The brass bells shuddered against their moorings, sending a tremor through the flagstones that rattled the molars in Tasmira’s skull. Yet, she maintained her cheerful, if slightly ringing, smile. “Ah, the Manse’s morning wake-up call!” she chirped, addressing the empty air as the sound finally began to recede, leaving a phantom echo in its wake. “Perhaps a little overzealous for a Tuesday, but who am I to question the Vorsteg Manse’s commitment to punctuality?” Before the last lingering vibration could dissipate, heavy, gilded doors at the main entrance crashed open, revealing not a cadre of frantic guards, but a lone figure silhouetted against the pre-dawn glow of Ovestra. A woman, sharp as a shard of ice, stood framed in the doorway. Her gown, a slithering confection of midnight velvet, seemed to absorb what little light there was, and her lips, painted a cruel sanguine, curled into a familiar, predatory smile. Yvessa Morzanti. Behind her, a parade of silent, impeccably dressed guards filed in, their faces grim, their movements precise. They carried no weapons openly, but the subtle bulge beneath their tailored coats spoke volumes. A man with a patch over one eye, his face partially obscured by a dark scarf, lingered at the rear, his gaze darting with unnerving speed across the cavernous foyer. Zelna, who had been nervously wiping down a display of tarnished silver, dropped her rag, staring past the coats with white-rimmed, unblinking eyes. Yvessa’s gaze swept over the manse’s interior, her eyes, the colour of polished obsidian, lingering on every detail as if performing a mental inventory. When her gaze settled on Tasmira, still beaming in her starch-stiffened apron, the corners of her mouth drew tight and thin. Tasmira, however, merely straightened her apron, her smile widening. “Good morning, madam! Welcome to the Vorsteg Manse, where every day is an adventure in impeccable service!” Yvessa advanced, her heels clicking like distant gunshots on the polished marble. “And who, pray tell, is this particularly… enthusiastic addition to the staff?” Her voice had the flat, lethal polish of a scalpel. “Have standards fallen so far, Branik, that you’ve begun hiring street urchins fresh from the gutter?” Branik Vorsteg, who had descended from the West Wing with a pistol still clutched in his hand, his eyes red-rimmed and wary, stiffened at the sound of Yvessa’s voice. He hadn’t noticed Tasmira until Yvessa’s cruel pronouncement, his attention fixed on the perimeter reports flashing across his wrist-mounted chronometer. But the moment Yvessa’s words sliced into the air, aimed directly at the absurdly cheerful maid, something shifted within him. A peculiar burn settled behind his ribs. The memory of the blackberry macaroon, of its unexpected sweetness, of the quiet chaos Tasmira brought, flickered through his mind. He found himself stepping forward, his pistol now pointed vaguely in Yvessa’s direction. “Yvessa,” Branik stated, his voice a low growl, devoid of any warmth. “This is an unscheduled intrusion. You have no business here.” Yvessa merely raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “On the contrary, darling. As your estranged wife and a significant shareholder in Vorsteg Industries, I have every right to ensure the assets are… well maintained. And that includes the domestic staff. I believe this… *creature*… is a gross negligence. She’s fired.” The words hung in the air, cold and definitive. Tasmira’s smile didn’t falter. She simply nodded thoughtfully. “Ah, a preliminary assessment! I understand completely. Sometimes, one needs to prune the dead leaves to let the garden truly flourish. However,” she leaned in conspiratorially, “I assure you, madam, I am very much alive and quite productive.” Branik felt a knot tighten in his stomach. The thought of Tasmira, with her bright aprons and baffling pronouncements, being bundled out into the smog-choked street sparked a sharp, stubborn spike of temper. It was utterly illogical. She was a liability, a walking catastrophe. Yet, the idea of her absence felt… wrong. The quiet of the manse, previously a sanctuary, now seemed oppressive without her peculiar brand of noise. He needed her. He needed… something. “She is not fired,” Branik said, his voice rising louder and harsher than he intended across the marble floor. The pistol wavered slightly in his grip, but his gaze was locked on Yvessa. “Tasmira Vlatka is my private menu curator. An indispensable asset. She is tasked with managing my… highly specific nutritional regimen.” Yvessa’s lips thinned. “A culinary keeper? You, Branik, who survived on dry crusts and paranoia for years? What ridiculous charade is this?” Tasmira, meanwhile, brightened considerably. “A private curator! Oh, what a wonderful honour! I knew this tournament had hidden tiers! So, you, madam,” she turned her beaming smile on Yvessa, “must be the Final Boss! The ultimate test of my dedication to superior culinary service!” She clasped her hands together, a dangerous twinkle in her eye. “Don’t worry, sir, I’ll handle the Final Boss with the utmost professionalism! I’ve been training for this my whole life!” Yvessa’s perfectly plucked brows furrowed in confusion, then hardened into a look of pure contempt. “Final Boss? What in the name of the Brass Automata is she babbling about?” “Her… particular methods are highly effective,” Branik mumbled, trying to sound convincing, even to himself. The rush to shield her had arrived so fast it left him off balance. It was a bizarre, inconvenient warmth that threatened to melt his carefully constructed walls. As Yvessa turned her withering glare back to Branik, dismissing Tasmira as a harmless lunatic, Zelna, who had been frozen in terror, suddenly gasped. Her stare stayed locked on the scarred guard trailing the retinue—the one with the leather patch over his left socket. A small, ornate tray of silver spoons she’d been carrying slipped from her trembling fingers, clattering loudly across the marble floor. Every head snapped towards her. “You!” Zelna choked out, her voice barely a whisper, yet it carried in the sudden silence. “The… the Viper’s Hand! You’re… you’re from the Iron Guard! He found me!” The masked man, who had been observing the scene with chilling detachment, now turned his head, his single visible eye narrowing. A cold, predatory smile touched his lips, hidden mostly by the scarf, but evident in the cruel crinkle at the corner of his eye. Yvessa, seeing Zelna’s terrified reaction, merely smirked. “Ah, so my little maid has a past, does she? How… inconvenient.” She turned her attention back to Tasmira, her smile now a venomous slash. “Well, ‘private curator,’ perhaps you can prove your worth. For tonight’s dinner, I desire a traditional Ovestran delicacy: *Fugu Nocturne*. I trust you’re familiar with the preparation of the Vorsteg puffer-fish? The one requiring precise removal of the neurotoxin glands, lest the diner suffer a rather… stimulating demise?” Her eyes glinted with malicious pleasure. “Succeed, and perhaps I’ll reconsider your tenure. Fail, or refuse, and I shall have you arrested for fraud. It would be such a shame for a high-society heiress to end up in the debtor’s prisons, wouldn’t it, Tasmira Vlatka?” The Manse’s grand clock chimed once, a single, mournful toll, signaling the impossible choice laid before her.

The Viper at the Gates