Karys watched his reaction, her cold expression hardening further. “Mr. Dal. You didn’t answer my question.” He swallowed, forcing the tremor from his voice. “I… I wouldn’t know, Ms. Vendele. I’m just a delivery driver.” The lie felt like gravel in his mouth, but it was his only shield. He pulled the pendant back under his shirt, a desperate, childish gesture. Her eyes narrowed, then she gave a dismissive shrug. “Very well. Keep your secrets. For now. Tonight, you are my fiancé. The annual Valorian Charity Gala. It’s a necessary facade. Our rivals will be there, particularly the Dornath family. They will try to find any weakness, any crack in our ‘engagement.’ Do not give them one. You will be polite, you will be quiet, and you will stay by my side. Understood?” “Clear,” Rennik managed, his voice a low rasp. Hours later, the opulent ballroom of Vendele Tower felt like a gilded cage. Crystal chandeliers dripped light onto polished marble floors where hundreds of the city’s elite mingled, their laughter and low murmurs a symphony of concealed ambition. Rennik, clad in a rented, perfectly tailored midnight blue suit that pinched at his shoulders, felt like an intruder. Every silk-clad back seemed to hold a knife, every glittering smile a trap. He kept his gaze fixed on the gleaming toe of his borrowed dress shoe, only daring to meet Karys’s eye when she spoke. Karys, radiant in a gown the color of twilight, moved through the crowd with the practiced grace of a predator, her arm linked through his. She introduced him as ‘Rennik Dal, my dear fiancé,’ her voice dripping with an artificial sweetness that grated on his ears. He offered mumbled greetings, a polite nod, and clung to her side like a barnacle, hyper-aware of the judging stares. Then a voice, thick with condescension, cut through the din. “Karys, my dear. What an… interesting choice in accessory.” Rennik tensed. Jarlath Dornath. The man’s reputation preceded him, a tempest of entitlement and old money. Jarlath was lean, with a hawkish nose and a smirk that seemed permanently etched onto his face. He wore a perfectly cut platinum-grey suit, his eyes, the color of a winter sky, scanning Rennik with undisguised contempt. Two hulking men in dark suits stood a respectful distance behind him. “Jarlath,” Karys said, her tone devoid of warmth. “Always a pleasure.” “Is it? I confess, my pleasure is somewhat diminished by the company you keep. A delivery boy, isn’t it? I thought Vendele Corp had higher standards for their… public relations.” Jarlath’s gaze lingered on Rennik’s hands, then his somewhat uncomfortable posture. “Or perhaps you’re simply slumming it, Karys?” Rennik’s knuckles whitened, a familiar tremor of rage rising from deep within him. He saw the flicker of challenge in Jarlath’s eyes – a dare to react, to betray his ‘lowly’ status. But Rennik had Nomi’s face in his mind, Toban’s veiled threats, and Karys’s desperate plea for a facade. He remained still, a statue of quiet humiliation. “Rennik is a man of… quiet strengths,” Karys replied, her voice dangerously calm. “Something you can't grasp, Jarlath. Now, if you’ll excuse us.” Jarlath merely laughed, a sharp, unpleasant sound. He took a step closer, raising the crystal flute in his hand. “Oh, I understand strength, Karys. True strength. Not… whatever this is.” He gestured vaguely at Rennik, then, with a seemingly accidental jerk of his arm, ‘tripped.’ The expensive crimson liquid from his glass arced through the air, splattering directly across Rennik’s chest, staining the rented suit a dark, ugly patch. A few nearby conversations paused, drawn by the minor commotion. Jarlath didn’t even offer a perfunctory apology. Instead, he simply sneered. “Oh dear. Clumsy of me. Still, one expects a certain… resilience from the working class, wouldn’t you agree, Karys?” His eyes glinted, daring Rennik to react, to throw a punch, to initiate a formal Steel Circuit challenge that would inevitably end with Jarlath claiming Karys and the Vendele assets. Rennik felt the heat of the spilled drink, the burn of shame. Every fiber of his being screamed to shatter this arrogant man’s jaw. He imagined the precise trajectory, the impact, the bone-deep satisfaction. But then he saw Nomi’s hopeful smile, Karys’s strained vulnerability. He swallowed the bitter retort, bowed his head, and offered a stammering apology. “My deepest apologies, sir! I-I wasn’t watching where I was standing. Terribly sorry.” He even made a show of trying to dab at the stain with a napkin, making it worse. Karys watched him, a strange, unfamiliar pang tightening in her chest. She had expected him to be quiet, to be meek. But to take such deliberate humiliation without a flicker of anger? It was more than compliance; it was self-abnegation. Guilt, sharp and unexpected, bit into her. He was doing exactly as she asked, playing his part to perfection, and she despised Jarlath for making him do it. Jarlath’s smirk widened, victorious. “As expected. A dog on a leash. Karys, you truly disappoint. I do hope your next ‘fiancé’ has a bit more… backbone.” He turned to walk away, his two enforcers trailing him, leaving the air sharp and sour in his wake. As Jarlath took his third step, a flash of movement caught Rennik’s peripheral vision. A blur of black, a steel glint. A masked waiter, one who had been discreetly circulating with a tray of exotic beverages, suddenly lunged. His movements were far too precise for a server, his target clearly Karys. The glint in his hand was no wine opener, but a slender, wickedly sharp blade, aimed directly at Karys’s side, its tip shimmering with an unnatural sheen. Rennik didn’t think. He reacted. His Shinkai training, buried deep beneath years of imposed passivity, ignited. His foot, seemingly shifting for balance, snagged the assassin’s ankle with infinitesimal precision. The waiter stumbled, his attack trajectory diverted by inches. In the same fluid motion, Rennik’s hand, faster than the eye could follow, plucked a heavy silver serving tray from a passing busboy’s grasp. With a barely audible flick of his wrist, he intercepted the poisoned blade mid-air. The metal scraped, a soft *clink* masked by the general hum of the gala. The knife clattered harmlessly to the marble floor, its poisoned tip leaving a tiny, almost invisible scratch on the polished tray. The tripped assassin, disoriented, scrambled back, melting into the crowd before anyone could register the aborted attack. Karys, feeling only a sudden, unexpected gust of displaced air, looked at Rennik, her brow furrowed. “What was that?” “Just… clumsy, Ms. Vendele. Someone nearly spilled a drink,” Rennik mumbled, already placing the slightly dented silver tray back onto the bewildered busboy’s waiting hands, blood pounding against his temples. His palms were slick with sweat, but his face remained a mask of awkward politeness. No one else had seen it. The entire exchange had taken less than a breath. No one, perhaps, except Jarlath Dornath, who had just turned back to offer Karys one last derisive look. His sharp eyes had caught the glint of the tray, the unusual speed of Rennik’s hand, and the subtle, almost imperceptible dent now marring the pristine metal. Jarlath’s smirk vanished, replaced by a sudden, dangerous narrowing of his eyes.

The Gala Ambush