“Purge sequence initiated. T-minus sixty seconds.” Naszra stared at the metallic wall, the countdown clicking in the silence, each digit a hammer blow. The toxic miasma from Ghaeron’s wound thickened, acrid and suffocating. Her hands still trembled, stained crimson, but the rage had been momentarily eclipsed by something colder, sharper. She didn’t need a meat-shield. She didn’t need *anyone*. “Fifty ticks,” the voice intoned. “Fine,” Naszra spat, the word a chipped shard of flint. “You want to bleed out here, that’s your choice. But I’m not dying in a glorified garbage chute.” She twisted, scanning the cramped space, searching for a seam, a weakness, anything her aura-hammer could exploit. There was nothing, just solid, riveted steel. “Thirty ticks.” Ghaeron pushed himself up, leaning heavily against the curved vent wall. His face was pale, a thin sheen of sweat on his brow, but his gaze was steady, fixed on the ceiling. “You’re right,” he rasped, his voice rough. “An undignified end for a Lady of the Hegemony. For either of us.” “Lady?” Naszra scoffed, a strangled sound. “I’m a ward. A project. A spectacle. You’re just a glorified guard dog. And a slow one at that, judging by your arm.” “Precisely,” Ghaeron said, ignoring the barb. He took a slow, deliberate breath, then another, his chest expanding with effort. “Which means we require… an exit befitting our station. A grand entrance, if you will.” “Are you hallucinating?” she snapped, noticing the faint tremor in his hands. “We’re about to be incinerated! What’s grand about that?” “Twenty ticks.” Ghaeron closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them, a strange, almost manic glint in their depths. “The ‘Imperial Bowbreaker’,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. “A standard move in high-level diplomatic receptions. Utilizes a controlled aura-surge to destabilize the primary support columns of any lesser structure. Creates… a rather dramatic impression.” He shifted, wincing as he moved his injured arm. “It requires precision. A focal point.” “You’re going to blast through, aren’t you?” Naszra demanded, taking in his posture. “To make a ‘dramatic impression’?” “Ten.” “Hold on to me,” Ghaeron commanded, his voice suddenly sharp, devoid of its usual cultivated drawl. “Tightly. Or you’ll be scattered across half the academy.” Naszra hesitated for a fraction of a second, her pride a hot, searing coal in her throat. To accept help, to cling to this insufferable man, it felt like surrender. But the cold, mechanical count of the purge sequence was more persuasive than any honor-debt. With a grunt, she wrapped an arm around his waist, careful to avoid his wound, and braced herself. His arm, surprisingly strong despite the injury, clamped around her, pulling her close. The faint scent of metallic sweat and something clean, like refined oil, filled her senses. “Five.” Ghaeron slammed his uninjured hand against the ceiling of the vent. A searing, focused burst of raw aura-threads erupted from his palm, not like Naszra’s wild surges, but a precise, concentrated spear of energy that vibrated with a low hum. The metal shrieked. The entire vent shuddered, groaning like a dying beast. “Four.” The spear of energy burrowed deeper, the metal glowing white-hot. A sound like tearing fabric ripped through the air. “Three.” “Brace,” Ghaeron gritted out, pulling her even tighter. A guttural roar tore from his throat, not of pain, but of exertion. He channeled more aura, pushing, pushing, a controlled pressure building. The vent rattled violently, threatening to disintegrate around them. “Two.” With a final, shattering crack, the ceiling above them gave way. A blinding flash of light, a deafening rupture, and then they were no longer in the vent, but hurtling through a chaotic spray of metal shards and smoke, straight down into open air. The wind roared past Naszra’s ears, stealing her breath. She saw, for a fleeting moment, a cavernous space below, filled with tables and people. Then they hit. **CRASH!** The impact sent a shockwave through her entire body. They landed hard, a tangle of limbs and bruised flesh, amidst splintered wood and scattered foodstuffs. A collective gasp rippled through the grand dining hall, a sound that quickly devolved into murmurs and alarmed exclamations. Naszra coughed, her lungs burning, tasting soot and something vaguely savory. She found herself sprawled across Ghaeron, his arm still protectively around her, his head turned into her shoulder. His body was stiff, tense, but he was breathing. Slowly, she pushed herself up, blinking through the haze of smoke. They were in the very center of the dining hall, surrounded by ornate tables laden with untouched delicacies. White-clad servers stood frozen, mouths slack. Students, ranging from scions of minor noble houses to aspiring relic-forgers, stared openly, their morning meal forgotten. Naszra was covered in black soot, her hair a wild, tangled mess. Ghaeron, similarly begrimed, slowly disentangled himself, groaning softly. His meticulously tailored tunic was ripped, his aristocratic features smudged beyond recognition. He looked like he’d been dragged through a charcoal pit, yet somehow, he still managed to exude an air of furious indignation. “An… unconventional egress,” Ghaeron managed, spitting out a fleck of metal. “Perhaps a trifle too dramatic for the morning repast.” Naszra simply glared, her own shock slowly giving way to a familiar, protective fury. She would have something to say to Qaldir about these ‘safety features’. At a raised dais, a table much grander than the rest, sat three individuals. Lord Qaldir, impossibly clean and composed, his dark eyes sparkling with amusement, held a delicate cup of steaming chai. Beside him, two solemn-faced forge-elders, their robes embroidered with the sigils of the guilds, watched with a mixture of surprise and disapproval. And across from Qaldir, his face a mask of apoplectic rage, was Naszra’s father, Korvan. He had been reaching for a spiced pastry, but his hand was now frozen mid-air, trembling with barely contained fury. “Ah, patriarch,” Qaldir purred, his voice carrying easily across the stunned silence of the hall. “It seems your eldest daughter continues to make quite the… entrance. One might almost say she shatters expectations.” He took a slow sip of his chai, his gaze briefly flicking to Naszra, a spark of approval in his eyes. “Far more exciting than your Ninshur’s rather pedestrian ‘divine revelations,’ wouldn’t you agree?” Korvan’s face turned a mottled shade of puce. He sputtered, unable to form a coherent response. The elders exchanged uneasy glances, clearly uncomfortable with Qaldir’s public humiliation of a prominent family head, even one as diminished as the patriarch. But none dared speak. Qaldir’s casual barb had not only denigrated Ninshur but had simultaneously elevated Naszra, painting her explosive, chaotic arrival as an act of powerful originality, a stark contrast to her sister’s plagiarized prophecies. Naszra, despite herself, felt a strange, unfamiliar warmth in her chest, quickly smothered by a surge of irritation. She didn’t need his help to make her point. She certainly didn’t need his *compliments*. As the servers began to timidly approach with brooms and apologies, a frantic, high-pitched wail echoed from the entrance of the dining hall. “Naszra! My Lady Naszra! Are you unharmed?!” Bozig, her bumbling lackey, stumbled into the hall, brows pitched high in frantic concern. He tripped over a discarded napkin, nearly face-planting, before righting himself and rushing towards their table, his hands flailing. “Oh, the indignity! Blasted vents! Master Vex, your arm! My poor Lady, you look like you wrestled a soot-golem!” He knelt beside Naszra, his concern overblown, bordering on theatrical. “Let me help you, my Lady. Perhaps a soothing compress? A fresh garment?” As he spoke, his eyes darted around, his small, nimble fingers moving with a swiftness that belied his clumsy exterior. He reached for the drinking vessel of the elder closest to Qaldir, a stern-faced old man named Keldri, whose brow bore deep furrows from ancient forge-lores. Bozig’s hand, seemingly to steady himself, bumped the silver cup. A tiny, almost imperceptible vial, no larger than a grain of sand, slipped from his sleeve. A single drop, dark as night, fell into the elder’s untouched morning beverage. Then, with a loud, exaggerated sniffle, Bozig withdrew his hand. Ghaeron, still dazed and covered in soot, watched the entire sequence. The perfect feint, the almost invisible slip of the hand, the theatrical cover of clumsy concern. It was a Shadow-Weaver’s move, precise and deadly. His eyes narrowed. He knew that dark, viscous droplet. Mother’s-bane. The same poison that had taken Naszra’s mother, leaving her without a voice. The same poison he now recognized had been subtly radiating from the forge-golems in the vent. Bozig was far more than a bumbling fool. He was a killer, and he was targeting the forge-elders. If Keldri drank that, he would die, and Bozig’s network, his true allegiances, would remain hidden, festering in the heart of Yakhut. If Ghaeron intervened, he would expose everything, including his own and Naszra’s investigation, before they were ready. The vessel sat on the table, steaming gently, a silent, ticking clock. Ghaeron’s gaze flickered from the vessel to Bozig’s feigning face, then to the oblivious Keldri, who was just reaching for his drink. His hand was already closing around the cup.

Etiquette and Explosions