The next morning everyone pretended they didn't notice the lipstick or the faint claw marks across my face. Pretended being the key word.

Fractal was the worst at it. Her entire face went crimson the moment she glanced at me. She tried to mask it by fiddling with the edges of her sleeve, but every so often her eyes flicked toward the marks on my cheek, then darted away again as though they'd burn her.

Ten, by contrast, made no effort at subtlety. She stretched lazily against the doorway like a cat in a sunbeam, her chains chiming softly as she leaned. A coy grin played at her lips, and she tilted her head just enough to let her hair fall across one eye.

"Well," she purred, eyes sliding toward Fally, "someone had an interesting night."

Fally, for her part, wasn't rising to the bait. She had her arms crossed and her gaze fixed on her teacup with all the composure of a saint under interrogation. Only the slight twitch of her ears betrayed her embarrassment.

I ignored the silent war of glances and sat down at the head of the table. "If you're done imagining things," I said dryly, "we have actual work to do."

That was when the interruption came.

The door swung open and in shuffled Morres, Ranah, and Temptation—like schoolchildren who'd been summoned to the principal's office. Morres, usually a strutting peacock of a Dreamer, looked for once genuinely uneasy. His feathers—literal or metaphorical—seemed dulled. Ranah was still Ranah, sharp-eyed and impatient, but even she held herself tighter than usual. Temptation, all sharp cheekbones and molten amber eyes, lingered half a step behind them, his usual smirk absent.

I lifted one eyebrow. "This should be good."

Morres opened his mouth first, and the words stumbled out like loose dice. "Okay. So. We uhh—"

Ranah sighed, rolled her eyes with theatrical precision, and physically nudged him aside. "What the Dreamer is trying to say," she said, her voice clipped but genuine, "is that we're deeply sorry for trying to push you in a hundred different directions, obscuring the path we actually wanted you to take. All three of us have been in the wrong."

She hesitated for a fraction of a second before adding, "And the only one who's actually bothered to listen has indeed been a Catlamity."

All our heads swiveled to the corner.

Gin was sitting there cross-legged on a low cushion, a handheld device glowing faintly in his palms. He was furiously mashing its runes, muttering strings of increasingly creative expletives under his breath as whatever game he was playing continued to thwart him.

The juxtaposition was ridiculous—three otherworldly powers in apology mode and Gin cursing at a toy like a teenager.

I sipped my tea, keeping my expression as flat as possible. "You'll forgive me if I don't immediately weep with gratitude," I said.

Morres flinched. Temptation shifted his weight, his long fingers knotting together. Ranah just looked at me steadily.

"We're not asking for forgiveness," she said. "We're acknowledging that we've mishandled you. And warning you that the situation is changing. Fast."

My eyes flicked from one to the other, then back to Gin. He hadn't even looked up; he was now snarling "come on, come on" at the device like it owed him money.

"Of course it's changing," I muttered. "It always is."

Fally's hand brushed mine under the table, subtle but grounding. I let my fingers relax against hers.

"Fine," I said aloud, setting my cup down with a muted clink. "You're sorry. Noted. But understand this—" I leaned forward slightly, letting my voice drop into the steel-edged tone that even Morres recognized. "I don't play games anymore. Not yours, not Pandora's, not Solomon's. If you have something to say, you'll say it. Straight. Or you'll leave."

For a moment no one breathed.

Then Gin finally looked up from his game, eyes glinting like a cat in a dark room. "Well," he drawled, "at least you're consistent." He flicked a small grin toward the trio. "Told you he'd bite."

Ranah's mouth pressed into a thin line, but she inclined her head. Temptation gave a small shrug, as though acknowledging a point scored. Morres simply looked down, his feathers dimmed even further.

"We've looked into your duties as the Sanguine Spear," Ranah said, her voice carrying the crisp certainty of someone used to speaking at tribunals. "And we've agreed. They'll function as the training you most need. While we can't offer you a time dilation chamber, we also agree—it doesn't matter. One of the Seraphim will duel and handle the Fallen. That isn't your battlefield. But you have a different countdown to mind. A test is coming."

The way she said it—flat, declarative—made my stomach tighten. "A test?" I didn't bother to hide the frustration in my tone. My patience for their riddles was long gone.

"Yes." Ranah's eyes didn't waver. "A test. This isn't from us. Not even from anyone we are involved with. As you may or may not know, different Courts rule the clusters on high. Believe it or not, Solomon's Gate and Pandora's Box share the same parentage—the Court of Collections. We are the myths, the monsters, the demons, the devils. The dragons, the damned, and the deceased. We collect because we are often discarded."

There was a hush after she spoke. The words had weight, not just because of their meaning, but because Ranah, for once, had stripped away her usual sharpness and spoken plainly.

"And we hate each other," Leraje cut in, his tone like a snapped bowstring, "because we have diametric oppositions on what it means to fix the broken."

His interruption was sharp enough to make Ranah's lips press into a thin line.

"Leraje…" Barbra's voice, low and commanding, carried the warning of a lioness toying with whether to swat her cub. "Be polite. Be cordial."

"Quite," Gin muttered, sprawled on his conjured cloud as if the ceiling were the most fascinating thing in existence. "Though Leraje isn't wrong. The Court of Collections is full of paradoxes. Each fragment of it pulls in a different direction, tugging at the seams of what's already fragile."

He let his gaze drop lazily to me. "The biggest issue here is this: titles are never what they seem. For instance—Barbra here carries the title of Queen of Beasts. Regal, yes. Ferocious, sure. But it isn't her true moniker. Just a crown she wears to make things neater."

Barbra inclined her head slightly, unbothered by the exposure. "Correct. I don't hail from the Court of the Wild. That distinction belongs elsewhere."

I folded my arms, impatient. "Then what is approaching?"

Barbra's amber eyes glinted as though I'd asked the only question that mattered. "The Court of the Wild," she said evenly. "They are what draws near."

The words sent a shiver down the room, though none of them showed it outright. Temptation's eyes narrowed, Ranah tilted her chin, Leraje shifted his weight as though preparing for a fight that wasn't yet here.

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I leaned back, frowning. "So let me untangle this. You've shoved me through your own schemes, nudged me into contracts I didn't ask for, tested me in dreams within dreams—and now you're telling me none of that matters, because another Court is moving against me?"

"Not against you," Ranah corrected. "Through you."

"That's supposed to make me feel better?"

Gin chuckled softly, sharp teeth flashing. "You'll learn, Alex. The Courts don't make war the way mortals imagine. They make wagers. They make… demonstrations. If Collections tests you, Wild will test you harder. Because they'll want to prove they can break what another Court is trying to shape."

I rubbed my temples. "So I'm a chess piece."

Barbra's voice came like a growl under velvet. "No. You're the board. And boards crack when too much weight is placed upon them."

The room fell quiet at that.

I hated the silence more than their riddles. It meant they were telling the truth.

***

We sat around my long table like a small war council. The tea room had become our map room, our war room, our confessional. Steam rose from cups. Basarioel was tucked in his satchel at my feet, feathers ruffling each time I shifted. The griffin chick blinked at us with bright, obsidian eyes and let out a soft, contented rumble whenever I reached down to preen a pin feather.

"Right," I said, drawing everyone back to the reason we were here. "Blue Ballet. Tonight. We go in, we find Baron Dullgave, and we find how deep his glimmer network goes. We do this clean: no unnecessary deaths, no public spectacle, and we leave him exposed."

Ten cracked her knuckles and grinned. "I will do the exposing."

"You will do the kicking," Fractal corrected, already sketching three quick diagrams in the air with a finger and filling them with color. "One for distraction, one for breach, one for cleanup. We hit them fast."

Cordelia set her teacup down with a soft clink. She'd been quiet until now, eyes narrowed as she watched the projection of the Blue Ballet seating—an image I'd conjured for planning. "You'll need a reason to approach the inner tables," she said. "You'll need to be seen but not recognized. The nobility patrols in that place are accustomed to faces, but they notice patterns. You need to be an anomaly that fits."

Sven tapped his pen against his notepad. His handwriting is neat, efficient, almost surgical. "Logistics," he said. "Entrance and exit points, supply lines, safe-house placements, escape crannies. If Dullgave keeps stock of product on site, we need to mark the likely vaults and the loading bays." He flipped a page and pushed it toward me. "I've mapped the probable service tunnels. One of them opens auxiliary access near the rear kitchens. It's less guarded but heat is an issue."

Wallace leaned forward, palms flat on the table. "Security detail. Routes, chokepoints, magical wards. I can set passive shields around our ingress team and keep one stronghold node on standby to snap a dome over us if things go sideways. I will not be on the front line unless absolutely necessary."

V, lounging with his feet up and a salt-slice between two fingers, smirked. "I make things go wrong for people. Traps, noise, confusion. Diversions acceptable. I can also play the unfortunate gambler who loses to Dullgave at one of their side games. From there I will funnel his attention away from the inner field."

Fractal had already split their small projected map into three colors. "I will be the social siphon. I'll sit a table away and let people talk to me. Nobles and their entourages love to form bubbles. I'll catch chatter, rumors, names. If someone mentions shipments, I'll latch onto it. If a barman mentions a locker number or a back-dock, I'll have it flagged for Sven."

Ten tilted her head. "And I will be the blunt instrument. If things turn fighty, I give you space to run. I break bones, I stop pursuers, I make sounds. Everyone knows me when I stop someone with a crescent kick."

I looked at Cordelia last. She'd been watching me for a long moment, and I could feel the way she catalogued people, gestures, microtells. She'd learned empathy and extraction the hard way. "You'll be my face," I said. "You'll move in where Fractal's net tangles and collect names and attitudes. Use your guise as a visiting scholar or patron. Bridge the nobles to me. If they suspect something, redirect. You have to be calm."

Cordelia gave a thin smile. "I will be calm enough to lull a serpent to sleep and then pluck its teeth."

Sven added a small line item. "If we encounter product, we need to sample. One sample in my keeping, one in the hands of Wallace for safekeeping, one to be burned if the sample is too volatile. I can arrange quick assays back at the manor."

"Assays?" V snorted. "You can sniff Glimmer from a mile away, don't pretend."

Sven did not look offended. "We're thorough."

I picked up the quiver sitting by my chair and tapped its leather sides. "I have a plan inside the plan. If we get dragged into a corner, I can't rely on frontal warfare." I glanced at Basarioel, who puffed his feathers as if understanding. "My labyrinth will be a retreat. I won't activate it in the middle of Bast, but I will have the failure fallback. Paper and Pencells will give us a door out, and Lunarias will let me cover our exit with a precision rain of light. If the Baron has guards that can burn or bind, we'll need the maze to siphon them and the arrows to cut lanes."

Wallace nodded. "Good. Retreat points matter."

Fractal's eyebrows shot up. "You actually plan to fold the city into a cube and run? I like it."

"You always like the dramatic escape," I replied.

Ten chuckled. "Dramatic is your career."

We went round again on contingencies. What if the Baron had local authority backing? What if he'd hidden his vault behind a ritual with a ward keyed to his family crest? What if the glimmer had unique psychoactive properties that made people fight for it like addicts protecting territory? Questions proliferated. We assigned specialists.

Cordelia and Fractal would work the crowd and the inner salons. Fractal would be the loud, bright eye that pulled whispers; Cordelia would be the hand that turned those whispers into data. V would be the controlled chaos—a gambler with a grudge who slips a salted dagger into the wrong sleeve. Ten and Wallace would be our removal and our shield. Sven would be the quiet spider at the back: logistics, sampling, and escape choreography. I would be the observation point, the strike when necessary, the labyrinth fallback. Fallias would be with me.

I paused. "Fallias," I said. "You're with me at the inner walkway. They won't expect half-dragon royalty consorting with a Walker without reason. You are our step that makes me look credible."

She squeezed my arm and gave a tiny, self-conscious smile. "I like being useful," she admitted. "And you don't have to keep apologizing for acting like a leader. You are."

The compliment landed awkwardly soft and real. I thanked her, more clumsy than I wanted to be. The entourage had already started to move through smaller arrangements: certain phrases we'd use as signals, specific hand gestures for "extraction now," and a tiny, almost invisible ring I would wear that Cordelia would snap twice if I needed her to create a scene to cover an exit.

We rehearsed the gestures out loud. Cordelia mouthed phrases and practiced slipping into different tones. Ten did a few test kicks on a leather dummy we conjured in a corner. Fractal tried to charm a passing server into revealing where a locker key was kept; the server, a projection of the Blue Ballet we'd sampled earlier, complied with a wrong name and a bribe of a pastry—and Fractal made a note on how fast local staff turned under pressure.

Sven rolled through equipment lists, his pen moving rapidly. Wallace nodded approval at every barrier rune he suggested. V whistled, already composing a soundtrack of distraction. Basarioel shifted and bumped my ankle; his small warm weight was an anchor I hadn't realized I needed.

Finally, I pulled the planning threads tight. "We enter as three small groups. The outer group circulates to gauge, the inner group ingratiates, and the extraction team waits on the service tunnels flagged by Sven. If at any point Cordelia snaps twice, Ten and Wallace create a corridor and we move. If someone shouts the word 'Harbor,' that means the plan is burning. We run to the labyrinth fallback. Agreed?"

A ripple of assent, six sets of eyes locking on me for the moment like a pact. Even V nodded, counting his losses already.

"Remember," I added, softer, "this is not a hunt for honor. This is not a dramatic duel. We expose the crime, we gather proof, we hand it to those who will not be bought. We remove the poison from the streets. We do not make martyrs of the desperate."

Cordelia leaned forward, her voice steady. "And if the Courts are watching, let them watch how a land protects its own."

We packed light. Sven strapped a small kit of assay tools to his belt. Cordelia adjusted her shawl so the elocution disc lay hidden. Fallias picked up her mask, smoothing the feathers. Ten snapped a string of grenades into her sash, but kept them for a last resort. Fractal tucked syruped pastries into a bag that in reality hid three smoke bombs. Wallace set a palm on my shoulder, a promise and not a question.

Basarioel ruffled and made a tiny sound like a hiccup. I fed him a bit of dried mutton, and he peeped like a small bell.

We left the tea room two by two, moving with the sort of practiced calm that comes from too many nights of near-mad danger. The moon had not yet climbed high. The road toward Bast's Blue Ballet was a ribbon of shadow and light under lantern glow. My heart beat steady: not from fear, but from something sharper—responsibility. We were a mesh of odd talents, mismatched in style but welded by purpose.

And as we stepped into the city's arteries, I felt the labyrinth at the back of my mind like a folded page. I hoped to never unfold it fully. Tonight, we would try to unravel a poison without becoming infected ourselves. Tonight we would test whether the rumor of my teeth matched the bite.

We moved and the night took us in.

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