“Who sent you?” The question was a low growl, vibrating through Tasmira’s ribs, but her gaze locked on the pewter-chased pistol. It certainly looked real, the cold metal against her skin, the oily sheen of its barrel. Perhaps a prop. A *very* convincing prop.
“Sent me?” Tasmira tilted her head, a bright, disarming smile blooming. “Why, I came myself! To compete, of course. Though I must say, sir, your grip could use some refinement for a proper threat display. A wider stance, perhaps? More conviction in the brow.” She nudged his forearm gently. “If you’re going for ‘terrifying,’ you need to *commit*.”
Branik Vorsteg’s eyes, dark as slag-laced coal, narrowed to pinpricks. The woman beneath him, smelling faintly of lavender and something sweet, was either a master of deception or entirely unhinged. He had faced assassins, saboteurs, and jealous rivals. None had ever critiqued his pistol form while pinned beneath him.
“Commit?” His voice was a rasp. “I am quite committed to discovering why a dishevelled maid has broken into my private wing and then tackled me.”
“Maid-in-training, actually! And for the bonus trial, naturally.” Tasmira patted his chest. “Don’t worry, you’re safe now. The chandelier trap is neutralized. Though I suspect it was less a ‘trap’ and more a test of agility and teamwork. My apologies for the rough tackle, but the objective was clear. Protection of… the host. Or was it the manse? Oh, details, details.” She shrugged, a wisp of plaster dust puffing from her shoulder.
Branik blinked. The sheer, unshakeable delusion radiating from her was a new weapon entirely. He shifted his weight, pressing the pistol harder, but her smile didn’t waver. Her eyes, a startling cerulean, held only a focused, cheerful intensity.
“Are you quite alright, sir?” she asked, concern finally softening her features. “You seem… startled. Here, you must be famished after such a close call.” With surprising dexterity, Tasmira wriggled one hand free from beneath her, delving deep into the pocket of her pristine white apron. She produced a small, slightly squashed pastry, wrapped in a linen napkin.
“A blackberry macaroon!” she announced proudly, holding it aloft. “Smuggled from the gala. A little worse for wear from the carriage ride, but the flavour is divine. A treat for the victor of the first round. Or, well, for the target of the bonus trial. One of those.”
Grimacing, Branik released her, scrambling backward. The macaron, innocent as it appeared, might as well have been a live grenade. He had eaten nothing not prepared by his most trusted staff in years. The thought of consuming something from an unknown source, from the pocket of a strange, smiling woman, sent a cold spike of dread through him. Yet, a sliver of something else, a strange flicker of curiosity, held him still.
He retrieved a small, ornate platinum fork from his inner jacket pocket—not just any fork, but one crafted with a microscopic sensor in its tines, designed to change colour at the faintest trace of common Ovestran poisons. He plunged it into the soft, purple-hued centre of the macaron. He watched, breath held, for the tell-tale crimson blush or the sickly green shift.
The tines remained an unreactive, polished grey.
Branik stared, first at the fork, then at the pastry, then at Tasmira’s radiant, unwavering smile. He took a hesitant bite. The sweetness exploded on his tongue, a burst of berry and almond, an honest, uncomplicated flavour he hadn't experienced in years. The sweetness lingered, spreading an unfamiliar, pleasant spark that bypassed his paranoia and settled directly in his ribs. He took another bite, then another, devouring the small pastry. His eyes met hers. Her smile seemed to widen, reflecting a genuine pleasure.
The sudden warmth was dangerous, intoxicating, and entirely unearned.
“Good, wasn’t it?” Tasmira beamed. “See? A little sweetness cures all fright. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe the tournament requires me to report to the kitchens. Is there a designated ‘Maid’s Quarters’ I should know about?”
Branik merely watched her go, a strange, hollow ache replacing the jolt of warmth as she disappeared down the corridor. His hand reached toward the empty flagstones, grasping at nothing. He pressed his knuckles against his ribs, trying to steady his breathing.
The kitchen was a roaring, clanging cavern of brass and steam, far grander than anything Tasmira had imagined for a domestic tournament. Gleaming surfaces stretched endlessly, polished to a mirror sheen. A girl with wide, anxious eyes and hair the colour of scorched wheat was meticulously wiping down a counter that was already spotless. She jumped when Tasmira entered.
“Oh! You’re… you’re the new one, aren’t you? Tasmira, right?” The girl’s voice was a hushed whisper, her gaze darting to the massive leaded windows that overlooked the gloomy city. “I’m Zelna Rost. Don’t mind me. Just… making sure the seals are holding. And that the nightwatch automatons are on their patrols.” She wrung her hands. “It’s important to be thorough. Very, very thorough. Especially after… well. Things.”
“Zelna! What a lovely name!” Tasmira clapped her hands. “Yes, Tasmira Vlatka, reporting for duty! Or rather, for the next round of the competition. Any idea what the next challenge might be? I’m hoping for something involving a complicated sauce or perhaps a synchronized dusting routine.”
Zelna’s brow furrowed. “Contest? Tasmira, this isn’t… there’s no contest. It’s a job. A very difficult, very dangerous job. Just… keep your head down. Don’t draw attention. And never, ever go near the West Wing without permission. Head of staff, the housekeeper, will flay you.” Zelna glanced at the windows again, her fingers unconsciously tracing a small, jagged scar near her temple.
Tasmira dismissed the grim warning with a wave. “Nonsense! Just part of the obstacle course. Playing it aloof and unaware to test my resolve. Clever, clever!” She then paused, her ear catching a low, venomous hiss from a nearby pantry. Two senior maids, their faces pinched and sour, were whispering over a tray of engraved cutlery.
“—the new one,” hissed a maid with a perpetually scrunched nose, whose name Tasmira hadn't bothered to learn. “The housekeeper wants her gone. Says she smells of ‘new money and old trouble.’ We’ll just… misplace a few of these Veridian forks. Blame her. No one will question it.”
Her accomplice, a gaunt woman with greasy braids, smirked. “Perfect. She’s already proved herself a menace, running around the West Wing. The head housekeeper will have her in the debtor’s prisons of Ovestra before dawn.”
Tasmira’s smile, though still wide, hardened into crisp resolve. *Framing me for theft?* she thought. *This must be the ‘integrity test’! A classic! They want to see if I’ll succumb to despair or fight back with ingenuity!* She marched over, apron rustling.
“Oh, are these the ceremonial Veridian forks?” Tasmira exclaimed, her voice bright enough to crack the grime off the walls. “How splendid! I simply adore buffing cutlery. It’s so therapeutic, don’t you agree? Allows one to really get into the… *gleam* of things!”
Before the two maids could react, Tasmira snatched a coarse linen cloth and a pot of industrial-strength abrasive cream. She attacked the tray with a terrifying zeal. Her movements were precise, powerful, honed from years of directing household staff. The cloth became a blur, the cream a white froth, the tines of the forks flashing under her relentless assault.
The two senior maids recoiled, stunned by her ferocity. When the senior matron herself swept into the kitchen moments later, her stern face prepared to deliver a tirade, she found Tasmira standing triumphantly over a mountain of impossibly gleaming plate.
“Ma'am!” Tasmira chirped, holding up a fork that practically pulsed with reflected light. “Just in time! I’ve polished these to such a brilliant sheen, they could guide a lost airship through Ovestra’s smog!”
Dame Vespera, blinded by the sudden, intense reflection from the fork held directly at her eye level, staggered back with a cry. Her hand flew to her face, shielding her burning retinas. Her perfectly coiffed hair, usually immaculate, was momentarily ruffled by the movement. She looked utterly ridiculous, her mouth agape in a silent squawk of outrage.
“My… my eyes! You imbecile! You’ve… you’ve blinded me!” she shrieked, tears springing to her eyes, not from sorrow, but from the sudden, painful glare.
“Ah, a common side effect of truly exceptional polishing!” Tasmira declared, unfazed. “A small price to pay for such unparalleled brilliance, wouldn’t you agree?”
As the blinded housekeeper stumbled away, cursing under her breath, a low, resonant thrum began to fill the manse. It started as a tremor in the flagstones, rattling copper pans on their racks and testing even Tasmira’s unflinching cheer. Then, with an ear-splitting shriek that seemed to tear through the very fabric of the night, the Vorsteg Manse’s massive brass alarm bells began to peal, a relentless, deafening clangour that signalled only one thing: at two in the morning, the perimeter had been breached. Branik Vorsteg’s paranoid fortress was under attack.