“Oh, you poor, magnificent drake,” Dimara Chol murmured, pressing her cheek against the scorching, scaly hide of the imperial sand-drake, its breath a furnace blast smelling of sulfur and smoked dates. Its name, a guttural rumble she mentally translated as ‘Inferno’s Maw,’ seemed appropriate given the faint singe marks on her tunic. “I am so utterly sorry. The spice-grinder jammed, and then I tripped over the — oh, excuse me, Mr. Cobbles, I didn’t see you there!” She paused to tap a loose stone on the menagerie floor with her toe, a soft apology escaping her lips, before returning her attention to the beast. “It was only two minutes late, but I understand how that can disrupt your entire digestion schedule. Please, forgive me.” The sand-drake, a reptile the size of a small pavilion with scales the color of burnt ochre and eyes like molten brass, let out a frustrated roar that vibrated through Dimara’s bones. It snapped at the air, its fangs long and curved, each capable of skewering a dune bantha. Dimara, however, merely offered a sympathetic sigh. “Yes, yes, I know. A beast of your stature requires punctuality. Here, let’s get this glorious vat of spiced gristle-stew into your feeding trough.” She leveraged the heavy, steaming cauldron into place, the fragrant, meaty aroma instantly calming the creature’s agitated snorts. As Inferno’s Maw began to lap at its dinner, an odd buzzing sound cut through the pavilion's symphony of roars, trills, and hisses. It grew louder, a frantic, high-pitched whine that seemed to emanate from the nearby delivery platform, where a stack of crates awaited inspection. One, a polished darkwood box with intricate brass fittings, vibrated violently. “Oh dear,” Dimara mused, wiping a streak of stew from her chin. “Perhaps it’s an enthusiastic dune beetle inside?” Before she could investigate, the crate exploded. Not with fire or smoke, but with a sudden, blossoming eruption of intricate, glowing threads. They shot outwards, quick as viper-strikes, then tightened, forming a shimmering net of spun cassia wire. Within its fragrant, glowing confines, now tangled amongst the crate’s splintered remains, a small, shifty-eyed man in a Royal Kitchens uniform thrashed. He had clearly been trying to pry the box open. The spice wire, crackling with faint magic, held him fast. “Aha!” a high-pitched voice squeaked from Dimara’s shoulder. Pipkip, her six-legged mongoose, chittered with delight, its shiny obsidian eyes fixed on the struggling thief. The little beast, nestled moments ago in the folds of Dimara’s apron, had seemingly materialized from thin air. Pipkip’s fur, the color of bleached sand, bristled as it let out a triumphant yap, then darted down to gnaw on a particularly sparkly brass fitting that had come loose from the exploded crate. Dimara hurried over, her brow furrowed with concern. “Oh, bless your heart, sir! Are you quite alright? Did that… that sudden burst of spiced thread startle you? I do hope you haven’t bruised yourself.” She began to pick gingerly at the glowing strands, trying to untangle them. “It looks rather uncomfortable, doesn’t it? Very sticky.” The ensnared man, his face a mask of indignation and alarm, stopped struggling long enough to gape at her. “Uncomfortable? It’s bloody cassia wire! It smells like my grandmother’s spice drawer and I can’t move!” From the center of the webbed chaos, nestled amongst the splinters, a small, ornate brass puzzle box, no bigger than Dimara’s palm, lay inert. As if activated by the thief’s complaint, a hidden latch clicked open, and a rolled parchment scroll, tied with a vivid saffron ribbon, shot out, landing with a soft thud at Dimara’s feet. She picked it up, her fingers brushing the cool brass of the box. It was covered in tiny, swirling glyphs she vaguely recognized as ancient Oshkandari script. Unfurling the scroll, she read aloud, her voice soft and a little bewildered: “*To my future, gutless self: You’re probably apologizing to a wilting oasis bloom for not watering it fast enough, aren’t you? Snap out of it! This trap was for the thieving scum trying to steal me. Don’t let them succeed. And for the love of the Spice Lords, grow a spine. An attack is imminent. Don’t trust anyone who weeps without cause. You know who I mean. Stay sharp, buttercup. – Your Better Self, D.C.*” Dimara blinked, a faint blush rising on her cheeks. “Gutless? Buttercup? Oh dear, I do hope my past self wasn’t having a foul day. And ‘weeps without cause’… that sounds rather harsh, doesn’t it?” She glanced at the trapped thief. “Though I suppose he *did* cause this particular predicament.” Just then, the grand, inlaid doors to the Royal Kitchens swung open with a dramatic flourish, revealing a figure wreathed in shimmering silk. Ilanis Chol, Dimara’s cousin, stood framed in the archway, her usually impeccable coiffure slightly askew, a single, perfectly formed tear tracing a path down her powdered cheek. She looked like a wilting lily, exquisitely tragic. “Oh, Dimara!” Ilanis sobbed, her voice a delicate tremble. She swept into the menagerie, her gaze, however, seemed to deliberately avoid the snared thief and the brass box. Instead, it fixed on Dimara’s comfortable, well-appointed chef’s quarters, visible through an open archway. “My dear, you simply won’t believe the nightmare I’ve endured! As I was making my way here, hoping to… to simply *see* you, cousin, a dreadful ruffian, a brute with a face like a dried fig, accosted me! He stole my purse, ripped my shawl, and said… oh, the things he said!” She dabbed her eyes with a lace handkerchief, her shoulders shaking. “I’m utterly distraught, and the only place I can possibly feel safe is… well, my old room. But since you’ve taken my position, and my quarters, I suppose I’ll just have to brave the cold streets of Oshkandar tonight, a poor, defenceless maiden.” Dimara leaned forward with immediate concern. “Oh, Ilanis, you poor thing! A dried fig, you say? How dreadful! And to say such things! Of course, you must have my quarters. I’m so sorry you had to go through such an ordeal. I can sleep on the flour sacks in the pantry, it’s really quite cozy, and I’m sure Pipkip won’t mind sharing his shiny pebble collection.” Pipkip, who had just managed to pry the sparkly brass fitting from the floor, let out a furious squeak. It dropped the treasure and launched itself, a blur of sand-colored fur, directly at Ilanis’s ankle. With a sharp, satisfying *chomp*, the mongoose sank its tiny, needle-sharp teeth into her flesh. Ilanis shrieked, a sound far less delicate than her previous sobs. “Ow! Get this… this *rodent* off me! Dimara, control your beast! It’s savage!” “Oh, Pipkip, no! That’s not very polite,” Dimara chided, gently prying the mongoose off her cousin’s ankle. Pipkip chittered indignantly, then spat out a tiny, damp piece of Ilanis’s silk slipper. “He rarely bites unless… well, unless he senses a fib, don’t you, sweetie? But I’m sure Ilanis is telling the absolute truth about her grim day. Aren’t you, Ilanis?” Ilanis’s tearful facade wavered for a fraction of a second, her elegant features tightening into a brief, ugly snarl before she forced a pained, trembling smile. “Of course, darling. Perhaps your… delightful pet simply misunderstood.” Before Dimara could apologize to Pipkip for doubting its infallible liar-sensing abilities, the air in the menagerie shifted. A new presence, as solid and unyielding as the quarry's bedrock, entered the space. Commander Tuzar Oshan, head of the Imperial Guard and Dimara’s boss, strode in. His expression, habitually a study in stoic intensity, was now a thunderous scowl as his dark eyes swept across the chaotic scene: the bound thief, the splinters of the exploded crate, the brass box, and Ilanis dabbing at her ankle with a now-bloodied handkerchief. “What in the name of the Sun-Glaive is going on here?” Tuzar’s voice, a low rumble, cut through the tension like a sharpened blade. He advanced, his gaze piercing, scrutinizing every detail. As he drew level with the brass puzzle box, a tiny, almost imperceptible *hiss* came from it. A swift, slender dart, tipped with a miniature saffron feather, shot out. It whizzed past Tuzar’s ear with a whisper of displaced air, harmlessly pinning the embroidered edge of his heavy wool cloak to the thick, stone wall with a soft *thwip*. Attached to the dart, a miniscule scroll, no bigger than a fingernail, unfurled. Tuzar, his hand already on the hilt of his ceremonial dagger, paused. His eyes narrowed, reading the tiny, elegant script: “*Do not trust the weeping leech, or the handsome brick wall.*”

The Ticking Delivery