"Calm down, Miss Lakshmi," I said, though the worry in her eyes betrayed the careful stillness of her hands. She did not fidget. That alone told me how serious this was. "Tell us what happened."
I turned slightly toward Victoria—an unspoken question.
She gave a small nod. Permission granted.
"We do not have time for tea," Miss Lakshmi interjected at once, already turning away. "I will explain on the way. The carriage is still waiting below."
There was no room left for rebuttal. By the time I had gathered my thoughts, we were already descending the steps, the evening air sharp with the promise of movement.
The airship dock lay beyond the seaport, though both belonged to the city like mirrored halves of a coin. Where the seaport roared with voices, gulls, and commerce, the airship port was restrained. Quiet. Conversations held low. Movements precise. Goods were smaller, denser—objects meant to travel far, not wide.
"Ah, good day, Mr. Henrijs. It has been a while," Victoria said, neatly severing my reverie as we approached a sleek, dark vessel.
"Good day, Miss Heiwa. Miss Victoria," the pilot replied with an easy smile.
I bowed in respect.
Moments later, with minimal ceremony, we were airborne.
The city slipped beneath us—rooftops layering into streets, streets into memory.
"So," I said at last, accepting the cup of tea Miss Lakshmi handed me despite her earlier urgency, "what happened?"
"The daughter of an associate of mine," she began, her voice perfectly even, "is attempting to bite off more than she understands. She requested I sell her a warehouse—adjacent to her auction house."
Her cup touched the saucer softly.
"And Miss Halle?" I pressed.
"Coercion," she admitted, clicking her tongue. "Crude, but effective."
"But why us?" Victoria asked, nibbling a biscuit with deliberate calm. "You have your own people."
Miss Lakshmi turned to her. The scent of sandalwood followed the motion.
"I have reach," she said. "I can collapse a silk market in Lysoria or trigger a spice shortage in an Elven nation. But I lack concentration here. Not in this province. Not right now."
She looked out the window at the darkening clouds.
"Involving my partners abroad would ensure this ends… untidily. I need a scalpel, not a war."
"So we're the neutral piece," I said slowly. Cultivator. Family name. Clean hands.
"That is correct," she replied. "Though I did call in a favor."
By evening, we arrived at Stonegarden.
The city had changed since our last visit. Bathed in amber sunset, it hummed with life—lanterns flickering awake, voices weaving together, the illusion of safety settling over stone and steel.
The carriage stopped short of the port proper.
"Victoria," I said as we stepped onto a quieter street, gravel crunching under our boots, "I am unarmed."
She didn't check a bag. Didn't reach into her coat.
She reached into nothing.
For a fraction of a second, my eyes refused to track the movement. It looked like a smudge in the world's rendering—an error hastily corrected. Her fingers closed around empty space, and as she pulled back, the air dragged with her, collapsing, hardening.
She placed the pudao in my hands.
It was heavy. Cold. Indisputably real—despite having been evening light a heartbeat earlier.
"How are you feeling?" I asked, carefully not staring at the space it had come from.
"A lot better," she replied, rolling her shoulder. "Caffeine and a nap do wonders."
Miss Lakshmi stood between us now, a revolver held low in her right hand.
"I am here for your young miss," Miss Lakshmi announced calmly as we approached the warehouse gates. "She has something of mine."
Men turned in the shadows.
Hands moved to belts.
Guns.
There was no negotiation. No cinematic pause.
They opened fire.
The sound never arrived.
The muzzle flashes bloomed—
And then the world refused them.
Not slowed. Not deflected.
Denied.
The bullets simply… failed to exist in consequence.
Men collapsed mid-motion, their bodies dropping as if the argument had already been settled somewhere deeper than muscle or bone.
Silence slammed down hard enough to ring.
Someone screamed.
Someone else fired again.
This time, the air answered.
The space between us thickened—pressure screaming as atmosphere compressed into something viscous, translucent. Bullets struck it and flattened, pancaking against invisible resistance, ripples fracturing outward like stress lines in glass.
Victoria exhaled through clenched teeth.
The density vanished.
The spent slugs clattered to the concrete floor, harmless as dropped coins.
"That," she muttered, "was unnecessary."
Shinkage moved.
Not like glass. Like smoke.
They threaded through the stunned men, strikes landing faster than thought. Bodies fell in a measured rhythm—thump, thump, thump—sacks of grain hitting stone.
"Inside," Miss Lakshmi said, stepping over the bullets without breaking stride.
Victoria looked pleased.
The warehouse loomed vast and hollow, shadows clinging to the rafters.
"To come so loudly to my front gate, Miss Lakshmi," a voice drawled.
Zara sat atop the upper walkway, a blade lazily spinning between her fingers. Her confidence wavered when she looked down at her fallen men.
"Where is Halle, you stupid child?" Miss Lakshmi asked, irritation sharp and precise.
"Right here," Miss Halle said gently.
She sat on a crate below, entirely unbothered. A white duck rested on her lap, feathers stroked with the calm of someone balancing accounts.
"She has not been unreasonable," Zara said, voice smooth despite the crack in it. "I merely encouraged her to see things my way."
"Rudra," she snapped. "Get them."
The giant stepped forward.
Shinkage appeared behind him.
No strike.
Just weight.
Rudra's eyes rolled white, and he collapsed, the floorboards shuddering beneath him.
"What did you do?" Zara demanded, knife shaking.
Miss Lakshmi didn't answer. She collected Miss Halle as if this were already concluded.
"Wait," I said.
The pressure changed.
Footsteps echoed from the entrance.
A man stepped inside.
Small. Neatly dressed in black with a gold chain for likely a watch. Almost unimpressive—until the space around him folded inward, remembering him.
"What about the teapot," he mused softly, "if pot and kettle are both pointing fingers?" hid cane striking the floor.
Fear pinned me where I stood. Not terror—recognition. Like standing too close to a fault line.
"Lakshmi," the Chairman said, smiling pleasantly, "it seems my daughter has played a little too much."
An assistant followed, laying a cloth over a crate and presenting sweets.
"Shall we discuss the payment for her playdate," the Chairman continued, seating himself, "over delicacies?"
Time restarted.
Miss Lakshmi sat.
Victoria froze, biscuit halfway to her mouth.
Shinkage stood closer than ever, shadows thick and watchful.
I couldn't hear the negotiation.
My heartbeat drowned out the world.