Nerio’s finger was a spear, aimed directly at Briska. Briska pressed her back against the stone wall of the alcove, her gaze ricocheting between Nerio, the unmoving guards, and Pellita, who stood beaming beside a disoriented Casimir. [DANGER. Hostile engagement imminent. Activate evasive maneuvers, user.] Briska didn’t move. She couldn’t. Her mind flashed back, not to moments ago, but years. * * * The air in the Dust-Market of Veridia, five years prior, was thick with the scent of dried herbs and desperate ambition. Briska, then a skinny girl with eyes too old for her face, clutched a fistful of tarnished coppers. She’d watched Pellita, her supposed best friend, just moments before, accidentally conjure a miniature rainbow over a particularly bland loaf of bread at the village bake-off, winning first prize with a giggle. Pellita always won, without trying. Briska always came second, even when she practiced until her fingers bled. “Psst. Little one. Got a problem with luck?” Briska turned to a stall piled high with glowing trinkets and murky potions. Behind it, a man with a smile like a crack in old pottery and eyes that seemed to absorb the light, beckoned. He introduced himself as a ‘fortune broker’ from the Silt Isles. He offered her a solution, a way to reclaim what was ‘rightfully hers’. “A… a way to make *her* less lucky?” Briska murmured, her voice tight with a jealousy she hated but couldn’t stifle. “More than that, dearie,” the merchant chuckled, his voice raspy like dry leaves. “A way to siphon the very essence of success from your rival. For a small fee, of course. A little bit of your… potential. Nothing you’ll miss.” He presented a small, intricate device, humming faintly with dark energy. It felt cold and powerful in her hands. The price? A drop of her own blood, a spoken vow, and a promise to pay in *magic* – not the joyous, bright magic of Ondarova, but something older, hungrier, harvested from forgotten rituals. He explained the terms: a trial period, a debt to be repaid, and the devastating consequences of failure. Desperation gnawed at Briska. She imagined her name, emblazoned, finally, above Pellita’s. She accepted. * * * Briska's pulse rattled in her throat as the terms of that old pact caught up to her. Nerio stepped forward, his voice cutting through the courtyard’s stunned silence. He held up a small, dark-veined coin, shimmering with an unnerving, dull glow. “This, ladies and gentlemen,” Nerio declared, his voice ringing with authority, “is a coin of the Shadow-Weavers. Its magic corrupts, its presence is a felony against the Crown and the Arcane Order. It was used to purchase the ‘Snap-Peppers’ that nearly destroyed Miss Marno’s first exam. This dark trace, found on the crate itself, matches the residue on the rumor-scrolls. Both were procured with this forbidden currency.” He pointed the coin at Briska. “And I found three more of these… *charms*… in your personal effects, Briska Vond. Royal decree states that possession of Shadow-Weaver artifacts, let alone their use in magical sabotage, is punishable by immediate magical arrest and permanent disbarment from all gastronomic pursuits.” The royal guards, until now statues, snapped to attention, their blades hissing as they cleared the scabbards. Their polished boots crunched on the gravel as they advanced on Briska. [CRITICAL THREAT. Failure to comply with sabotage parameters detected. User imminent termination.] Briska retreated until the masonry bruised her spine, stumbling over her own heels. This wasn’t just about expulsion anymore; this was about everything. But just as the first guard reached for her, Pellita, her expression surprisingly firm for its usual sunny disposition, stepped between Briska and the advancing guards. She held up her hand, a small, vibrant Ghost-Truffle still clutched in her palm. “Wait!” Pellita commanded, her voice clear and carrying across the courtyard. “I have just completed the Redemption Crucible with a record haul of Stabilized Ghost-Truffles. Per the ancient customs of the Conservatory, as a victor of the Crucible, I demand a right!” The presiding arbiter, who had just arrived at the terrace gates, raised an eyebrow. “And what right would that be, Miss Marno?” the arbiter asked. Pellita turned to Briska, her gaze unwavering. “I demand a culinary trial by combat! To prove my friend’s innocence!” A collective gasp swept through the onlookers. Casimir, now fully recovered from the gas, surged forward, a furious growl escaping his throat. “Pellita, no! Don’t be absurd! This is a clear case of dark magic!” Nerio shook his head, his own expression grim. “Miss Marno, you don’t understand the gravity of this situation. The evidence is overwhelming.” [WARNING. Target has initiated duel protocol. User must participate. Fail to secure victory against target, and trial period is immediately terminated. Arrest protocols engaged.] Sweat prickled Briska's hairline as her vision blurred at the edges. Lose this duel, and the contract closed forever. Pellita, however, stood her ground, her chin held high. “I believe in Briska. And I believe in the power of good food to reveal the truth!” The arbiter surveyed the courtyard, letting out a sharp breath. “A culinary trial by combat, then. Very well. But the stakes of such a challenge, especially given the gravity of these accusations, must be absolute. The loser of this duel,” he announced, his voice echoing with grim finality, “will have their culinary magic permanently stripped away.”

The Price of Envy