"And what happened next?" Arebella asked, her eyes wide and unblinking, curiosity writ large across her face.

"Well, I vaulted the table," Lowe began, his voice casually nonchalant. "Punched Kregg right in the face, wrestled the to the floor, kneed that bloody lawyer in the groin, and then, because why not, ravished Liando Verlan right there on the spot."

Silence.

"No, you didn't," Arebella said resignedly.

Lowe chuckled, a grin spreading across his face, stretching wider as if pulled by unseen strings. "Of course I didn't. But you couldn't tell I was lying, could you?" He leaned back, insufferably pleased with himself, the grin settling into approaching smug.

Arebella didn't respond immediately, and in the quiet, Lowe watched the gears turn behind her eyes. The golden shimmer that had been emanating from her, a manifestation of the mana she was channelling, intensified. It wrapped around her like a shimmering halo, turning her into something more than mortal—like a goddess surveying the battlefield. Lowe found it pretty hot. He considered, just for a fleeting moment, acting on that attraction, but then he caught sight of Mylaf, seated across the room, munching contentedly on something that dripped with honey and thought better of it.

Mylaf noticed his glance, and he gestured to the towering plate beside her. "May I?"

The smiled, her expression one of serene indulgence. "I didn't make them for myself, lovely. Tuck in."

Lowe didn't need to be told twice. He reached for one of the pastries, careful not to let the sticky filling ooze onto his shirt. As he bit into it, his eyes met Arebella's once more, and he couldn't resist. "This is the nastiest thing I've ever tasted in my life."

"Oh, do fuck off, Jana," Arebella shot back, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of amusement. "Do you have any idea what kind of shitstorm it's going to cause when people realise there's a Skill that can defeat a ?"

Lowe wiped a crumb from his lip with practised nonchalance. "I'm not sure," he replied, his tone breezy. "Is it going to be anything like the complete lack of kerfuffle around the attempted mind control of a Security Services inspector?"

The words were light, but the weight behind them was anything but. Beneath the veneer of humour, Lowe felt the sting of the bureaucratic indifference that had followed the attack on him. He'd been expecting a reckoning, a fiery wave of retribution. Instead, he’d received three cold, indifferent words: "No further action."

“What do you mean, ‘no further action!’” he had demanded, incredulity giving his voice an uncharacteristic edge.

Staffen had blinked at him, her owlish expression one of almost patronising patience. “It’s three words, Lowe. Which one of them are you struggling with?”

“At least one of them tried to mind control me!”

“Oh, boo-fucking-hoo,” Staffen had retorted. “You’re a big boy, Lowe, and I’m sure worse things have happened to you than a little light fumbling around in your cerebral cortex. And the key thing is the attempt failed.”

“But—”

“Shut the fuck up and listen to mummy,” Staffen had snapped, her voice suddenly sharp, the air around them suddenly cool as if the temperature had dropped. “Now, don’t get me wrong. If someone had managed to gain control of that walnut you call a brain, I’d be pissed off. I don’t want it getting around that my investigators are so lacking in willpower that anyone who fancies turning one of them into a meat puppet can give it a go. But even if such an attempt was made…”

“What do you mean ‘if’?” Lowe had interrupted, his voice rising.

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“Interrupt me again, and you’ll be eating your next month of meals through a fucking straw,” Staffen had warned, eyes flashing with a momentary red glow. “Now, where was I? Oh, yes. The ‘mind control.’ Even if one of those thoroughly upright citizens of Soar—four beings who have no registered mental Skills whatsoever, I should note—had attempted to own your brain, the fact they couldn’t pull it off against a Level 25 Classtrated nonentity like you makes me think we hardly need to make an all-points alarm call. No harm, no fucking foul.”

Staffen had leaned forward then, removing the pipe from her mouth and fixing Lowe with a significant look. “Unless, of course, you have something you want to share that makes me able to justify the resources it would take to investigate this properly.” She had raised both hands either side of her, mimicking scales, moving them up and down as if weighing her options. “Underpowered Level 25 getting a head owy in the field. Significant mental attack I need to scramble all sorts of serious and expensive units for. Which is it?”

And just like that, Lowe had found his resolve to share the news of his new Skill evaporating faster than mist under the morning sun.

“Are you serious?” Arebella’s voice cut through his reverie, sharp and demanding. “To my certain knowledge, there are no registered Skills in Soar that’ll let you lie without me knowing. That’s pretty much the whole basis of my department’s existence!” She ran a hand through her hair, exasperation and disbelief mingling in her expression. “This is a fucking huge deal! Like, epoch-defining.”

“Only if people find out.”

Both of them turned to look at Mylaf, who had been contentedly nibbling on another pastry, seemingly oblivious to the tension in the room. “I mean, sorry to interrupt, but surely this is only an issue if Mr Lowe registers his new Skill.”

Arebella’s mouth opened to retort, but the words seemed to die on her tongue. Lowe could almost see the moment the implications of Mylaf’s statement hit her. “Of course he’s going to register it!” she finally exclaimed, though her voice lacked the earlier conviction. “To not do so would be in breach of about a hundred regulations and open him up to risk of…” her voice trailed off.

“Classtration?” Lowe supplied, his tone devoid of emotion.

“Amongst other things!” Arebella agreed, her voice rising again, more from nerves than anything else. “Seriously, Jana, first thing tomorrow, you must register this Skill.

At the very least, it’s fascinating that you’ve broken through your Council blocking not once but twice in a few months. The University will want to study that. And that’s before you tell them about your…” she gestured helplessly, “…your Skill that makes my entire life and career completely redundant.”

Lowe reached out then, his hand covering hers. “Bella, I’m not going to be telling anyone about this Skill.”

“But—” she began, her voice faltering.

“Mylaf is right,” Lowe interrupted gently. “Think about it. The Council was already pushing it when they let me keep three Skills with no Class. What do you think they’re going to do to me when it turns out that not only do I have two new ones, but at least one of them is an entirely unheard-of Skill that undermines a significant pillar of the judiciary system. I'll be buried under a mountain of bullshit so heavy I'll be lucky to ever crawl back out again.”

“Not to mention that you’ve somehow got the stats of a Level 50,” Mylaf added casually, taking another bite of her cake as if she hadn’t just dropped a bombshell into the conversation.

Lowe and Arebella exchanged glances, the tension in the room ratcheting up a notch. “Sorry, Mylaf, what do you mean by that?” Lowe asked carefully.

Mylaf laughed, the sound light and carefree, completely at odds with the prevailing atmosphere. “Don’t worry. It’s not like I’m going to tell anyone, is it? But if there’s one thing I know, it’s stats,” she said, waving her cake around for emphasis. “And unless I’ve suddenly got an awful lot better at baking in the last few months—and my Skills are already Legendary, so we can pretty much park that—it would seem to me your numbers have gone through the roof recently. You’ve been making all sorts of deductive leaps beyond my experience for someone of your… stated Level. Why, you’ve even taken to putting your dirty clothes in the hamper I’ve left for you rather than leaving them on the floor next to it. That’s at least Level 40 behaviour. And you've not forgotten to put the toilet seat down once in all the time I've been here. If I didn't know better, I'd be preparing meals for you as if you were a Level 50. And I know my stuff. So, tell me that I'm wrong.”

Lowe cleared his throat, suddenly finding it harder to maintain his usual composure. “It’s not that I wanted to keep it from you. It’s just…”

“Least said soonest mendest and all that.” Mylaf smiled, a knowing look in her eyes. “It’s fine, Mr Lowe. I just wanted you to know that I know, and I won’t tell anyone. No more needs to be said about it.”

Arenella sighed, the sound heavy with resignation, as she leaned back in her chair, running her hands through her hair once more. “Okay, look, let’s park the wider implications for a moment. You've developed a new Skill. Wonderful. It came into being because someone was trying to influence your mind, and you somehow managed to defeat it. Awesome. But do you know which of them it was?”

Lowe let a slow smile spread across his face, the kind of smile that was all teeth and no warmth. “Now, isn’t that an interesting question?”