"By sundown?" I took another bite because carbs sharpen the mind. "Okay. "Okay, how much blood are we allowed to set on fire?"
Amari choked on her juice. Trinity sipped her coffee. "Less than you want. More than Dean would like."
"So... tasteful horror," I said. "I can work with that."
We ate in the odd quiet that happens when everyone is calculating ten moves ahead and also deciding whether to order more pancakes. The clatter of cutlery, the streaked light, the low hum of the house waking up around us-if you squinted, it could have been any family breakfast. If you ignored the fact that the family ran a private army and my class sheet had a deadly sin on it.
When the plates were mostly wreckage, I pushed back my chair. "I'm going to check the training grounds. If Mother introduces me to anyone else as a pet, I want to be there to bite her ankle."
Trinity's mouth curved. "Take Amari with you. She gets bored when there isn't smoke."
"I do not," Amari protested, already standing. "I get... educationally curious. There's a difference."
"Sure," I said. "Let's go be educational."
[Arcade to the training yard-light, steel, and dust]
We moved through an arcade of arches open to the inner court. The light out here was sharper, glancing off sand and steel. The training ground was a broad ellipse of packed earth, ringed by weapon racks and dummies, with a raised platform in the center where two figures blurred in and out of each other's shadows.
Dean moved like thunder. Heavy, inevitable, travels through you rather than around you. Stacy moved like the shadow of lightning-sudden, precise, and grinning with her whole body.
They were not actively trying to kill each other, but they also were not completely avoiding it.
A knot of Black Ops troopers stood at a respectful distance, eyes forward, jawlines tense. Word had spread fast; betrayal makes everyone stand straighter.
As we reached the railing, Stacy pivoted, slid under Dean's guard, and tapped his ribs with the back of her blade. "Two," she sang.
"Don't count," Dean rumbled, stepping back. "We're not keeping score."
"Then it's three," she said, eyes slicing toward me. Her grin widened. "And there's my favorite sin."
I folded my arms along the rail. "Is that how you talk to all your pets?"
A laugh rippled along the spectators, childish and vicious. Dean sheathed his sword and, in one smooth motion, lifted Stacy under one arm and hoisted her like a sack of flour. "What did you do," he asked her, entirely deadpan, "this time?"
"She was adorable," Stacy said, legs kicking. "It was a victimless crime."
"You handed me-me-to Amari like I was a plush toy," I said.
"With a bow," Stacy said, shameless. "You looked lovely with a bow."
Amari pressed her forehead to the rail and groaned. "Mother."
Dean set Stacy down, and she bounced on the balls of her feet as if she hadn't just gone ten rounds with a man built like a siege tower. Then her gaze took in the new black veins on my curses and the small changes to my face, and, briefly, she sobered. "Are you okay?"
I nodded. We could discuss the rest later-Wrath, the tail situation, the fact that the word "immortal" wasn't helping my impulse control. "Grandmother wants a spectacle at the tribunal," I said. "And I want a peek at the traitors. Dave and the others. Additionally, I want to see the commander you captured last night. I can write a better outline if I know exactly what flavor of awful I'm seasoning."
Stacy's expression slid toward wicked delight. "We confiscated something you'll appreciate. Come on."
[Armory corridor-the air that smells like war]
The armory corridor always smells like oil, leather, and iron, but today there was an extra note braided in: burned wood and stubborn blood. The door to the evidence room stood open, and inside, the racks held not weapons but exhibits-bundled cloth, tagged items, and a table laid with the uglier curiosities of the night before.
Stacy plucked up a stubby, oddly shaped staff from a linen-wrapped tray and tossed it to me. Its weight was wrong-nose-heavy and cleverly balanced to be pointed, not swung.
"A musket," I said at once, memory snapping into place. Earth knowledge prickled the back of my neck. "Old design. Single-shot. Loud."
"Mm," Stacy said. "Daren said the same when he brought one in from Capital Security. Federation imports are getting creative."
"Daren?" I repeated. "Rachel's brother?"
"Mm-hmm," Stacy said without looking up. "Annoying, protective, gets skewered easily. That list."
"He's fine," I said, because Amari was there and worrying. "Probably bruised his dignity more than anything."
Amari tucked a smile into her sleeve. "He did limp."
"Focus," Stacy said, gesturing me to the center table. "Left pile: cheap steel from kitchen staff who were definitely not kitchen staff. Right pile: musketry. Middle pile: toys I don't like."
I surveyed the toys. Hooks. Straps. A thin needle coil, which hummed faintly with borrowed mana, was among the tools. These tools were designed to inflict pain in ways that were not visible unless you knew where to look. The kind of tools that man in the Federation had loved.
"Yes," I said lightly, setting a palm above the needle coil until it stopped humming. "Tasteful horror will be easy."
Stacy grunted. "Trinity wants a deterrent. I want a message. Dean wants to instill such fear in the next spies that they are too scared to breathe. Can you deliver all three?"
"Chef's choice," I said, smiling sharply. "I do have one constraint."
"Which is?"
"I promised Amari I'd keep it within 'not a monster' parameters."
Amari, who absolutely had not extracted any such promise, nodded solemnly.
"Fine," Stacy said. "Do not actually set anyone on fire. You can suggest fire. You can make them wish for fire. But do not make me file the paperwork for fire."
"Understood." I tapped the musket's wooden stock, thinking. "We'll need the north courtyard at dusk. A raised platform. A ring of ice runes I can key to their breathing. I'll build the illusions off that-half-truths anchored in their fear. We bring in the unit, masks on, torches out. The masks carry. The torches catch light well. Then we-"
"Outline," Stacy said, stopping me with a finger. "In writing. Before sundown."
"I'll have it on Trinity's desk after lunch," I said.
"Good." She cocked her head. "Now, what did I miss while I was winning at sparring?"
I gave her the short list: waking up fox, waking up human, the status pane with Wrath in parentheses, Trinity's tail assault, breakfast, poison-testing, and the broad strokes of my plan. Stacy listened in that taut, intent way she has when she's bracing for the part where she needs to break something to help. She didn't interrupt until I got to Wrath.
"Do you feel... pulled?" she asked. "More than usual."
"Yes," I said. Honesty is faster. "But it's not drowning me. It's... loud. And useful."
"Then we train around it," she said, as if I'd told her the weather. "Dean and I will rotate you through pressure drills; Trinity will annoy you on purpose to see where the edges are."
"I am excellent at that," Trinity said from the doorway, where she had apparently been eavesdropping like a cat with tenure. She stepped in, lifted the musket from my hand, and inspected it like an insect pinned to velvet. "And you will write me a plan for a tribunal that terrifies the loyal, soothes the frightened, and insults the Federation." She set the musket down. "Can you do that without blowing anything up?"
"I can do it with only a small chance of blowing anything up," I said.
"Acceptable," she said. "Oh-one more thing. Stacy tells me you melted a spear with your hand this morning."
"Mm." I shrugged. "Weak metal. Strong mood."
"Mm," Trinity echoed. "Next time, less melting in the guest suites."
"I'll try," I said, which was as close to a promise as I could get without lying.
[North arcade-on the way back up, with a tailwind]
We walked back under the arches, Amari between us swinging her arms, Trinity matching my stride with unnerving ease for someone a head and a half shorter. The house was in motion now-the thump of boots, the murmur of orders, the clatter of replaced glass. You could smell the fresh plaster where a wall had been yesterday, and under it all, the bright metallic tang of a place braced for the next hit and already planning how to hit back.
"You're taller," Amari said suddenly, squinting up at me.
"Not your imagination," I said. "It's either a growth spurt or a side effect."
"Cool," she said. Then, more softly, "I'm glad you're here."
"Me too," I said. And I meant it, even if I was still deciding how much of me I was letting here be "here."
We reached the main stairs and angled up toward Trinity's study. As we climbed, she said, without looking back, "By the way, your outline needs a prologue."
"A what now?"
"Begin your spectacle with the musket," Trinity said. "Let the audience see it. Name the reincarnate who designed it if we can find the name. Make it clear that we know what's being smuggled in. Then take it away from them. That's how you insult a Federation. You show that you understand their toys. You show you'll break them."
I smiled. "We're going to get along, Grandmother."
"Of course we are," she said. "We both like theater."
[Trinity's study-ink, paper, and a blueprint for fear]
Trinity's study smelled like dried ink and old arguments. Shelves marched from floor to ceiling, packed with spines that ran the gamut from "Trauma as a Teaching Tool" to "The Practicalities of Siege." Maps were pinned to cork, lines of thread crisscrossing borders and hearts.
She pointed me to the broad desk by the window and slid a stack of heavy paper toward me. "Write. Loud. And keep the jokes under the blood."
"Dark humor is my second language," I said, sitting. The chair had the right to give. The pen had the right bite. The courtyard below lay in a neat rectangle of sun, the dais empty, the stone pale.
I began.
Prologue: The Toy and the Mirror-I described the musket and the way its wood would look held under torchlight. The way sound carries under arches. How fear travels faster when it thinks it's being clever. I outlined the circle of frost I'd scribe into the flagstones, the little hooks of cold that would catch breath and spin it into something the eye could see. I mapped where the traitors would stand, how the masks would turn them into their own stories, and how I'd let the crowd see the truth at the exact moment the guilty recognized it too.
I wrote the pacing: the pause where a heart slows to listen, the snap where it races again. Tasteful horror, as requested. No fire. Probably.
"Agent: 1140," I muttered, adding notes for my speed-how fast to move, how slow to let the realization spread. "Who formatted that status pane, anyway?"
"Someone with a sense of humor," Trinity said from her chaise, not looking up from her paperwork. "Keep writing."
I did. I wrote until my hand cramped and the courtyard's rectangle of sun shifted, until the ink stained the edges of my fingers and left a little black crescent on my cheek where I'd rubbed a stray hair away. I kept the jokes hidden beneath the pain. I kept the structure sharp. I made sure that when the crowd remembered the day, they'd remember the way the air had felt colder because it had listened to them breathe.
Finally, I set the pen down. "Done."
Trinity took the pages and read quickly, eyes heating as they moved. When she finished, she stacked the sheets, tapped them flush, and held them a heartbeat too long. "Acceptable," she said. Then, softer, "Good."
I leaned back, letting my shoulders drop. "Now I go yell at Stacy."
"Eat first," Trinity said. "Yell second. Always keep your blood sugar up for family arguments."
"You're wise," I said.
"I'm old," she corrected.
[Corridor-back toward the training yard, with company]
Amari peeled off toward her lessons with a promise to "absolutely not sneak into the courtyard construction later," which, translated, meant she would absolutely sneak into the courtyard construction later. Trinity detoured to brief Security, walking like every corridor was already listening to her.
I took the long way back to the training yard. My steps tracked over mosaic floors and rugs thick as summer grass. Servants moved in efficient arcs, carrying buckets, replacing glass, and scrubbing soot out of stone. A little boy in a stable livery tugged a broom taller than he was and grinned at me as I passed. I nodded back. He didn't flinch. Good kid.
The sky had turned a pale blue, indicating that the day would be hot. In the yard, Stacy was alone now, running through forms like a hymn-a blade drawing lines only she could see and then erasing them.
I hopped the rail and dropped into the sand. "You gave your daughter to your other daughter as a pet," I said, deadpan.
"It was adorable," she said, deadpan back.
"I'm keeping the bow," I said. "But next time I get to pick the ribbon."
"Deal," she said. Her eyes softened. "Are you sure you're okay?"
I let myself be honest for a breath. "I'm... loud inside. But it's my volume knob."
"That's my girl," she said, then flicked her sword. "Spar?"
"Breakfast," I said. "Then spar. I fight better when I'm full of spite and bread."
"Relatable," she said. "Five minutes. Bring me a coffee."
I rolled my eyes and headed toward the service door. As I walked, the wind shifted, and with it came a faint, familiar scent. Smoke from the north courtyard. The crisp sweetness of snow, which had not been present just a moment ago, filled the air.
The crew was already chalking lines.
Good.
[Kitchen door-epilogue in a cup]
Lily met me halfway with a mug that steamed like a positive threat and a plate with something that might have been a pastry before it learned fear. "For Milady," she said, then held my gaze. "And for you." She tucked a second mug into my free hand. "Try not to traumatize the brickwork this afternoon."
"No promises," I said. "But I'll keep the jokes under the blood."
She smiled. "You always do."
Back outside, the yard spread bright and hot. Stacy lifted her sword in greeting. I passed her the coffee.
"Tribunal outline?" she asked.
"On Trinity's desk," I said.
"Blood?" she asked.
"Tasteful," I said.
"Good," she said, and grinned. "Try to hit me."
I smiled back, settled my stance, and slid forward, the sand giving way under my boots like it had been waiting for me to move. Somewhere behind us, hammers rang, and fainted in the air, the courtyard began to learn how to listen.
