Tivya forced her heels against the stone floor, falling in alongside Rydel's stride toward the drill yard. Elder Yulon on the grounds, paired with her missing signature sheet, left no doubt: the old guildmaster had set a snare. She fixed a bright, vacant grin onto her face before stepping into the open air. The perimeter flagstones, normally loud with clattering armor and squawking familiars, stood mutely still. A ring of Vanguard guards ringed a dais beside the dry fountain. On the platform stood Elder Yulon, his posture stooped, his sparse white hair a halo around a surprisingly sharp face. Beside him, trembling visibly, was a young man no older than Rydel, clad in the simple tunic of a junior beast-tamer. His eyes darted around, wide with terror, his hands bound loosely with a single strand of Lumic-silk. “Ah, Captain Vask!” Yulon’s reedy voice carried across the courtyard, laced with a feigned frailty. “My apologies for the intrusion, but my guild has been diligent. We have apprehended the wretch responsible for peddling… unsanctioned genetic alterations.” He gestured vaguely at the terrified tamer, a thin smile playing on his lips. “A minor operative, to be sure, but a crucial link.” The bound lad had never touched a contraband core; Yulon had clearly pulled an expendable apprentice to deflect inquiry. Across the stones, the infirmary doors banged wide as Bramon stalked forward, boots striking the granite in heavy, measured thuds. The crowd parted without a word. “Elder Yulon,” Bramon’s voice was a low rumble, devoid of inflection. “Explain.” “Of course, of course,” Yulon chirped, then his eyes, surprisingly bright, caught Tivya’s. He started to descend the platform, leaning heavily on a gnarled staff. “Ah, young mistress Jorl! What a delight to see your shining face! You always bring such… vitality to these grim military proceedings.” He shuffled towards her, his movements slow, deliberate. As he drew near, his voice dropped, barely a whisper meant only for her ears. “Such a shame about your little contract, my dear. The missing page? I have it. That messy signature of yours. A true work of art, if I do say so.” Tivya’s breath caught. Her posture locked stiff. His eyes, though framed by wrinkles, held a chilling intelligence. He held her entire world in his frail, liver-spotted hand. The stones tilted under her boots, but she caught herself against the fountain rim. “Yes, such a unique script,” Yulon continued, his voice still a conspiratorial murmur. “Now, Captain Vask’s beast-cores… they are quite powerful, aren’t they? A touch too powerful for even him, I’d wager. A slight… adjustment, then. A subtle weakening. Nothing lethal, mind you. Just enough to ensure he doesn’t go sniffing into certain… illicit affairs.” His grip on his staff tightened. “Fail to comply, and that signature page finds its way to the Captain’s desk. Along with a detailed account of your rather… creative bio-alchemy. Treason, they call that. A rather painful end, I hear.” Bramon’s lethal insomnia gave way to this—an order to poison him from within. Sabotage Bramon? Her patient? The man she was supposed to cure? This was beyond anything she’d imagined. Her mind raced, desperate for an out, for a way to buy time. Just then, a growl, deep and guttural, echoed from Bramon. His head snapped towards them, his eyes, still clouded with residual exhaustion, narrowing. He’d noticed their hushed exchange. His beast-curse, still simmering beneath his skin, seemed to sense the veiled threat, the clandestine conversation. A faint tremor ran through his massive frame. He started to move, a predator closing in. Bramon watched them from twenty paces away. He would question. He would see through her. She had to deflect, immediately, spectacularly. Her eyes fixed on Yulon’s ancient face, and a grotesque, exaggerated smile stretched across her own. “Oh, Elder Yulon!” she gushed, her voice suddenly loud, saccharine, and impossibly high-pitched. She leaned in conspiratorially, but with an air of theatrical coquetry that would make any observer recoil. “You always have such fascinating things to say! And your wisdom! It just… it glows! Like a rare jewel! I always feel so much smarter just being near you!” She batted her eyelashes with the subtlety of a collapsing sky-terrace, then playfully nudged his arm. “Tell me, Elder, what’s your secret? All that brain power and still so spry! Is it your morning nutrient paste? Or maybe,” she dropped to an exaggerated stage whisper meant for the entire yard, “it’s all that… *experience* you have with… *ancient artifacts*?” Yulon blinked, caught off guard by her sudden, over-the-top performance. A flicker of annoyance crossed his face, quickly replaced by a placid, if slightly amused, smile. He played along, his hand patting hers, though his eyes still held a warning. Bramon’s approach halted. He stood rigid, his gaze fixed on Tivya’s animated face, then on Yulon’s. A vein throbbed in his temple. The feral glint in his eyes was replaced by something else – a flicker of pure, unadulterated irritation. The captain's mouth flattened into an irritated slant. The ditzy veterinarian, gushing over the ancient guildmaster like a lovesick hatchling. “Mistress Jorl,” Bramon barked, his voice snapping over the murmuring guards. “My quarters. Now. And the Elder, if you would, is here for official business, not for… personal consultations on his diet.” His flint-gray stare swung from her toward the guildmaster. “As for this ‘accomplice’,” he gestured dismissively at the terrified tamer, “he will be held in the Keep’s detention cells. My vanguard will conduct a full interrogation. And *I* will oversee it personally.” Yulon’s placid smile didn’t waver, but his eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly as Bramon took control. The implicit threat of a full, uncompromised interrogation hung in the air. A thread of relief wound through Tivya's ribs; her ridiculous display had scrambled Yulon's theater and bought a few precious hours. “Certainly, Commander,” Yulon countered, bowing low. “Just ensuring Mistress Jorl was… adequately prepared for her continued duties within the Keep. Such a busy schedule you keep her on.” He shot Tivya another pointed glance, a silent reminder of her new, dangerous task. Bramon’s gaze, however, remained fixed on Tivya, a possessive, almost territorial glint in his dark eyes. “Indeed,” Bramon replied, his voice a low growl. “She has proven… invaluable. So invaluable, in fact, that I require her constant presence. Elder, your investigation is noted. Mistress Jorl,” his gaze hardened on her, “you will accompany me. We have an engagement this evening. The Sky-Terrace Gala. Your attendance is not optional.”

The Guildmaster's Blackmail