Minola tapped the data stick. The crimson interface pulsed, mocking her. Davorin, who had taken the controls of the air-skiff with an easy grace, glanced at the countdown. “A charming little booby trap,” he mused, his gaze resting coolly on the red digits. “Though I admit, it’s a rather *pedestrian* form of corporate sabotage for someone of Oswin’s supposed caliber.” “Pedestrian or not, it’s effective,” Minola retorted, running a hand through her disheveled hair. Her knuckles ached from clipping Oswin's bodyguard. “He knows I can’t let the Lux-Vitae go public. Not yet.” “Relax, Vespari. We’ll figure it out.” Davorin’s tone was surprisingly gentle. He piloted the skiff with one hand, the other reaching over to carefully take her bruised knuckles. He examined them, a faint frown touching his lips. “You know, for a woman who runs a multinational tech empire, you’re rather adept at street brawling.” “It’s called resourcefulness,” she sniffed, pulling her hand back, wiping a smudge of engine grease onto her silk cuff. “And necessity. Oswin’s goons aren’t exactly known for their adherence to Marquess of Queensberry rules.” He chuckled, a sound that vibrated through the cabin. “Indeed. Though I suspect they’ll be more careful with their knuckles after tonight.” The air-skiff landed silently on the private aerie of Davorin’s personal residence, a structure of crystalline spires and sculpted synth-marble that pierced the Valerand skyline. Inside, the penthouse was a symphony of understated opulence: dark wood paneling, kinetic art installations that flowed like liquid metal, and panoramic views of the city lights. No tacky gold plating, no ostentatious chandeliers. Just refined, cutting-edge luxury. He led her to a minimalist lounge, where a self-serving unit glided forward with a tray holding an antique crystal decanter and two delicate glasses. “Kastelvian plum brandy. Good for shock. Or, in your case, righteous fury.” Minola accepted a glass, the fiery liquid a stark contrast to the cool, smooth crystal. She winced as she felt her hand throb. Davorin, without a word, produced a sleek first-aid kit from a hidden compartment. He carefully cleaned the cuts on her knuckles with an antiseptic wipe, his touch light and precise. The sting of alcohol bit into split skin while he worked with brisk efficiency. “You really didn’t have to do that,” she murmured, her voice softer than she intended. He looked up, a wry glint returning to his gaze. “Consider it a professional courtesy. We are, after all, co-conspirators in this particular brand of chaos. And I believe I owe you a working Lux-Vitae drive, not a time bomb.” The lounge doors parted with a soft hiss. Tarkus, ever the phantom, stood silhouetted against the corridor’s soft glow, holding a data slate. His slate cast a pale glow across his tailored lapels. “Ma’am. Duke Davorin.” Tarkus’s voice was as steady and uninflected as ever. “I have the intelligence on Saskia Lunde. Her medical records, and the analysis of the compounds she’s been using.” Minola took her hand back and flexed her fingers. “Well? Don’t keep us in suspense, Tarkus. What theatrical illness has our dear Saskia been faking now?” Tarkus stepped forward, offering the slate to Minola. “She’s been inducing hyperhidrosis, ma’am. Using a highly concentrated strain of Floran sweat-inducers, smuggled in through the Valerand diplomatic pouches from the Hydrus Collective. The ‘fainting spells’ are a result of electrolyte imbalance and engineered hyperventilation, not any genuine underlying condition.” Minola scrolled through the detailed forensic scans, a slow, predatory smile spreading across her face. “Floran sweat-inducers, you say? How quaint. And she wants my Lux-Vitae, the very pinnacle of bio-regenerative science, to ‘cure’ her manufactured malady?” Davorin took the slate, skimming the chemical breakdown. “So, her dramatic collapse on live television was nothing more than an elaborate, sweat-soaked performance.” He let out a low whistle. “The woman has commitment, I’ll give her that.” “Commitment that will be her undoing,” Minola declared, tapping a manicured finger against her chin. “We have the Lux-Vitae. We have the Kastelvian truth serum we acquired. And now we have irrefutable proof of her deception. The pieces are all here.” She glanced at Davorin, tapping the edge of the glass. “The Lux-Vitae is a regenerative cure. What if we… *enhanced* it? With your truth serum. A potent cocktail. Delivered publicly.” Davorin’s lips curved into a wicked grin. “A performance enhancing drug, then. For the truth. You want to give her the ‘cure’ on a televised stage, and let the Lux-Vitae heal her, while the serum forces her to confess every sordid detail of her charade?” “Precisely,” Minola purred, standing up and pacing with renewed energy. “Not just her fake illness. Everything. Her little dalliance with Oswin’s offshore accounts, the petty gossip she’s spread, every lie she’s ever told about her health. All of it, laid bare for the entire world to see. A total, unscripted, highly televised breakdown of deceit.” Tarkus nodded, adjusting his cuff. “It will be devastating to her, and by extension, to Oswin.” “The Lux-Vitae countdown is still ticking,” Davorin pointed out, gesturing to the laptop Minola had left on the table. “We still need Oswin’s retina. And he won’t give it up without a fight.” Minola’s smile widened. “Oh, he’ll give it up. He just doesn’t know it yet. We'll offer him the ultimate bait. A public medical auction for the Lux-Vitae, a ‘chance’ for him to secure the cure for his supposedly ailing mistress.” She pulled out her comm-unit, composing a succinct message. “Let’s see how desperate he really is.” She hit send. A moment later, her comm-unit vibrated with an incoming reply from Oswin. She opened it, her triumphant smile faltering. The message was short, infuriatingly simple: “Only if you wear your old wedding ring.”

The Kastelvian Penthouse