“If you throw one more perfumed aristocrat at me, Fadan, I will snap your fake fiancé’s neck.”
The syllables rattled in his chest, low and abrasive. Zarshan’s knuckles pressed the damp limestone beside my cheek, the brass calligraphy etched into his neck gleaming with purple heat. The radiance baking off his forearms singed the brocade on my shoulder. No scripture, no warning from Nahid had accounted for this: an inquisitor who did not look away, who had tracked every awkward detour and clumsy distraction I had thrown across the ballroom floor.
“My… my apologies, Vizier Dalca,” I managed, forcing a breath past the constriction in my throat. My voice, even to my own ears, sounded thinner than usual. “Pazel means no offense. He’s simply… overwhelmed by the gala’s splendor.” A flimsy excuse, even for me. The corner of Zarshan’s lip hitched upward, carving a harsh crease across his cheek. He dipped his chin closer, dark irises reflecting the terrace torches.
“Overwhelmed?” he murmured, his voice a silken rasp. “Or perhaps, overwhelmed by the prospect of my company?” He paused, allowing the implication to settle. “Your efforts to avoid me, Fadan, are as subtle as a sandstorm. And just as disruptive.”
The sting hit fast, fanning the old temper I had buried under layers of kohl and false laughter. This brute was supposed to be a distant shadow to avoid, yet here he stood, suffocating my breathing room and threatening the one bumbling ally keeping the court off my trail.
Before I could retort, a piercing shriek echoed from the main garden, cutting through the murmur of the gala. It was not a human sound, but a guttural, desperate howl. Zarshan’s head snapped up, his gaze flicking towards the open balcony. The ink markings along his collarbone flared amethyst before sinking to a low hum. He pushed off the limestone in a clean snap of sinew, leaving the stone behind him instantly cold.
“Stay here,” he commanded, his voice devoid of its earlier menace, now clipped and urgent. He moved to the balcony archway, his hand already reaching for the hilt of a curved dagger sheathed at his hip. I watched his shadow peel toward the arch. Stay behind like an obedient doll? The very suggestion set my teeth on edge, and the sudden stench drifting from the corridor killed whatever compliance I had left.
Another howl ripped through the air, closer this time, followed by a chorus of panicked screams. A sickeningly sweet stench—charred treacle and curdled copper—drifted into the recess. Mandrake bile. My clan’s apothecary drills took over before thought could.
I peered cautiously from the alcove. The grand garden, moments ago a kaleidoscope of jewel-toned silks and gleaming brass, was now a scene of utter pandemonium. Nobles, their faces contorted in terror, scattered like startled birds. And then I saw them.
Six hulking quadrupeds with exposed ribs and raw flanks stalked through the shredded rose beds. Bile the color of bruised moss dripped from their jowls, hissing against the flagstones. Flesh-crafted quarry hounds, warped by forced velocity implants. High on the observation dais stood Lord Morad, his golden serpent scrollwork shimmering across his forearms as he looked down at the screaming guests.
“Traitors to the realm!” Morad’s voice roared through the terrace resonators. “Let these loyal trackers cleanse our court of disloyal filth!”
The pack-leader lunged, dragging down an elder noblewoman in a swirl of turquoise silk. Across the flagstones, half-hidden under a marble bench, lay a familiar silver coat. Pazel. His limbs were limp, green foam bubbling between his parted lips from the airborne venom. The council wasn't just managing the gala; they were purging the court.
Every shred of courtly etiquette dissolved into white rage. Pazel might be a cowardly decoration, but he was *my* cowardly decoration, and no butcher on a podium was going to murder him in the dark. My fingers locked into fists. Beneath the fabric of my sash, the fine brass filigree of my family insignia began to warm.
The lead beast swung its wedge-shaped skull toward Pazel's sprawled boot. "Get away from him," I hissed. I ripped the brass dial from my waist, feeding stored momentum straight into the alloy. Its ornamental spokes shot outward, locking into five-inch razor tines.
I sprinted off the alcove ledge. The beast spun, fangs snapping inches past my collar. I dropped low, slid along the polished marble, and drove the brass star upward in a clean rising sweep. Charged alloy sheared through tendon and vertebrae with a flat crunch. The head tumbled across the tiles, its sickly ocular sheen dying in the dust while the carcass collapsed in a heap of twitching muscle.
Scattered screams died out into dead silence. The courtiers huddled against the balustrade were not staring at the dead beast; they were staring at my footwork. The low-crouch transition was pure Fadan clan doctrine, impossible to mistake.
A second creature bounded over the flowerbeds straight at my throat, but a streak of brass light intercepted it mid-air. Zarshan struck like a guillotine. His hooked dagger split the skull to the jawbone in one concussive crack. He didn't spare me a glance; he pivoted smoothly on his heel, shoulders glistening under the torches as he buried his blade into a third monstrosity.
I stepped in alongside him. Enemy or not, he was the only fighter on the terrace who knew how to hold a line. I ducked beneath an snapping snout, twisted on the ball of my foot, and slammed my heel into the brute's flank with enough discharged recoil to shatter ribs. Zarshan seized the stumble, driving steel straight through its spine until the thing dropped limp.
We cleared the perimeter in brutal unison. My sweeping strikes opened flanks; his crushing blows finished them. For ten seconds our rhythms locked together as though we had rehearsed every parry and counter on the same drill floor, reducing the pack to twitching leather and steaming entrails.
Up on the stone dais, Morad ceased smiling. His gaze locked onto my crouch, the brass weapon still humming in my palm, and the specific cadence of my stance. Recognition hardened his features.
Morad raised a signet-ringed hand, and the final surviving beast backed off. He leveled his crystal-tipped staff toward my chest, his expression souring into a venomous sneer.
“Vizier Dalca!” Morad’s command boomed, echoing off the high terraces. “Arrest the Fadan girl for treason.”