“Maid Vezza. Report to the elder chambers immediately. Grand-Preceptor Vharr requires your presence.” The enchanted voice faded, leaving only the soft gurgle of the kraken-tanks and the rapid patter of Tilla’s retreating feet. Vezza blew out a breath. *Ten thousand Sparks*. It still felt like a punch to the gut. She’d probably have to pull a full decade of overtime at her old coffee job to earn that kind of cash, let alone here, where her only currency was, apparently, her fists. Laro, still clutching the pastry like a scared, half-drowned squirrel, stared after Tilla, then back at Vezza. His eyes, a murky gray like silt at the bottom of a canal, held a flicker of something she couldn’t quite decipher. Fear? Confusion? Definitely not gratitude. Not yet. “Don’t eat that all at once,” she advised, pointing a finger at the pastry. “Small bites. Or you’ll throw up.” She paused, then added, “And if you throw up, I’ll punch you.” His pupils dilated fractionally. Good. A little wariness kept him alert. [Protocol update: Small acts of kindness, even aggressively delivered, are noted. Embers gained: +5. Current Total: 10.] “Only ten?” Vezza muttered, scowling. This was going to be a long, painful retirement plan. She spared Laro one last, stern glance, a silent warning to stay put and *not* get into any more trouble. Then, with a sigh that tasted like stale coffee and impending doom, she turned towards the Elder Spire. The Elder Spire was less a spire and more a colossal, barnacle-encrusted mollusk shell, half-submerged and glowing with an eerie, phosphorescent light. Its entrance was a gaping maw, guarded by two hulking Ward-Golems carved from deep-sea granite. They smelled faintly of ozone and ancient algae. Vharr’s office, the High Roost, perched at the very top, offering a view of Murro-Vell’s drowned plazas and the perpetual gloom of the trench waters. The air inside was warm, scented with spiced Tidal-root tea and something vaguely floral, like dying coral. Vharr himself sat behind a massive desk carved from fossilized leviathan bone, looking every inch the benevolent, weary patriarch. His silver hair, tied back with a simple thong of kelp, framed a face lined with what Vezza knew was calculated wisdom. He even had a kindly, if slightly watery, smile. “Ah, Vezza, my dear,” Vharr rumbled, gesturing toward a cushioned chair opposite him. “Do come in. Forgive the sudden summons, but certain… *delicate* matters demand swift attention. Tidal-root tea? It settles the nerves.” Vezza took the offered cup. The ceramic was warm, the tea a rich, earthy brew. She didn’t miss the subtle, almost imperceptible tremor in Vharr’s hand as he poured. *Delicate matters, my fin*. More like ‘I want to tell you how to commit murder without getting my hands wet’ matters. She took a sip. It was genuinely good tea, which only made her more suspicious. “Thank you, Elder Vharr,” she said, keeping her tone flat. “How may I be of service?” Vharr leaned back, his gaze drifting to the glass where glowing plankton drifted like motes of sulfur. “It concerns young Laro, I’m afraid. A prodigy, yes, but… erratic. The frost arts he channels, the murmurs from the trench… they pose a risk to himself and our halls.” *Erratic? He is starving and shivering in an unheated cellar.* “Erratic, sir? He seemed… quiet, when I saw him earlier.” Vharr sighed, a practiced, weary heave of his shoulders. “Indeed. A quiet gale, my dear. He has already cracked the glass on the Kraken-tanks, not to mention that altercation with the high-blooded scion in the corridor.” He steepled his fingers, his eyes, the color of polished abalone, meeting hers. “We cannot afford such… *complications*. The balance of Murro-Vell is fragile. The Abyss demands its due, but only on its own terms.” *Aha*. There it was. The Abyss. Vezza remembered the original novel’s lore: some believed the Abyssal Tide wasn’t just a natural disaster, but a potential source of unimaginable power, if controlled. Vharr, the ‘benevolent’ elder, had always harbored a secret ambition to harness it, even if it meant sacrificing Murro-Vell in the process. His goal wasn’t to *prevent* Laro’s awakening, but to *trigger* it prematurely, then seize control. “My primary concern, Vezza,” Vharr continued, dropping his voice low, “is that Laro, in his present state, might inadvertently invite the Deep Scourge. Or worse, succumb to its call. He is a youth, easily swayed. My duty as elder is to protect our students from catastrophe.” He paused, letting the implication hang in the air like a rotting fish. “I need you, Vezza, to investigate Laro thoroughly. Look for any sign of corruption, any evidence of malefic intent. We must have a… *justification* for his removal. For the good of all, of course.” He smiled, a thin, cold twist of his lips. “Find me a reason to execute him, Vezza. Any reason at all. And make it look convincing.” His words were a silk-wrapped dagger. *Execute him*. Not expel. Not rehabilitate. Execute. This old man was far more chilling than any street thug she’d ever faced. He wanted to light the fuse on Murro-Vell’s destruction, and he wanted Vezza to hand him the match. “Understood, Elder,” Vezza said, her voice dry. She finished her cup, the heat turning bitter against her throat. “I will begin sniffing around without delay.” [Protocol alert: Detecting new threat. Elder Vharr’s intent: Target termination. Hazard modifier applied. Embers gained: +50. Current Total: 60.] *Fifty points for finding out an old man wants to butcher a child? This interface is absurd.* Still, sixty was better than ten. A rough start, but a start. She left the Elder Spire, the phosphorescent glow now feeling less magical and more like the sickly light of a dying flame. Her first order of business: *not* frame Laro. Her second: figure out what the kid was actually up to. If Vharr wanted him dead, Laro was probably doing something right, or at least, something that threatened Vharr’s plans. Laro’s assigned cot sat in the lowest wing of the complex, a submerged quadrant the scullery hands called the Drowned Warrens. The air here was heavy with the smell of brine and mildew, and the constant drip of water from the ceiling felt like a mournful song. The door to his room, number 1337, was warped and peeling, secured only by a rusty latch. Not that anyone would bother breaking in; there was nothing to steal. Vezza slipped inside. The room was dark, lit only by the faint, greenish glow filtering through the grimy window. It was also bone-achingly cold, a damp chill that seeped into her bones instantly. She could see her breath. This wasn’t just cold; this was *unnatural* cold, the kind that spoke of uncontrolled magic. And there, huddled in a threadbare cot in the corner, was Laro. He was shivering violently, his small frame trembling so hard the bed creaked. Rime bloomed across the ragged sheet covering him, spreading out along the seams as if his skin radiated an arctic draft. His lips were blue, and a thin sheen of ice coated his eyelashes. His ribs hitched in shallow, shallow rattles. His own dormant frost surged unchecked through his veins, biting into his marrow. Vezza felt a sudden, inexplicable surge of fury. *This* was Vharr’s “unstable prodigy”? This was just a neglected, starving kid slowly succumbing to his own power. No wonder the boy grew up to butcher half the continent. Murro-Vell practically farmed its own doom. “You idiot,” she hissed, yanking open the flimsy wardrobe. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. She kicked the empty space. “Fine. I’ll do it myself.” She stomped out, swearing under her breath, and slipped back inside minutes later hauling an armload of pilfered quilts. Three were from the head prefect’s quarters, plush and embroidered. Two were from the supply closet, thick and scratchy, but warm. She dropped them over Laro’s cot, the heavy wool nearly swallowing him whole. “Listen up, you little icicle,” she muttered, wrenching the edges tight around his shoulders until he was mummified in down and heavy weave. “You’re not allowed to die. Not on my watch. If you even *think* about catching hypothermia, I swear to the Deep King, I’ll punch you so hard you’ll feel it in the afterlife.” She smoothed the final layer, a dense felt mantle swiped from the wash racks, tucking the corners firmly beneath his chin. As her fingers brushed his skin, she felt it: a glacial cold, far beyond anything natural. His pulse was thready, almost imperceptible. This kid was barely clinging to life. She leaned close, her brow furrowed. “You hear me, Laro? You stay alive. And you *definitely* don’t turn into a world-ending leviathan. Because if you do, I’m personally coming back from my quiet beach retirement to kick your butt.” As she pulled away, his eyes snapped open. Not the murky gray she remembered. They glowed a stark, phosphorescent indigo, like bioluminescent vents cracked open in the seabed. A numbing bite bled off his skin, turning her breath to vapor. His hand, icy cold, shot out, seizing her wrist. She stared, mesmerized, into those unnatural lights. His fingers locked down like iron bands. Cartilage compressed with a sickening crunch. Her joint gave way, splintering. [Emergency Alert: Anomaly surge detected ahead of schedule! Critical threat to handler proximity!] His icy grip shattered her wrist.

Tea, Sympathy, and Treason