The cobblestone path leading up to Crowsnest Manor was still a jagged scar, but Tazia had already commissioned a squad of stonemasons. Their dusty hammers tapped a rhythm against the afternoon’s fading light as she, Razien, and a surprisingly burdened Ennio navigated the last stretch. Ennio, now sporting a gold ingot in a coin pouch he’d clearly bought on the way, juggled three ornate ceramic tubs overflowing with exotic orchids, a plush velvet chaise lounge, and a carved cedar birdcage containing a squawking, emerald-plumed parrot. Razien, silent and still, walked beside Tazia, his chinchilla cloak a dark whisper against the bright air. His hand, she noticed, kept brushing the rough stone of the manor wall, as if mapping the familiar desolation. “Oh, Ennio, darling, just set those down by the fountain for a moment!” Tazia chirped, gesturing towards a rather sad, algae-choked basin near the manor’s imposing but crumbling front doors. “I need to decide where the sun hits best for the orchids. And the chaise, Razien, my love, will go right here, I think, for your afternoon reading. Or napping! Whatever you prefer.” Razien stiffened. *Reading?* The woman was truly deranged. And “my love”? Each endearment was another barb, another twisted attempt to lull him into a false sense of security before the true torment began. He felt the phantom brush of her fingers on his arm, a touch that, despite his heightened senses, was still a foreign sensation. It was not a hand reaching for a weapon, nor one tightening in a chokehold. It was... light. Too light. Too gentle. He tensed, ready for the inevitable shift. Just as Ennio carefully lowered the chaise, a carriage clattered to a halt on the newly paved section of the drive, stirring up a plume of dust that coated the fresh orchids. It was a gaudy contraption, painted in the loud blues and silvers of a minor merchant syndicate. The door burst open, and a man spilled out in a cloud of bergamot oil, his powdered cheeks mottled with sweat. The portly lordling strode towards the manor, his gaze locking onto Razien. “Well, well, if it isn’t the discarded blade,” the noble drawled, his voice thick with malicious amusement. His eyes, the color of bruised plums, flickered over Razien’s motionless form, then lingered on the rich chinchilla cloak. “Still clinging to that useless hide, I see. Expected you to be begging in the gutters by now, Razien. Or perhaps, given your… *condition*…” He made a wide, dismissive gesture at Razien’s face, “fallen off a cliff somewhere, eh? Saved us the trouble.” Tazia’s cheerful expression evaporated like morning mist. A flicker of something cold and sharp entered her usually sunny eyes. She stepped forward, placing herself between the visitor and Razien. “My good sir,” she said, her voice calm and brisk, “I believe you are mistaken. Razien is no longer ‘discarded,’ nor is he ‘useless.’ He is, in fact, rather indispensable. And certainly not blind to your crude insults.” The lordling’s sneer widened. “Oh, the noblewoman has found herself a pet project, has she? A pity. I recall you once shared my sentiments about the man’s… *failings*. Surely, you haven’t gone soft, Lady Morvello? Or perhaps you simply enjoy the novelty of a broken toy?” He glanced at Razien, expecting shared scorn. Razien stood utterly still, every nerve screaming. He waited for Tazia’s laugh, for the agreement, for the cold sting of her returning cruelty. He had heard this tone before; the barbed cadence followed a predictable cadence. The chinchilla cloak, the gentle touches, the absurd gifts – it was all a prelude to this, wasn’t it? The grand reveal of her true, venomous nature. He could feel a pressure building in his chest, a deep, churning void beginning to awaken. It was familiar, a cold, empty despair that promised nothing but oblivion. But Tazia didn’t laugh. Her eyes, usually sparkling with an almost childlike joy, hardened into chips of emerald ice. “Sir,” she said, her voice dropping to a razor-thin murmur, “I believe you have overstayed your welcome. And you’ve insulted my husband.” She turned her head slightly. “Ennio, darling. That rather fetching koi pond just beyond the gate. It seems a tad… empty. Perhaps it needs a large, blustering obstacle.” Ennio, who had been trying to appear invisible behind a potted fern, nearly dropped the parrot cage. His mind raced: *This fool is nobility, even if minor. Lady Morvello is mad. Razien is a killer.* The gold ingot was very real, and the lady paid handsomely. He took a deep, fortifying breath. He had a job now. A very well-paying job that involved protecting his new benefactress from her own bizarre choices and the consequences thereof. Without a word, Ennio dropped the fern. He moved with a speed that belied his previous fumbling, seizing the intruder by the lapels of his embroidered coat before the man could register the threat. The noble squawked, mouth agape, but Ennio hauled him like a bundle of wet laundry straight toward the ornamental basin. The crash sent green scum arcing through the air as the visitor submerged, velvet hat and all. A moment later, he resurfaced, gasping, spitting algae, and completely soaked. His silks, once pristine, now clung to him, dripping slime. Razien felt it. The despair, that hollow ache that had been building, suddenly seized. It didn’t dissipate. It twisted. It coiled into something else. The raw, desperate craving for oblivion morphed into a searing heat, a roaring inferno in his core. It wasn’t the self-destructive pressure he knew. It was a pressure to *preserve*. To *protect*. Her fury, her genuine, unadulterated fury on *his* behalf… it was a foreign warmth, a shield he hadn’t known existed. The void in his chest didn’t collapse; it flared, sharp and demanding. He shifted his weight, his fingers twitching, a phantom knife appearing in his grip. The thought, clear and sudden, carved itself into his mind: *No one else would dare touch what was hers.* No one would dare touch *her*. He didn't understand it, but he felt it, a primal, possessive surge. The drenched lord sputtered, clawing his way over the slimy stone rim. Weeds clung to his lapels, water streaming down his purple doublet in thick rivulets. He ignored Ennio, who calmly patted the pouch at his belt. Shaking with fury, the intruder fixed his gaze on Tazia. “You… *harpy*,” he hissed, his voice trembling with humiliated fury. “You will regret this. Tonight, Lady Morvello. Tonight, I will burn this entire manor to the ground.”

The Threat at the Threshold