Tazien didn’t bother to turn toward the Fourth Grace. His focus remained on the ornate obelisk, a pillar of polished alabaster and brass that hummed with cartographic coordinates. He traced an invisible line in the air with a finger, an arc that Nivara, watching from the periphery, felt as a sudden barometric drop against her eardrums. It was not a draft; the hall itself seemed to contract. “The spatial coordinates of this hall,” Tazien stated, his tone flat and dry, “are now fixed. Every quantum fluctuation within a hundred-span radius is accounted for. Teleportation is… ill-advised.” The withered Ninth Grace scoffed, his dry skin papery under the glow. “A mortal’s parlor trick! We are Graces, anomaly. We command space itself!” The Sixth Grace, her silhouette wavering in refracted luminescence, showed pointed teeth. “Perhaps a demonstration of our displeasure will clarify your position.” With a flick of her wrist, a spectral blade materialized against the captive's neck. “Don’t,” Tazien said, his tone casual and detached. “It complicates the geometry.” The hulking Fourth Grace bellowed, the sound grinding like tectonic plates. “You dare dictate to us, wretch? We will flay these mortals until their screams echo across the Shattered Tiers!” He hoisted his hostage higher by the neck, boots dangling in empty air. Without turning, Tazien spoke a cadence of dry arithmetic. “Gravitational vectors, inverse square law. Mass of obsidian plating, approximate twelve hundred kivars. Pressure required to snap cervical vertebrae… 1.8 kilonewtons.” Nivara tracked the sudden torque in the air. The giant shuddered under invisible shear forces, plates shearing along his spine. The snap of breaking bone echoed off the vaulted ribs of the ceiling. A wet choke escaped the black scales as his fingers spasmed open, dropping the hostage. The massive frame tipped sideways and struck the stone like a dropped portcullis. The Ninth Grace shrieked, a rasp of dried reed against granite. “What sorcery is this?!” He lashed a coil of black arcane power toward Tazien’s shoulder. Mid-flight, the bolt folded along an inverted fold of space, looping backward with tripled velocity to punch the old man directly through his ribs. The elder disintegrated into gray ash and dissolving motes, collapsed by his own rebound. The remaining female Grace retreated two paces, her illusory veil splintering to expose hollow, sunken cheeks. She triggered an escape sigil, but the spatial matrix seized her. The air solidified into diamond rigidity. Her silhouette stretched across three overlapping coordinates, warping along fixed geometric planes. She gave no cry; she simply tore into ten distinct bands of pale light that dissolved into thin ozone. The exchange had concluded in eight seconds. The three captives dropped to their knees, gasping on the flagstones, shoulders shaking in silence. Tazien turned on his heel and approached the fallen heap of scales. He knelt, driving his fingers into the armored carapace where the divine core ought to hum. Nivara remained motionless by the doorway, tracking the movement of his fingers. Jurok jogged blithely past the surviving captives toward the patches of fading dust, humming an airy tavern song. Tazien’s hand broke through hollow chitin. He excavated the interior with two fingers, finding neither marrow nor soul-gem. He stood, crossed to the faint glow left by the Sixth Grace, stirred the remaining sparks, then kicked aside the pile of gray ash from the elder. Nothing. [ERROR: PROXY BODY ELIMINATED. NO SOUL CORE EXTRACTED.] [PERFORMANCE RATING: INSUFFICIENT DATA FOR CORE CONSUMPTION. INITIATING MINOR REWARD PROTOCOL.] [REWARD: 1x Block of Aged Cheldar Cheddar (Acute-Grade).] A brick of pale, sharp-smelling curd dropped with a wet smack onto the stone by Tazien’s boot. He stared at it, then across the vacant floor. A brief exhalation rattled in his nostrils. The slight tension in his temples was the closest Nivara had ever seen him come to outright vexation. “Puppets,” Tazien muttered, cold disdain clipping every vowel. “Hollow shells cast from a distance. After Vael, they hide behind projected glass.” His glance flicked across the hall, locking onto the obelisk. “Tracking them one by one is an inefficient consumption of cycles.” His chin lifted slightly as the calculations settled. “They will not present their authentic vessels until the primary Divine Furnace is brought online. The taproot of their power. Only then will they assemble.” Nivara shifted her gaze from Tazien to Jurok. The former prisoner knelt over the pale residue on the floor, cupping both palms above the stones. A thread of silver vapor coiled upward from the flagstones, entering his skin like spilled ink soaked into parchment. He inhaled it with the satisfaction of a man sampling spiced wine, then skipped to the ash pile to draw in the remaining gray dross. Jurok caught Nivara’s eye. He offered a wide, easy grin, then winked. He leaned in conspiratorially, his voice dropping to a stage whisper, audible only to her. “Don’t tell the architect, but I think it’s time we build a real temple.”

A Block of Sharp Cheddar