I nearly spat my tea across the table—like full, dramatic, sprinkler-system levels of spraying—right onto the poor attendant’s shoes.
The only thing that saved him from an herbal facial was my last-minute ability to slap a hand over my mouth, which sent the tea back down my throat in a humiliating little choke-giggle that made my eyes water.
I dabbed my lips with the napkin like so aristocrat recovering gracefully from a social cri, except my cheeks were blazing and my brain was halfway through listing every terrible thing I’d done in the last twenty-four hours that might warrant a private audience with Iskanda.
Which, let’s be honest, was a very long list. Possibly scroll-length. Possibly several scrolls tied together with string like so bureaucratic horror.
The attendant, anwhile, didn’t so much as blink. He simply lowered the tray, nodded at with that serene expression unique to people who have spiritually ascended beyond caring about other people’s nonsense, and murmured, "Second hall to the right, sir."
His voice had the dull politeness of soone reciting funeral rites. He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t explain. He didn’t even wink in that ’I know sothing you don’t’ kind of way. He just handed a cup, delivered cryptic anxiety, and turned on his heel like a man fleeing responsibility.
"Wait—hold on, second hall to the right for what now?" I called after him, realizing far too late that my voice cracked like a teenage choir boy.
He didn’t answer. He didn’t even turn around. He simply disappeared behind a curtain of burgundy silk, swallowed whole by interior design that probably cost more than my entire miserable life.
Brutus raised a single eyebrow. On anyone else, it would have been judgnt. On Brutus, it was the gentle, resigned expression of a parent discovering their kid had glued their own hand to a table again.
"What?" I snapped, sinking back onto the couch with a dramatic flop that made the cushions swallow even deeper. "I’m allowed mystery summons. It’s very normal. Very casual. Happens to people constantly."
He didn’t respond, which was sohow worse than being mocked. Brutus’s silence was always the type that made you examine your life choices. The type that made you wonder if you’d accidentally set sothing on fire and forgotten about it.
Before I could spiral further into my anxiety stew, another attendant—this one far more enthusiastic and possibly fueled by black-market caffeine—swept in carrying a tray so large I thought it might be a decorative shield.
They lowered it onto the low table between us, and suddenly the entire world beca food. An explosion of color, steam, glaze, honey, herbs, glistening oils—an absolute festival of decadence that made every single starving, desperate nerve in my body light up like a temple festival.
My mouth watered instantly. Aggressively. I might’ve left a permanent drool mark on the cushion.
I didn’t even wait for Brutus to reach for anything. With a feral little squeak of triumph that I will deny until the day I die, I dove in like an animal released into the pantry. Pastries disappeared. Skewers vanished. Sothing buttery and flaky dissolved on my tongue like I’d briefly entered paradise. I’m pretty sure I blacked out from joy for ten seconds.
Brutus leaned back slightly to avoid the food whirlwind that was . "Are you going to tell ," he said calmly, "why an attendant said sothing to you that made you almost spit tea up your nose?"
I froze in place, halfway through lifting a caral-glazed sweetbread to my mouth. I slowly lowered it to the plate, only because I suddenly felt the pressing urge to at least pretend to be a responsible adult.
"Oh. That." I cleared my throat, going for nonchalance. Failed miserably. "Iskanda apparently wants to see after lunch."
Brutus nodded instantly, not even looking surprised. "Of course she does."
I glared. "Excuse , what’s that tone supposed to an?"
"That you get into trouble the way normal people breathe," he replied, popping a berry into his mouth without the slightest disruption to his serenity. "It was only a matter of ti."
"I don’t get into trouble," I protested, offended in the way only soone deeply in denial can be. "Trouble gets into . There’s a difference."
Brutus gave a long, heavy stare. The kind with weight. The kind that said I was one incident away from proving him right.
I sagged. "It’s probably nothing," I muttered, stuffing the sweetbread into my mouth before anxiety could ruin it. "Maybe she just wants to congratulate on my bravery. Or my poise. Or my unparalleled ability to maintain dignity under pressure."
He choked on his drink. I pretended not to notice.
We ate through the rest of the al— enthusiastically, Brutus like a civilized human—while my mind ran circles like a rabbit high on terror. What could Iskanda possibly want? Had I accidentally insulted a noble? Had I broken so invisible rule? Had my body done sothing weird again without my permission?
When lunch finally ended, I felt like I’d eaten enough to power a small empire. My limbs were heavy, my stomach warm, my anxiety louder. Brutus clapped a hand on my shoulder, a silent ’don’t die,’ as we exited the lounge.
And there, waiting in the hall like a well-trained herald, was the sa attendant from before—still serene, still unreadable, still definitely judging behind those polite eyes.
"Follow ," he said. No explanation. No details. Just a command that felt suspiciously like a trap.
Great. Wonderful. Fantastic. Just what my nerves wanted.
He led through a set of twisting corridors, all marble and gold in that ’overcompensating for trauma’ architectural style the Spire loved so much. The air cooled as we walked, the hallways narrowing into tighter, quieter paths. Eventually we erged at the foot of a grand staircase spiraling upward toward a high balcony walkway.
And there she was.
Iskanda stood at the top like she’d been carved from stone—hands clasped behind her back, shoulders straight, face unreadable but sohow still screaming "I have seen your sins." Her presence alone made my posture straighten instinctively, like so primal part of feared disappointing her.
The attendant gave a quick bow, then retreated. Fast. Like he didn’t want to be caught within splash radius of whatever was about to happen to .
Iskanda didn’t speak at first. She just looked down at , the faintest smirk tugging at her lips, like she could sense my thoughts doing gymnastics.
Well. One of us had to break the silence and it probably shouldn’t be her because she terrifies .
"So," I began, clearing my throat. "Am I in trouble, or is this one of those ’co with if you want to live’ situations?"
Her smirk twitched. Barely. "Co along."
I swallowed hard. My legs felt suddenly weak—not from fear, not exactly, more like my body had spontaneously decided to betray at the worst possible ti. I started up the stairs, trying to look composed, but my foot caught on the first step.
I tripped. Loudly. Dramatically. Arms flailing like a drunken stork. I landed on my knees with a sound that could only be described as "pathetic squelch."
"Oh Saints above," I muttered, face burning. "Kill . Put out of my misery. Drop sothing heavy on my head."
When I lifted my gaze, Iskanda was already descending two steps toward , hand extended. Her expression hadn’t changed, but there was sothing gentler in her eyes—warm, steady, painfully calm. The kind of look that made my stomach twist for reasons I refused to examine.
I took her hand—grumbling, burning red, wishing I could dissolve into mist—and she pulled easily back to my feet. Her grip lingered half a second too long. Or maybe mine did. Hard to tell.
We continued upward, her hand still wrapped around mine like she wasn’t giving it back anyti soon. I tried not to think about it, which of course ant I was thinking about nothing else.
At the top of the stairs stood a tall brass-door elevator. Polished. Silent. Waiting.
We stepped inside, still hand-in-hand, the doors sliding shut with a tallic whisper. The elevator shuddered gently as it began to ascend.
"So," I ventured, because silence was dangerous and my brain feared it, "where are we going?"
"The second floor," Iskanda said, watching the doors like she was watching the world beyond them. "Where the Velvets and other staff reside. You’ll be building familiarity with the environnt soon, so it’s best you start—"
I didn’t hear the rest.
Because the mont the elevator sealed us in together, her scent hit like a tidal wave.
Warm, clean, sharp in so places and soft in others. Sothing herbal, sothing mineral, sothing distinctly Iskanda—commanding, earthy, and infuriatingly grounding. It filled the air like a physical thing. It slid into my lungs, onto my tongue, across my nerves. My head buzzed. My knees wobbled.
And because I am, unfortunately, —
I squeezed her hand tighter. Then I did sothing even worse.
I sniffed. Out loud.
It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t dainty. It was the kind of little inhaling sound dogs make when they find a new brand of sausage.
Iskanda turned her head, eyes sliding to with that maddeningly composed stare. A faint smirk curved her lips. Maternal, amused, knowing. Like she’d been expecting this. Like she’d been waiting for it.
Her brows lifted. "What is it?"
My brain: Abort. Die. Flee. Roll under the elevator floor and perish.
My body: squeeze her hand harder, cheeks flaming, continue sniffing like a deranged forest creature.
She raised her other arm slightly, angled just enough for the scent to shift, then—Saints preserve —she leaned in and sniffed lightly at her own underarm.
She blinked once, then shrugged.
"Do I stink?"
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