon again, but his movements were stiff, hesitant. He took a tentative mouthful, his eyes never leaving mine. “Good, isn’t it?” I prompted, watching him closely. “Full of iron. You look like you haven’t seen a vegetable in a month.” I reached out, my thumb roughly scrubbing at a smudge of soot on his cheekbone, just beneath his eye. It was a purely pragmatic gesture, meant to clean, but the contact lingered. His skin felt warm, surprisingly soft beneath the grime. He flinched, a subtle tremor running through him, his respiration catching in his throat. His gaze locked on mine, and a faint blush, barely perceptible in the dim workshop light, crept up his neck. He swallowed hard, his gaze fixed on my thumb, then on my face, a current of something unidentifiable passing between us. My own heart gave a strange, unexpected thump. “You’re… you’re getting it everywhere,” he mumbled, his voice a low rasp, thick with something I couldn’t quite decipher. “Nonsense. All clean now,” I declared, pulling my hand away and wiping it on my apron, a shield of domesticity. “Now, eat. And don’t talk back. Your body needs sustenance, not arguments.” He slowly, obediently, brought the spoon back to his mouth, though his eyes kept darting to my face. The blush on his neck remained. Good. A little fluster would do him good. He needed a good shaking up, a reminder that people *cared*. Just then, a timid rap sounded at the damaged doorway. A thin, reedy boy, barely taller than a stack of coal briquettes, peered in, his basket of vegetables clutched tightly in his hands. It was Rolo, the grocer’s boy from down the lane. He was known more for his frantic energy and ability to absorb local gossip than for his reliable deliveries. “Master Orellen?” Rolo squeaked, his eyes wide as he took in the ruined door and the lingering scent of stew. “I have your weekly cabbage, and some… some parsnips?” He looked utterly terrified, probably expecting me to be some sort of vengeful spirit. “Come in, Rolo, don’t dawdle,” I said, waving him in with a flourish. “And don’t mind the door. Just a minor architectural re-evaluation. Now, I have an important commission for you, if you’re up to it.” Rolo’s eyes, already twitching, darted between me and Varek, who had paused mid-bite, watching us with quiet intensity. “A… a commission, Mistress?” “Indeed.” I leaned in, beckoning him closer. He shuffled forward, practically vibrating with anxiety and curiosity. “You know Jolvan Cright, yes? The one with the emerald ring, always parading about in his ghastly carriage?” Rolo nodded vigorously, his eyes gleaming. “Oh, yes, Mistress. A real dandy, he is. Always stiff-necked.” “A dandy, indeed,” I agreed sweetly. “A financially precarious dandy, moreover. He’s in deep with the Ash-Marketeers, you see. Debts up to his sleek hair. Not the sort of thing his family would want publicized, certainly not in polite society. Or impolite society, for that matter. In fact, it would deal a devastating blow to his reputation, don’t you think?” Rolo nearly dropped his turnip bin. He clutched his basket so tightly his knuckles turned white. “The… the Ash-Marketeers, Tazien? But they’re… they’re ruthless!” “Precisely,” I said, a dangerous sparkle in my eye. “And what a shame it would be if such juicy information were to, shall we say, *circulate* among the various markets and social circles of Kravika. Perhaps starting with the fishmongers, then the weavers’ guild, and certainly, absolutely, the ladies who frequent the Upper Esplanade tea rooms.” I gave him a conspiratorial wink. “A little bird told me he’s been trying to secure a loan from the Grand Merchant’s Guild, but they’re notoriously particular about who they lend to, aren’t they? Especially those with… existing entanglements.” Rolo looked like Christmas had come early, albeit a terrifying, gossip-filled Christmas. His anxiety seemed to war with his innate hunger for scandal, and scandal was winning. “Oh, gods,” he breathed, his voice a mix of terror and glee. “I… I think I can manage that. A little bird, you say?” “A very reliable little bird,” I confirmed, pressing a couple of small coins into his hand. “Consider this a retainer for your… services. And make sure to emphasize the *ruthless* part. Wouldn’t want anyone thinking Jolvan is merely ‘behind on payments.’ He’s drowning.” Rolo tucked the coins away, a manic grin spreading across his face. “Right away! Drowning! Yes, that’s much better!” He practically skipped out of the workshop, his mission firmly implanted. That boy would have the whole of Kravika buzzing with Jolvan’s financial woes by morning. I dusted my hands, feeling a grim satisfaction. One small brick in the wall of his ruin. I turned back to Varek, who was still slowly eating his stew, his gaze fixed on my face. He looked almost dazed. The room was a mess; the door hung at an impossible angle, dust motes danced in the lamplight, and half-finished contraptions lay everywhere. My internal clock, the one that hummed beneath my skin, felt a strange lightness, a fleeting sense of purpose. “Honestly, this place is a disaster,” I muttered, grabbing a rag and beginning to furiously wipe down a workbench piled with gears and bolts. Old habits. I needed to keep moving, keep busy, keep fixing things. Especially him. “How you manage to work in such squalor is beyond me.” My movements were sharp, almost frantic, a physical manifestation of the frantic energy that now propelled me. I scrubbed at a stubborn grease stain, my arm moving vigorously. A sudden, gentle hand closed around my wrist, stilling my movements. Varek. His fingers were surprisingly warm, rough, and his touch was hesitant, almost pleading. “Tazien,” he said, his voice quiet, a soft rumble. “You don’t have to—” His words cut off abruptly. A searing heat bloomed on my forearm where his fingers rested. Through the thin fabric of my sleeve, a faint, rhythmic *tick-tick-tick* became audible, a sound only I should be able to hear. And then, as if burned by an invisible brand, the fabric of my sleeve began to glow, a stark, fiery outline of the chronometer on my skin, burning an intricate, pulsing ring straight through the cloth.

Spiced Stew and Sabotage