Karys coughed, the scent of fresh wool plush and aged wood an unexpected shock after the acrid air of the kinetic plants. She dragged Zennor further from the sealed threshold, his body a dead weight against her straining muscles. Her fractured knee burned with every inch, grinding bone against bone beneath her torn trousers to match the distant clang of metal on metal outside. Praxus. He hadn’t given up. The Backstage was locked from both sides. “Fine, you idiot. Your grand illusion isn’t over yet.” Karys gritted her teeth, surveying the lavish interior. Rich crimson curtains draped the walls, a vanity table gleamed under recessed footlights, and a sprawling, star-stitched carpet covered the floor. Explosives. Traps. She needed to think like a demolitionist, not a dramatist. She dropped Zennor onto a low divan, then limped to a wall panel disguised as a wardrobe. Her hands, calloused from years of gripping a holocam and various defensive tools, fumbled with the latch. Inside, neatly stacked beside Zennor’s collection of arcane stage props, were cases of compact detonators, adhesive charges, and a coil of trip-wires. *Of course*, she thought with a snort. *He’d have a theatrical armory.* Biting her lip until she tasted copper, Karys began to work. She peeled the backing from a sheet of flex-charges, pressing them onto the reinforced frame of the main doorway. The clang outside grew louder, more insistent. A low thrum vibrated through the floorboards. Resonance-grafted tools, no doubt. Praxus wasn't just knocking; he was cutting their way in. Zennor, slumped on the settee, began to tap a rhythmic beat with his cane against the polished floorboards. *Tap-tap-tappity-tap. Pause. Tap. Tap-tap.* Karys ignored him, focusing on rigging a trip-wire across the room, connecting it to a pressure-plate explosive disguised as a loose floor tile. The beat persisted, growing more frantic. *Tap-tap-TAPPITY-TAP!* “What now, you mute menace?” she snapped, not expecting an answer. But the cane kept tapping, now accompanied by a series of precise, almost balletic footfalls on the star-stitched rug. He was *tap-dancing*. On the floor. Karys watched, bewildered, as his boots struck out geometric lines, always ending on the points of the large, five-pointed stars woven into the wool. *Tap. Step. Spin. Land on a point. Tap-tap. Point.* An idea, as absurd as it was Zennor-esque, clicked into place. “You want them… on the stars?” she asked, incredulous. Zennor’s chin, fixed under the glazed fog of Stage Fright, dipped with a slight, almost imperceptible twitch. “Right. Because the entire world is your bloody stage.” Karys spat a fleck of dried blood onto the floor. This was exactly the kind of ridiculousness she’d come to expect. She repositioned her charges, camouflaging them beneath loose drapes and behind strategically placed stage props, aiming for maximum impact on the star points. The first explosion ripped through the main doorway, a concussive crack that rattled the Backstage. Shards of metal shrieked inward, followed by the heavy thud of a shock-trooper's armored boot. A squad of Trust shock-troopers, their faces obscured by opaque visors, poured into the Backstage, resonance-carbines sweeping the room. Karys dropped behind an overturned brass stool, returning fire with her plasma pistol. The crackle of her shots mingled with the pneumatic punch of the intruders' energy weapons. One of them, a bulky vanguard with a chest-mounted energy projector, stepped directly onto a star point. Karys thumbed the detonator. A concussive blast rocked the room, throwing the soldier backward in a cloud of scorched plating. The others hesitated, sweeping their barrels past Zennor, who remained slumped motionless on the cushions, his cane tapping a deliberate cadence. *One… two… three…* Karys ducked and weaved, her knee a constant ache, but the adrenaline dulled the worst of it. She squeezed off shots, forcing the squad to advance, spread out, and search for the quiet magician. She watched, her journalist's eye for detail taking in every movement, every footfall. Another trooper, attempting a flanking flank, stepped onto a second star. The charge detonated, smashing him through a lacquer prop rack. The survivors adapted immediately, skirting the embroidered points on the weave. Zennor's cane began tapping faster, more urgently. *Tap-tap-tap-tap!* He shifted against the upholstery, his hand reaching out, groping blind along the frame. Karys, understanding, scrambled toward him, providing covering fire. His fingers found a hidden seam in the hardwood trim. Inside sat a brass-inlaid trip toggle; his knuckles clamped tight. “No, you fool!” Karys yelled, realizing his intent. “They’re not all on the marks yet! Wait!” But Zennor’s theatrical timing was absolute. The remaining troopers, frustrated by the floor charges, converged on Karys to pin her into the wall. Three of them raised carbines to bracket her, boots planting directly onto the central embroidered points. *Now!* Karys mentally screamed. Just as their weapons whined to full charge, Zennor tripped the hidden toggle with a swift yank. A low, grinding rumble filled the room. The star-stitched carpet slit open along recessed hinges, dropping the center boards out from under the squad's boots. A guttural cry of surprise, cut short by the rush of air. The troopers, weapons and all, plummeted into a deep maintenance shaft. The trapdoor, a classic of stagecraft, clanked shut, sealing the impossible chasm beneath. Silence. Just the ringing in Karys’s ears and the throb of her knee. [Act II: The Turn. Cues Restored.] The cataract-blindness of Stage Fright evaporated from Zennor's pupils, restoring sharp outlines and raw color. The muffled din of battle gave way to the sharp crackle of residual energy in the air. He blinked, pushing himself upright, his voice returning in a rush. “Magnificent! Did you see the look on their faces, Karys? Simply priceless!” Karys, leaning against the wall, holstered her pistol. “I saw them fall, yes. And I saw you nearly get me killed waiting for your ‘perfect moment’.” She pointed to his hand, still grasping a discarded comms-link that had fallen from one of the enforcers. “What’s that?” Zennor picked up the device, its surface still warm. He tapped it. A voice, harsh and familiar, echoed from the small speaker. Praxus Vull. “…the chief engineer is secure. We’ll be waiting for you, Charlatan. Apex of Vexillion Tower. Don’t disappoint.” The line went dead. Zennor’s smile, which had been bright with the triumph of his trick, faltered. He looked at Karys, then back at the silent comms-link. “He has the engineer. He expects us.” The Vexillion Tower, the nerve center of the Trust, now waited like a predator. The Grand Prestige just got a whole lot grander, and far more dangerous.

The Intermission