Jaro’s thumb brushed Marival’s hip again, a slow, deliberate movement that tightened the coil of unease in her stomach. His river-stone eyes, usually glinting with careless amusement, held a hard edge as he watched the reporter’s frantic retreat. The man vanished around a cluster of sculpted topiary, his shouts fading. Silence descended, heavy and sudden, broken only by the distant chime of the civic bell tower. Marival remained pinned against Jaro, the phantom heat of his kiss still tingling on her lips, her mind a dizzying whirl. This wasn’t a business transaction; this was a performance of raw, untamed passion. He had claimed her with an intensity that felt terrifyingly real. “A necessary flourish,” Jaro murmured, his voice a low rumble against her ear, entirely devoid of the previous ferocity. He relaxed his hold, stepping back just enough for her to breathe, though his fingers still lingered on her elbow. “Balthos won’t question the sincerity if we give him something juicy to dissect.” Marival stared, her throat tight. “Juicy? You practically swallowed my soul!” He offered a fleeting, unreadable smile. “For the cameras, my dear. Now, about that signature. The notary alcove opens in a half-bell. Meet me there, by the central fountains. Don’t be late.” He gave her elbow a final squeeze, then turned, melting into the shadows beneath the arched arcade, leaving Marival feeling as if she’d been dropped from a great height. Her heart thumped a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She pressed a hand to her still-tingling lips, a strange mix of indignation and a baffling, reluctant thrill coiling within her. This wasn’t what she’d agreed to. This wasn’t what she wanted. But Teo… for Teo, she would endure anything. After a hurried trip back to her workshop, she found Teo already packed for his day at the Dockside Engineers’ Collective, his small satchel bulging with sketches and scavenged cogs. He looked up, his bright eyes alight with curiosity. “Did it work, Mari? Did Master Dorza say yes?” Marival forced a bright smile. “He did, sweetling. It’s all arranged. Now, let me see that.” She took the small, intricate prototype from his hand – a gear, no bigger than her thumb, crafted from iridescent alchem-steel. Its teeth interlocked with a tiny, feather-light pinwheel, designed to generate a whisper of energy from the slightest air current. It was ingenious, proving Teo's raw talent. “This will impress the Guildmasters at the Cog-Stream Academy, I promise. They’ll see you for the prodigy you are.” She arrived at the Grand Guildhall a short while later, the alchem-steel gear carefully wrapped in a linen cloth and tucked into her basket. The edifice was a magnificent expanse of polished serpentine and glowing crystal, its domed ceiling painted with frescoes depicting ancient Oribelian airships sailing across an azure sky. The central fountains, sculpted from milky quartz, whispered with self-circulating water, their magic a faint hum in the air. Artisans and merchants bustled through the marble halls, their voices a cheerful din. Marival scanned the crowd, searching for Jaro, but saw no sign of him. The enrollment chamber, a discreet alcove marked by an ancient griffin crest, was still shuttered. Deciding to wait, she wandered towards a quieter garden courtyard she remembered from a childhood visit, hoping to find a moment of peace before the next hurdle. The garden was a small, shaded sanctuary, fragrant with night-blooming jasmine and the earthy scent of damp stone. In its center, nestled amongst overgrown vines and a trickling fountain, she spotted a flash of crimson velvet. It was Jaro. He was kneeling, his back to her, his usually immaculate jacket rumpled. His head was bowed, and a soft, rhythmic gurgling sound drifted on the breeze. Curiosity tugged at her, overriding her resolve to keep a sensible distance. As she drew closer, she realized he wasn’t talking to anyone. He was holding something small and white to his chest, carefully. He adjusted his grip, and a tiny, pink nose nudged against a glass bottle he held. Marival took another step, then froze. He was bottle-feeding a kit. Not just any stray, but a tiny, fluffy creature with downy, iridescent wings the size of her thumb-nail, twitching faintly as it nursed. Beside it, another, even smaller winged scrap squirmed in a nest of his discarded velvet scarf. A litter of them, no more than three bells old, mewling softly. Jaro murmured soothing words, his voice a low, gentle rumble, utterly devoid of the playboy’s careless drawl. He stroked the creature's head with a single, surprisingly tender finger, his brow furrowed with concern. The notorious Jaro Dorza, who’d never been seen without a sneer or a quip, was coaxing a tiny, winged orphan to drink. He looked up suddenly, his river-stone eyes meeting hers. A flicker of alarm, then a strange, almost sheepish expression crossed his face. “Marival. You’re… early.” Marival could only stare. "Winged fliers?" Jaro cleared his throat, a hint of his usual bravado returning, though it felt thin and forced. “Found them abandoned near the canal locks. Someone had tossed them from a skiff. Poor things.” He gestured vaguely with the bottle. “They’re ravenous. And the civic staff, bless their hearts, tend to be… rather rough with strays.” “So you’re… secretly running a nursery for flying felines?” Marival asked, a small, involuntary smile tugging at her lips. The sight was so utterly at odds with his public persona, it was almost comical. She knelt beside him, drawn by the fragile creatures. One of the tiny kits, with silvery-grey fur, crawled clumsily towards her, its small wings fluttering ineffectually. She reached out a finger, and it butted its head against her hand, purring like a miniature wind-chime. Jaro watched her, a curious, unguarded expression on his face. “They’re quite tenacious, for their size. Like some artisans I know.” His gaze lingered on her, warm and appraising. The moment stretched between them in quiet suspension. Then, he rose, shaking his head slightly. “Come, the records chamber should be open. Wouldn’t want Balthos to think we’re anything less than eager to formalize our… arrangement.” They walked in comfortable silence, the image of Jaro with the tiny litter a stark contrast to the man who’d kissed her so fiercely. The clerk's booth was now open, a young scribe with ink-stained fingers already at his desk. He gestured to a heavy, vellum-bound ledger resting on an illuminated plinth. Its pages glowed with a faint, internal light, revealing columns of meticulously penned names and intricate, stylized symbols. “The Grand Ledger of Matrimonial Allegiances,” the scribe announced, dipping a quill into a pot of shimmering, gold-flecked ink. “The magic ensures the bond is recorded for all time, and for all purposes, legal and spiritual. Place your signatures here, below Master Dorza’s family crest.” Marival hesitated, her gaze falling on a tiny, almost invisible glyph nestled within the flowing script – a sugar-spun helix. A confectioner’s mark. A legacy. She thought of Teo, of his bright future. With a deep breath, she took the quill. Her hand trembled only slightly as she pressed the tip to the vellum. As she formed the elegant loops of ‘Marival Lenza,’ the golden ink flared. Not just a soft glimmer, but a brilliant burst of light, hot and searing, binding her name to Jaro’s with a strange, heavy permanence that felt like more than just a legal record. It felt like an anchor. She gasped, pulling her hand back, a faint prickle on her fingertips. “What was that? This isn’t just… ink.” Jaro, who had signed his name with an easy flourish, merely gave a casual shrug. “Standard Guildhall magic, Marival. Nothing to fret over. It simply confirms the depth of our mutual… commitment.” He winked, but his eyes held a glint she couldn’t quite decipher. Before she could press him, the chamber doors swung open with a dramatic creak. A figure strode in, his tailored cerulean robes rustling, a disdainful sneer already fixed on his thin lips. Lord Balthos. His gaze, sharp as a whetted blade, swept over Jaro and Marival, lingering on her simple artisan’s tunic. “Well, well, Master Dorza,” Balthos drawled, his voice carrying through the hushed hall. “I hear congratulations are in order. Or perhaps, commiserations? I must say, for a man of your standing, to choose… *this* street urchin as your betrothed? Surely, you could have found someone with a modicum of breeding, or at least, a name that doesn’t smell of common sugar-spice.” He paused, letting his words hang, laced with venom. “Unless, of course, this is merely another one of your clumsy attempts to pull the wool over the Guild Council’s eyes. A convenient, temporary distraction, perhaps, to secure that maritime deal before your true intentions are laid bare.” He took a step closer, his eyes narrowing on Marival, making her feel as if she were a specimen under a microscope. “I, Lord Balthos, demand proof of this… devotion. I propose you both attend my seasonal gala this very evening. Prove to all of Oribel that this engagement is real. Fail to appear, or fail to convince, and I shall have the Council investigate your workshop, girl. I suspect there are many unregistered charms in those sugar-spun trinkets of yours.”

Ink and Winged Kittens