Before Ilanis finished speaking, the heavy, inlaid doors burst inward, showering the passage with splinters. Three figures, cloaked in midnight-blue Shard-silk, surged out, scimitars gleaming in the dim light. Their movements were swift, practiced, clearly belonging to veteran mercenaries. Dimara barely registered the blur of steel before Tuzar moved, a blur himself. He didn't draw his sword fully, instead using its hilt as a bludgeon, meeting the first mercenary's downward strike with a sickening *THWACK*. The man staggered back, his arm hanging limp, fractured at the elbow. The taller sellsword lunged for Tuzar’s exposed side. Dimara's pulse drummed in her ears as steel flashed. Her past self’s chaotic instructions, buried deep in her memory, flashed into her mind: *When in doubt, add spice.* Her hand, guided by instinct, dove into the deep pocket of her apron. Her fingers closed around a small, waxed paper sachet. It wasn't the calming lavender dust she usually carried, but a coarse, fiery ground chili, a leftover from a sand-drake’s digestion tonic. “Oh! Excuse me!” Dimara blurted, even as Tuzar spun, deftly deflecting the second blade with his own, then driving his knee into the fighter's midsection. She uncorked the sachet with a frantic tug, scattering the bright red powder with a wild, apologetic fling. It wasn’t a precise aim, more of a panicked gesture, but the potent dust caught the third mercenary, who had been circling wide to flank Tuzar, directly in the face. The man screamed, a guttural shriek of agony, dropping his scimitar to claw at his burning eyes. He thrashed blindly, stumbling into the taller blade, who was still gasping from Tuzar’s blow. Tuzar, seizing the opening, delivered a swift, concussive punch to the first man’s temple, sending him sprawling, unconscious. He then disarmed the second, twisting his arm until the blade clattered to the floor, before driving the flat of his own sword into the sellsword's back, pinning him to the ornate wall. The third fighter was now rolling on the ground, whimpering, his face scarlet. The skirmish ended in under ten paces. Tuzar stood amidst the incapacitated attackers, his breathing even, his expression as unreadable as ever. His gaze, however, flickered to Dimara, a brief, intense assessment that held an uncharacteristic warmth. He was about to speak when the muffled shouts of approaching palace guards grew louder, echoing along the colonnade. “Hold!” a voice boomed, deep and authoritative. “What is this commotion?” A patrol of Imperial Sentinels, led by an officer of the Golden Blades, rounded the corner. The burly officer, his copper beard trimmed square, took in the scene: three incapacitated ruffians, Tuzar standing over them, and Dimara, still clutching her empty chili sachet, looking aghast. Before the officer could speak, Ilanis Chol emerged from the splintered doorway, her face streaked with perfectly placed tears, her elegant robes strategically disheveled. She collapsed to her knees, a picture of fragile distress. “Guard-leader! Oh, blessed Sentinels, thank the Desert’s Heart you’re here!” Ilanis wailed, her voice trembling with fabricated terror. “That… that brute! Commander Oshan! He attacked me, unprovoked! He burst into Lord Vaxor’s chambers, threatening us all, demanding… demanding some kind of… absurd recipe! He was furious, shouting about treason and the sovereign's grand feast! I thought he would kill us all!” She pointed a trembling finger at Tuzar, then at Dimara. “My poor, innocent cousin, Dimara, was trying to stop him, to reason with him, but he’s gone quite mad!” The guard-leader's brow furrowed as his gaze shifted from the tearful Ilanis to Tuzar, then to Dimara. The claim sounded outlandish, but the sight of an officer standing over disarmed bodies demanded scrutiny. “Commander Oshan,” the patrol leader began, his tone guarded, “is this true?” “It is not,” Tuzar stated, his voice calm, devoid of inflection. He didn’t raise his voice, yet every word resonated with absolute authority. “Ilanis Chol is lying. We observed her, through this door, confessing to Lord Vaxor her intent to frame Dimara for the sovereign's murder and to poison the festival course. These cutthroats”—he gestured with his chin toward the downed men— “were her paid blades, ordered to kill me and abduct Dimara. We were retrieving evidence, as her father, Jolar Chol, was involved in similar subversive activities before his well-deserved ignoble end.” Ilanis let out a gasp, preparing to interrupt, to spin another tearful denial. But Tuzar didn’t pause, didn't let her get a word in. “Her claims of my ‘rage’ are false. My demeanor is consistent. My purpose here was to prevent a regicide. She is attempting to shift blame, a common tactic for individuals caught attempting grand larceny or, in this case, mass murder. Her tears are a performance, as obvious as a painted desert flower. We heard her explicitly state her plan to frame Dimara for the imperial regicide, using an alchemical venom.” At that precise moment, Pipkip, who had been observing the scene from atop a carved stool, chose his moment. The small mongoose, with a glint of mischievous insight in his dark eyes, scampered forward. With a flick of his wrist-like paw, he dropped a small, stoppered vial—dark glass, intricately etched—from his hidden pouch. It landed with a soft *clink* directly on the guard-leader’s polished boots. The officer peered down, crouched, and scooped up the vial. The liquid inside shimmered with an unnatural, sickly green hue. Engraved on its side, in minuscule script, was the symbol of the House Vaxor’s alchemical sigil. Ilanis’s carefully constructed poise collapsed. A choked sound, half-gasp, half-sob, escaped her lips. The aristocratic figures who had been lurking in the shattered doorway, Lord Vaxor among them, instantly recoiled. Lord Vaxor, a portly man whose face had turned an unhealthy shade of grey, stepped forward, his hands raised in placating surrender. “This… this is a misunderstanding! Lady Ilanis acted alone! House Vaxor disavows any connection to such… such heinous acts! We were merely her unwitting hosts!” Other noble guests, equally pale, echoed his disavowal, tripping over themselves to distance themselves from Ilanis, their former associate now a liability. “That mixture,” Tuzar said, his voice cutting through the frightened apologies, “is the exact venom prepared for the sovereign's feast. She spoke of it minutes ago.” Ilanis scrambled to her feet, her face contorted with pure, unadulterated fury. The mask of innocence had fallen completely. “Traitors! All of you!” she shrieked, her eyes darting wildly. Before any of the guards could move, she snatched a small, spherical object from her sash and hurled it to the ground. A thick, acrid cloud of blinding grey smoke erupted, instantly engulfing the hall, stinging eyes and throats. “You haven’t won, cousin! Or you, Commander! I’ll poison the royal platters myself! See if I don’t!” Her voice, raw with venom, faded into the swirling chaos as she vanished into the smoke, leaving only the lingering smell of burnt sugar and sulfur.

The Blunt Blade