Vezza threw her weight forward like a projectile aimed straight at a stubborn barnacle. The noble’s gurgling protests became muffled by the kraken’s meaty tentacles. The blue light in Laro’s eyes pulsed, expanding, and the ice on the tank wall spiderwebbed across the glass, thick as winter moss. He wasn’t just walking towards the tank; he was practically gliding, arms outstretched, a feral hunger in his gaze that promised an entire district a quick, watery demise.
“Oh no you don’t, you future menace!” Vezza shrieked, closing the distance in three clumsy strides. He was barely taller than her, all sharp angles and threadbare fabric. She didn’t bother with finesse. Her right shoulder connected with his chest like a battering ram, sending them both careening away from the rapidly freezing tank. Momentum, combined with Laro’s utter lack of bracing, spun them around. Her left hand, still tingling from his sea-magic healing, shot out, caught the back of his neck, and yanked him close.
His head snapped forward. Her own head whipped sideways. The impact was less a kiss and more a head-on collision between two poorly steered rowboats in a storm. Teeth clacked. Her lower lip squashed against his upper lip with a wet *smack*. He tasted faintly of fish-gut soap and fear. Definitely not the romantic hero she’d read about.
[Salvation Sparks: +5,000. Current Balance: 5,050. Status: Abyssal Surge Stabilized.]
Vezza recoiled with a disgusted grunt, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. “Ugh! I hope you appreciate that, you little terror! That was for *my* retirement, not your dramatic ice show!”
Laro, however, did not grunt. Or recoil. He stood ramrod straight, rigid as sun-cured driftwood. His pupils shrank to needlepoints, aimed rigidly past her left collarbone. A deep, unsettling crimson crept up his neck, spreading across his cheeks and painting his pointed ears a shade usually reserved for boiled krill.
The ice on the tank wall receded with a sighing hiss. The noble, looking less like a dandy and more like a soggy sack of seaweed, managed to pry himself free of the kraken’s lax grip. He sputtered to the surface, coughing up brine and indignation. His elegant tunic was torn, his meticulously styled hair plastered to his scalp, and a round suction welt flared purple on his forehead.
“You… you *filthy commoner*!” the noble shrieked, pointing a trembling finger at Vezza, then at the still-frozen Laro. “You attacked me! You… you *desecrated* the Abyssal Scholar! Preceptor Vharr will have you flayed! Both of you! By the tides, I swear by the Deepest Oaths, you’ll be executed before the midnight bell!” He scrambled over the tank lip, dripping a trail of murky water across the polished kelp-wood floor.
Vezza rolled her eyes. “Oh, quiet down, you glorified fish-food. Just go tell your grand-pappy I saved your useless hide.” She flexed her knuckles, which were already aching. The noble’s chin had been surprisingly resilient.
She glanced at Laro. He hadn’t moved. He hadn’t even blinked. His entire body was locked in a state of mortified petrification. The ink-black brand on her wrist pulsed, a dull ache beneath the surface. Vezza sighed. This was going to be a long day.
“Right, come on, you,” she grumbled, grabbing his arm and yanking him away from the kraken tank. His limb was stiff as a plank. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Or, you know, been kissed by a very annoyed spy-maid. Same difference.”
She dragged him through the winding, damp corridors of the Drowned Conservatory. Students scurried out of their way, sensing the aura of barely-contained chaos that always seemed to follow Vezza. Laro continued to glide, a zombie pulled along by a particularly determined current, his face still a furious shade of beet-red. His silence was unnerving. He was usually muttering something about the unfairness of the world, or grumbling about his duties.
Vezza navigated by instinct, her mind already on the next phase of ‘aggressive pampering.’ Food. Lots of food. Warm food. The kind that filled you up and made you forget about noble threats and accidental villain-kisses.
She kicked open the pantry entrance to the student scullery, a vast, echoing space with bubbling cauldrons and the scent of spiced kelp and roasted lumina-fish. A few junior cooks looked up, startled, before quickly averting their gaze. Vezza had a reputation. A loud one.
“Soup!” she declared, shoving Laro onto a worn wooden bench. He landed with a thud, still rigid. “You look like you’re about to sprout gills from sheer mortification. You need soup. Medicinal soup. With extra nutrients. And maybe some of that sweet-kelp bread. You’re too skinny, kid. No wonder you’re so prone to freezing up.”
She bustled about, ignoring the curious stares of the scullery staff. Her knuckles throbbed. Her lip stung. And she still had only 5,050 Sparks. Ten thousand felt like a lifetime away. She grabbed a ladle, scooped a generous helping of thick, steaming clam-and-root stew into a bowl, and practically slammed it down in front of Laro. He didn’t react, just stared blankly ahead.
“Eat,” she commanded, pushing the spoon into his hand. His fingers, still cold despite the receding frost energy, curled around it weakly. “You want to summon a world-ending leviathan, you need your strength. Can’t do that on an empty stomach, can you?”
She watched him for a moment, waiting. He slowly, painstakingly, lifted the spoon. His hands trembled, not from cold, but from something else entirely. She leaned in, inspecting his flushed face. “You feeling alright, Laro? You’re still red. No fever, right? Don’t you dare get sick on me, I just got your frost magic under control.”
He managed a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. Then, very slowly, he brought the spoon to his lips. A single drop of stew dribbled down his chin. He licked it away, his gaze flicking around the room like a trapped brine-moth.
Vezza smiled, a triumphant, if slightly lopsided, grin. “Good. Eat up. We’ve got a long day of not-getting-executed ahead of us.” She leaned back against the counter, already planning her next move. Maybe she could convince the head chef to give Laro some extra portions. He looked like he hadn’t eaten a proper meal in weeks.
Just as Laro took another spoonful, the scullery doors banged against the wall. Tilla, the timid maid, stumbled in, her usually neat uniform disheveled, her eyes wide and red-rimmed from crying. She gasped for air and crushed a scrap of parchment in her fist.
“Vezza! Oh, Vezza, it’s… it’s terrible!” Tilla sobbed, her voice cutting through the clatter of copper pots. “Grand-Preceptor Vharr’s guards! They’re tearing your quarters apart! They found… they found your contraband ledger!”