The curve of Zeno’s mouth flattened into stone. A crease deepened between his brows, casting shadows across his cheekbones that unsettled more than any shout. He knew Corvo. The brute was Illario’s attack dog, devoid of original thought, but loyal to a fault and physically imposing. This was no casual kidnapping. This was a calculated move, timed to the exact moment of Tazia’s presentation. “She’s not your pet, Corvo,” Zeno’s voice was low, smooth as polished malachite, but it carried an undeniable edge. “And House Morante has no custody over a registered artisan of House Virenti. I suggest you step aside.” Corvo’s smirk widened, revealing more of his stained teeth. “Oh, but she’s not *registered*, is she? Not yet. Just a runaway apprentice. And the esteemed Lord Morante has issued a formal complaint. She was disrupting the proceedings backstage.” He gestured vaguely toward the unseen stage, a lie crafted to sound plausible to anyone listening in the nearby corridors. Zeno took a single, deliberate step forward. The air in the narrow alcove seemed to thicken, the ambient light from the stage dimming almost imperceptibly as Zeno’s presence expanded. Corvo, for all his bravado, felt a prickle of unease. He’d seen Zeno Virenti’s raw power, but never directed at him, not like this. Still, orders were orders. “Stay back, Lord Virenti,” Corvo warned, tightening his grip on his halberd. His two guards, though pale, held their positions. Before Zeno could respond, a thunderous *CRACK* ripped through the solid wall behind them. The very stone of the amphitheater shuddered. Corvo and his men spun around, halberds raised, expecting a breach, an attack from the rear. Instead, the reinforced Gild-lock on the heavy oak door to the green room, designed to withstand a siege, sagged. Its intricate light-channels, once laced with protective radiance, had melted into a viscous, dripping mess, leaving a smoking cavity in the wood. The door, no longer held, swung inward with a groan, revealing Tazia. Her face was flushed, her dark hair a wild cloud around her head, but her eyes, usually quick to dart and defend, were fixed with an unshakeable, incandescent purpose. Her hands, held slightly before her, still shone with a faint, residual golden beam, as if she had just cradled a miniature sun. Her simple linen tunic, hastily put on, seemed to crackle with static energy around her. Zeno felt a surge of triumph so profound it nearly took his breath. She hadn’t just escaped. She had *broken* her way out. Without tools. Without help. She had truly become the master he always knew she was. Tazia met Zeno’s gaze, a flash of shared, fierce understanding passing between them, before her eyes snapped to Corvo and his men. Her lips peeled back in a snarl. “*Disrupting* the proceedings?” she hissed, her voice low and dangerously steady. “You think you can trap me in a glorified closet while that fraud parades my work?” Corvo, stunned by her sudden appearance and the sheer force of will emanating from her, could only gape. Tazia didn’t wait. She strode past the bewildered Morante guards, their halberds still crossed uselessly, and marched directly onto the main stage. The vast amphitheater, packed with the city’s elite, broadcast live across the coastal continent, fell into a stunned silence. All eyes, moments ago fixed on Illario Morante, now snapped to the furious figure in linen who had just materialized from the stage wings, trailing an aura of pure, unadulterated Gild-power. Illario, resplendent in gold-embroidered cerulean, had been standing at the central podium, beaming with false modesty as he prepared to unveil his ‘masterpiece’ – a crystalline Gild-orb suspended within a complex, light-weaving armature. He had just cleared his throat, ready to begin his well-rehearsed speech, when Tazia burst onto his stage. His smile vanished, replaced by a mask of incandescent fury. “Tazia! Get off this stage at once!” he roared, his voice cracking with outrage. “You are not permitted here!” Tazia ignored him. She advanced to the edge of the podium, her gaze sweeping across the faces of the arbiters, the distinguished guests, and finally, the colossal Gild-screen that projected the proceedings to millions. Her eyes, usually so wary, now held the fierce, unwavering gaze of a hunter. “This man,” Tazia declared, her voice ringing out, clear and sharp even without the help of the stage’s amplifiers, “is a thief. And this piece,” she gestured toward the gleaming Gild-orb hovering before Illario, “is a fake.” A gasp rippled through the audience. Illario’s face went white, then mottled red. “How dare you!” he shrieked, lunging forward as if to strike her. His golden cane, so recently humiliated by Zeno, lay discarded on the podium. Before he could reach her, Tazia snapped the fingers of her left hand, a sharp, decisive sound that echoed through the sudden, suffocating silence. A faint, golden flash pulsed from her palm. The Gild-orb, hovering innocently before Illario, began to hum. Its intricate light-channels, which Illario claimed as his own genius, flared with an internal, violent luminescence. Then, with a sound like a thousand shattering mirrors, the orb *exploded*. Shards of crystalline light, too fast to track, too brilliant to gaze upon, did not scatter. Instead, they swirled, a vortex of dazzling energy, around Tazia. Within a breath, the fragments coalesced, reforming with unnatural speed. Where the orb had been, there was now a shimmering, multi-faceted buckler of unyielding prism-glass that enclosed Tazia from collar to hem, leaving only her fierce, triumphant eyes visible. The crystalline barrier pulsed, a vibrant, defiant beacon, radiating heat that scorched the stage planks. The entire amphitheater erupted in chaos. Shouts, gasps, the horrified murmurs of a shocked elite. Illario stood frozen, his mouth agape, staring at the ruins of his carefully staged performance, the symbol of his ‘genius’ now a personal guard for his despised sister. From the elevated dais, the Grand Arbiter, Dame Cadenza, an official whose authority stood unyielding as Gild-iron, rose slowly to her feet. Her stern gaze swept over the pandemonium, then fixed upon Tazia, framed by her radiant aegis, and Illario, pale with fury. Her voice, deep and resonant, cut through the din. “Enough!” she boomed, her single word silencing the vast hall. “This travesty demands immediate resolution. House Morante claims artistic treason. House Virenti claims theft and sabotage. I see only a challenge to the very foundation of artistic integrity.” She paused, her eyes narrowing. “This Symposium will not be decided by words. It will be decided by craft. By light. By magic.” She pointed a finger, first at Tazia, then at Illario. “You will both present a piece of Gild-work, from raw material to finished form, before this assembly. A live duel of creation, here and now. The victor claims their legacy. The loser…” Her gaze hardened, sweeping across the silent, captivated audience. “The loser will be stripped of their Gilding abilities and exiled to the Shatter-Wastes. Immediately.” Tazia, behind her luminous rampart, felt a surge of raw, vindictive heat. This was it. Her moment. Her chance to reclaim everything. Illario, however, stared at the Grand Arbiter, then at Tazia’s hovering glasswork, dread curdling in his gut. A duel of creation? Against *her*? Unthinkable. He didn’t know how to Gild even the simplest of forms. He had no skills to speak of. How could he possibly—

The Fiery Interruption