Dalya gripped the slender glass vial. Zared backed against the flour bin, his palms pressing flat against the cedar planks. He had to warn Tasmira without blowing his cover as Dalya's accomplice. "Zared, boy!" Tasmira called, tapping an offset spatula against marble. She stood at her worktable, surrounded by delicate molds and glistening ganaches. "Could you fetch me the powdered rose hips? The crimson jar. The judges are almost here." He flinched, the abrupt command pulling him away from Dalya’s immediate threat. It was a reprieve, but a false one. The rose hips sat at the far end of the larder. When he looked back, Dalya had slipped behind Tasmira’s marble counter, hovering over an individual square of layered plum cake dressed with glossed blackberry glaze. He couldn't shout without Dalya realizing he had betrayed her. He lunged toward the pastry counter instead of the larder, casting about for a pretext. He was two paces short. Dalya thumbed the cork free and tipped the silvery liquid across the blackberry reduction. It dissolved instantly into the dark syrup. She slipped back toward her cutting block, tucking the empty vial into her apron pocket. "Ah, there you are, masters!" Tasmira beamed as three guild elders in silk tabards drew near. "Please, begin! Today we sample the 'Crimson Velvet Sonata.' Each layer offers a separate texture, finishing with the fruit reduction—a sharp kick of tartness and heat." Zared halted beside the pastry cart as Tasmira handed the senior artisan a polished silver fork. Dry grit coated his tongue. Shouting an accusation without physical evidence would only draw Dalya's wrath upon him before the Guildmaster could intervene. The first artisan lifted a forkful to her mouth. The second followed. Tasmira then took her own fork, cut a generous corner through cake and syrup, and tasted it, smiling cheerfully at the appraisal panel. Zared clamped his jaws shut. Dock gossip spoke of blowfish venom causing rigid muscle lock within seconds. He waited for someone to pitch forward onto the tiles. Instead, an appreciative murmur rippled through the trio. The senior artisan lowered her fork, nodding slowly in mild astonishment. "Remarkable, Tasmira," the woman with silver braids murmured. "The reduction possesses a sharp, mineral depth. An undercurrent reminiscent of dried sea moss. It anchors the plum sponge completely. What spice did you select?" Tasmira tilted her head, a playful smile on her lips. "Ah, a trade secret, dear Master Aeridona! But I can tell you it's a careful blend of rare sea herbs, dried and powdered, and a touch of the smallest, sweetest bell-peppers, fermented for just a day. The 'oceanic spice' you detect is likely the unique salinity they impart." Zared blinked. *Sea herbs?* Dalya had emptied an entire measure of venom into that syrup. Why was no one choking? He moved closer, his confusion warring with a growing sense of awe. He watched Tasmira take another bite, a slow, deliberate chew, her eyes closed in contemplation. "Yes," she breathed, opening her eyes. "A delightful, almost imperceptible tingle on the tongue, followed by a sustained warmth. It's the perfect counterpoint to the sweetness of the plum. The 'Crimson Velvet Sonata' truly sings today." Dalya, who had been watching from her station, her face a mask of barely contained fury, swayed. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. Dalya stared in slack-jawed shock. She had watched the elders clear their plates, completely unharmed. [Sabotage Points: -500. Target unharmed. Host's luck drained. Catastrophic failure.] A low rumble vibrated through the floor. It started subtly, a vibration that felt like a distant cart, then grew into a sharp, grating shriek. From above Dalya’s head, where a heavy iron spice rack was secured to the wall with ancient, rusty bolts, one of the bolts suddenly sheared with a deafening *CRACK*. The overhead shelf, laden with ceramic jars of rare seasonings, tilted forward. Dalya glanced up, paralyzed. The masonry plugs gave way with a dry groan. The frame dropped, slamming Dalya against her prep counter. Clay vessels shattered across stone flags, releasing yellow clouds of turmeric and red paprika. She shrieked as an iron bracket caught her forearm against the slab, pinning her in place. The artisans jumped back. Tasmira dropped her rag and rushed across the floor, kneeling beside the debris. "Dalya! Oh, ancestors! Zared, run for the guild apothecaries! Fetch Guildmaster Rhana!" As Zared ran toward the corridor, Tasmira leaned down over the wreckage, her voice dropping to a flat murmur beneath Dalya's groans. "Did you think I wouldn't recognize reef venom on my own table? Street orphans learn which harbor fish kill, and in what doses they merely numb the lips. You almost spoiled three yards of imported silk with cheap dock swill." Her tone was devoid of its usual sing-song lilt. "Cross my line again, and I will ensure the Guildmaster finds the receipt for that bottle in your locker." She straightened smoothly as porters arrived, gesturing toward the bent iron with crisp efficiency. “My apologies for this fright, revered guests. A loose masonry anchor, it seems. I assure you, the Pavilion remains spotless.” She dipped into a flawless curtsy. The trio bowed stiffly and hurried toward the gallery exit. Attendants crowded the aisle, lifting the iron frame to splint Dalya's swollen wrist. Turmeric dust hung thick in the air, catching in throats. The heavy brass-banded doors swung inward. A tall official stood framed in the opening, wearing court robes of dark damson lined with gold braid. His gaze traveled across the broken pottery, the groaning apprentice, and stopped on Tasmira. “I am Court Examiner Kaelus,” he said, his tone dry as chalk. “The palace review was set for three days hence. However, hearing the commotion from the courtyard, I see no reason to delay my inspection.” Silence descended across the hall. Kaelus took two paces past the threshold. “Consider this your preliminary assessment.” Tasmira adjusted her flour-dusted cuffs, her expression resetting into an untroubled grin. Kaelus had arrived seventy-two hours early, walking straight into powdered turmeric and twisted iron, yet she held her head high.

Immunity and the Imperial Taster