“I forged the ledger that condemned your father to the Wastes, and I will gladly slit your throat to finish his work.” Beatriz’s words were a poison more potent than any venom. They carved through Inesca’s carefully constructed detachment, hitting a raw, exposed nerve. The ledger, the bankruptcy, the court bailiffs seizing the loom-houses—it had all traced back to Beatriz. Inesca straightened, locking every muscle against the tremor in her hands. “You’re pathetic,” Inesca stated, her voice unnervingly steady. The insult, stripped bare of any emotion, seemed to infuriate Beatriz more than a scream ever could. A raw snarl ripped from the socialite’s throat. Beatriz lunged. The serrated tip of the silkworm-bone point flashed, catching the dim spill of light from the Conservatory’s grand hall. It was faster than Inesca anticipated, a blur of milky white aimed directly at her chest. The weapon, crafted from a Waste monster, was designed not just to cut, but to sever magical connection. Any active charm Inesca tried to weave would simply unravel under its touch. Inesca did not rely on overt spells. Instead, she seized the latent tension in the threads Beatriz already wore, feeding her will straight into the weave. It was a cold, pure flame, and she funneled it not into a shield, but a silent command. Beatriz’s silken gown, a magnificent creation of iridescent teal and silver, rippled. Not with wind, but with an internal tremor. The exquisite, embroidered vines coiling around her wrists tightened, the fine gossamer-silk turning rigid, binding her with unyielding cords. Beatriz cried out, a guttural sound of surprise and fury, her momentum stolen as the fabric constricted, pulling her arms back. The bone tip, diverted from Inesca’s heart, still found its mark. The razor-sharp edge grazed Inesca’s collarbone, a searing sting blooming across her flesh. It was a shallow cut, but the immediate agony was sharp, unlike any simple blade. A dark, oily sheen coated the bone, and Inesca knew instantly: the venom. “You *bitch*!” Beatriz shrieked, wrestling against the suddenly hostile material of her own dress. “Let me go! Guards! Help!” Her eyes, wild with fury, darted towards the open archway leading back into the mixer, where the muffled sounds of music and chatter still drifted. A shadow detached itself from the gloom of the archway, moving with the deceptive grace of a predator. Thiago Montoya stepped onto the balcony, his gaze sweeping over the scene: Beatriz struggling, her beautiful gown twisting against her, Inesca clutching her collarbone, a thin line of crimson tracing down her pale skin. His eyes narrowed, a cold fire igniting in their depths. Beatriz, seeing him, paused her struggles for a fraction of a second, her face contorting into a fresh mask of victimhood. “Thiago! She attacked me! She tried to push me from the balcony!” she wailed, tears suddenly welling, her voice cracking with feigned terror. “Oh, my gown! She’s ruined it!” Thiago didn’t even glance at her face. His attention was fixed solely on Inesca and the gash at her collarbone. A low hum vibrated in the air around him, the telltale prelude to the Montoya bloodline's ability to unpick structural warp and weft. “You claim she ruined your dress?” Thiago’s voice was soft, laced with an icy disdain that made Beatriz flinch. “That is easily rectified.” A ripple of raw power emanated from Thiago, a silent wave that struck Beatriz’s struggling form. The gossamer-silk, once vibrant and alive with woven power, drained to an ashen grey. The iridescent teal faded to a sickly grey-green. The silver embroidery tarnished, cracking and flaking away like old plaster. The intricate structural bonds simply snapped. In a matter of heartbeats, Beatriz’s grand, Gala-worthy dress transformed into a flimsy, threadbare sack, clinging to her in tatters. The fabric, stripped of its core magic, lost all cohesion. The elegant cut collapsed, the seams splitting with audible pops. The hem unraveled into a chaotic fringe, the bodice sagging precariously. Beatriz was left standing in what was barely more than a collection of dirty rags, exposed and utterly humiliated. Her jaw went slack, the tears forgotten, replaced by a ghastly, incredulous stare. “My… my dress,” she whispered, her voice a reedy gasp of utter disbelief. She looked down at the ruined, shapeless cloth clinging to her, then back at Thiago, her face a mask of utter devastation. “What… what have you done?” “Ensured your attire matches your character,” Thiago replied, utterly devoid of sympathy. He moved past Beatriz, his gaze fixed on Inesca. “Are you well?” Inesca pressed two fingers to the cut, tracking the cold numbness spreading beneath the skin. “The bone point… it carries venom,” she managed, her breath shallow. Beatriz found her voice, a high-pitched shriek of pure, unadulterated fury. “You cannot do this! This is an outrage! My family will have your head, Montoya! I’ll have you exiled! Guards! Someone!” She tried to lunge for Thiago, but the remnants of her dress, now truly just fragile strands, held her fast, tangled around her legs. Thiago ignored her, his eyes scanning the ornate chandelier directly above their heads. A faint shimmer, almost imperceptible, indicated the scrying-crystal remained perfectly in place, still recording. He reached up, a quick, precise motion, and plucked the small, faceted gem from its hiding spot. It pulsed once, a soft golden light, confirming its successful operation. “We have what we came for,” Thiago said, tucking the crystal securely into a hidden pocket in his waistcoat. “Let’s go.” He took Inesca’s arm, his touch firm, his gaze sweeping the balcony. There was no time to explain the venom, not now. Beatriz was still screaming, her voice growing hoarse, and soon her cries would draw actual attention. As they turned to leave, the cut pulsed with a dull, throbbing numbness. She glanced down: where the bone edge had scored her skin, dark necrotic lines crept outward across her flesh like cracked glaze on porcelain.

Blood and Silk