Givon’s posture stiffened into brittle stone under Rostavar's mockery. Zarbek, however, was already planning. He needed to escape this gilded cage before Rostavar decided on a less slobbery, more permanent method of ‘family bonding’. He needed to secure a way out. His gaze fell upon the Prismatic Astrolabe invitation, still clutched in his hand. Pelag’s scrawled threat stared back at him, a reminder of the other impending doom. He needed to survive both. He dismissed Givon with a curt flick of his wrist, then kicked the beast-core scrap pile, sending a sour frequency through the ruined room. The sapphire hounds, now sprawled around him like glossy, overgrown rugs, thumped their tails against the scorched floor. Later, curled on his bed, the tournament rulebook open on his lap, Zarbek scrutinized the dense script. The usual regulations, the materials allowed, the judging criteria – all a blur. He was looking for loopholes, for weaknesses. Then, a single paragraph, nestled innocently near the end, snagged his attention. His lungs snapped shut on a sharp inhalation of greedy satisfaction. *“…the victor of the contest shall be granted absolute Imperial Diplomatic Immunity, shielding them and their immediate retinue from all legal, political, and social prosecution within the Glass-dune Sultanate and its allied territories, effective immediately upon the Emperor’s proclamation…”* Imperial Diplomatic Immunity. Zarbek read the clause twice more. The ink practically sang. He had no reason to run into the desert sands. No cause to hide beneath floorboards. Rostavar’s cloying 'affection' and Pelag’s vindictive threats vanished beneath legal armor. He could simply *win*. Once untouchable, he would strut past the citadel gates—a walking mockery of House Oskari, and an enduring headache for his uncle. His goal shifted with the suddenness of a sandstorm. Survival was no longer about escape; it was about victory. A victory that would grant him a legal bulwark Rostavar could never dismantle. He would not just survive. He would *thrive*, far from the suffocating grasp of both his biological family and his terrifyingly generous uncle. “Givon!” Zarbek bellowed, leaping from his bed, the rules parchment still gripped in both fists. “Get in here!” Givon appeared within moments, his expression weary. “Lord Zarbek? Is there a silica-beast in your tea again?” “Worse!” Zarbek jabbed a finger at the humming scrap pile. “We need to move this. Now. To the grand forge. Every last piece.” Givon stared, his gaze darting between the slag heap and Zarbek's frantic grin. “The entire… warped lattice, my lord? It buzzes like trapped sand-wasps.” “Precisely! It’s alive! It’s powerful! It’s… hideous! Perfect for making my masterpiece!” Zarbek declared, entirely convinced of his own brilliance. “Rostavar gave me access to the vaults. I assume that includes the forge. And if it doesn’t, we’ll just *assume* it does.” The grand forge of the Sun-Glass Citadel was a cavernous space, a symphony of roaring furnaces and rhythmic clangs that echoed off walls lined with blackened vitric ore. It smelled of ozone and scorched earth, a potent aroma Zarbek rather enjoyed, imagining the fumes as a dense barrier against potential assassins. Givon, looking utterly miserable, leveraged the last of the humming scrap pile through the immense archway, his fine Oskari silks smudged with soot. “My lord, are you certain we should be handling this… thing in here?” Givon wheezed, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow. The clashing assembly, now dragged into position, hummed with a low vibration that made Zarbek's fillings ache. It felt less like a crafted object and more like a barely contained catastrophe. “Nonsense! Where else am I to forge my diplomatic immunity?” Zarbek snapped, already rummaging through a rack of heavy tools. He pulled out Pelag’s stolen tuning-pike, its polished surface catching the amber glow of a nearby furnace. The sight of it brought a surge of vindictive satisfaction. Pelag planned a public humiliation? Zarbek would employ his brother's prized wedge to purchase absolute liberty. Zarbek had no training with a forge, an iron wedge, or the fused beast-core. He was simply possessed by the singular, desperate need to win. He hoisted the heavy pike, its balance awkward in his grip, and brought it down with an off-kilter swing onto the jagged crystalline core. He expected a clang, perhaps a shower of sparks. What he got was a scream. Not from Givon, though the spy did jump back with an undignified yelp. The scream rose from the mineral mass itself: a high-pitched, tearing shriek of resonant energy, grating and violently loud. Heat ripples warped the furnace light around the slag. The off-pitch hum intensified, escalating into a violent, guttural roar that rattled Zarbek’s teeth. He raised the wedge for another blow, oblivious to the volatile surge shaking the flagstones. “See, Givon? It’s working!” Before Givon could even formulate a horrified response, the roar peaked. A visible shockwave of raw Vitric force burst from the mineral clump, smashing against the forge walls. The impact was deafening. Every single window in the immense wing of the Sun-Glass Citadel, from the grand forge itself to the farthest servant’s quarters, exploded outward in a shower of glittering, fractured glass. Shards rained down like a deadly blizzard, accompanied by the shriek of tearing metal and the rumble of collapsing stone. In his study, a full three wings away, Lord Rostavar looked up from a delicate parchment detailing the Emperor’s new trade tariffs. The cacophony had been unmistakable. A blast of discordant energy, raw and uncontrolled, followed by the distant, echoing sound of hundreds of windows shattering in unison. A smile, slow and dangerous, spread across his face. He’d known Zarbek was… unique. But this? His brows climbed, surprise giving way to unvarnished delight. He pushed his chair back, rising with an abruptness that startled his attendant. “I see we must escalate your training immediately.”