“Lady Anisia Opetlev is here,” an armored guard announced, his helmeted head peeking into the plainly decorated room. The centerpiece of the room was a large black wooden table, surrounded by an entourage of men and women clad in black and red. Above them hung a grand banner bearing the crimson gryphon of the Opetlevs, its wings spread wide as it gripped a mace, all set against a pitch-black background.

Lady Anisia entered, dressed in her usual long coat and elegant dress, the tap of her cane echoing in the room with every tap. Behind her trailed Mikhil, now dressed in fresher clothes, though a few bandages peeked out from beneath his sleeves.

The entourage stood as Lady Anisia entered, but quickly retook their seats after a small wave of her hand. She walked toward the head of the table, her cane tapping faintly against the polished wooden floor. Beside her, an empty seat was soon occupied by Mikhil, who settled in quietly, his fingers fidgeting with his still-swollen hand—the same hand that had left its mark on the boisterous Balgrodov just a fortnight ago.

As the great doors to the chamber closed with a resonant thud, a strange sensation filled the air, like the crackle of invisible lightning. For a fleeting moment, the room fell completely silent, not even nothingness itself could be audible.

“The spell is active. The room is now isolated,” a blonde man announced with a crisp voice. His unusually refined attire made him stand out among the Opetlevs. For the briefest second, his azure eyes seem to have glowed faintly before fading back to their natural shade.

Lady Anisia, now seated at the head of the table, tapped her cane sharply against the polished wooden floor. The sound echoed in the heavy silence, drawing the full attention of the room.

One by one, every member of the Opetlev inner circle placed their gauntleted right hands onto the table. Their crimson gauntlets shimmered into existence, summoned by an unseen force.

Mikhil followed suit, placing his own hand beside his mother’s. Lady Anisia’s gauntlet glowed faintly as her piercing yellow eyes scanned the room.

“The Krama Ronj are assembled,” she announced. “We will begin our discussions.”

“Algrod Restov Balgrodov,” the blonde man said coldly. “The man who must go.”

“The man who needs to go,” Anisia replied smoothly.

“Mikhil’s admission to the Academy is jeopardized by… complications,” she continued, her sharp gaze flicking toward her son. “The Opetlevs cannot afford such a development.”

Seated beside Mikhil, a towering man clad in heavy plate and chainmail leaned slightly toward him. The man’s helm remained firmly in place, obscuring his expression. Without warning, he lightly punched Mikhil on the shoulder, the force of his gauntleted fist causing a soft metallic clang.

Mikhil winced but couldn’t help the small grin tugging at his lips.

Lady Anisia ignored the small gesture and continued, her voice cutting cleanly through the room.

“You are all aware of what transpired at the school in Zamzul,” she said, her tone as sharp and deliberate as ever.

She tapped her cane in a quick, rhythmic sequence, and a flurry of servants swept into the room. Each carried a silver tray bearing cups filled to the brim with deep red wine. The servants moved with quiet efficiency, placing the cups in front of each member of the Krama Ronj before disappearing as swiftly and quietly as they had come.

With their gauntleted hands, the members of the council each raised their cups to the ceiling in unison. Mikhil followed suit, his movements slightly slower but steady.

“To young Mikhil,” Anisia said, her voice raised, “who has spilled his first blood for the family.”

A cheer erupted from the council, their voices ringing out in unison as they toasted. The wine was consumed in a single, reverent motion, the sharp clink of metal against glass echoing through the chamber. For a fleeting moment, the room carried a rare warmth, but as the cups were set back down on the table, the familiar cloak of serious silence descended once more.

“Unfortunately, causes have effects,” Anisia spoke up, her voice firm. “While I commend my son’s desire to defend our name, his actions have hindered our plans for the future.”

She paused, tapping her cane against the floor for emphasis before pointing it toward the blonde man seated at the table.

“As Talsen has informed us, there is one man at the root of our problems: Algrod.” Lady Anisia nodded slightly toward Talsen. “Proceed, Talsen.”

The blonde man rose from his seat, bowing briefly before addressing the circle.

“Algrod Restov Balgrodov, as you are all aware, currently plants his bulbous torso on the Zamzul District Educational Board. He is the Balgrodovian obstacle—and dare I say, the biggest obstacle—standing in the way of Mikhil’s enrollment.”

A series of small chuckles escaped the various members of the meeting.

Talsen gestured toward the man seated directly opposite him, a spitting mirror image of himself dressed in a metal cuirass and lighter armor.

“There have been discussions between myself and my brother, Kalsev. ”

Kalsev, grinning faintly, gave a small nod, the light catching the edges of his polished armor.

Talsen’s hand shifted toward another figure at the table, a remarkably well-dressed and groomed woman with darker olive skin who fanned herself lightly with a small, intricately designed handheld fan.

“Lady Ulsika and her ladies have also been consulted from the various Terrace of Delights establishments,” he said.

Ulsika offered a graceful smile, inclining her head in a small bow without rising from her seat.

“And finally,” Talsen continued, “our—the… associates of the Kalgon Craftsmen Guild.”

A brief pause followed as Talsen cleared his throat, his posture straightening slightly.

“We have come to the conclusion,” he began, his voice calm yet deliberate, “that the best way to deal with Algrod…”

He let the words linger, his sharp eyes scanning the room. Then, his tone dropped, carrying a weight that hung heavy in the air.

“…is to retire him. Prematurely.”

A wave of murmurs rippled through the room as members of the council leaned toward one another, whispering in hushed tones. A moment later, Lady Anisia tapped her cane sharply against the floor, and the murmurs ceased almost immediately. Silence once again enveloped the chamber.

Mikhil, sitting stiffly in his chair, locked his widened eyes on Talsen. A second later, he shifted his gaze to Anisia. Her expression was unreadable—calm, cold, and composed, for she had overseen many a permanent and early retirement plan for many of her former foes.

A brief pause followed before the armored giant seated next to Mikhil raised a massive, gauntleted hand. The young heir, along with several other members of the council, turned their heads toward the oversized man. Palgrin waited patiently, his hands in the air, waiting to be called on like a child.

Talsen, his fingers tapping lightly on the table, tilted his head toward him. “Palgrin, speak your mind,” he said.

“How… premature are we talking here?” Palgrin rumbled gently. His gauntleted hands gestured vaguely in the air as if holding some kind of container. “Because, judging by our history, I believe we have several levels of ‘premature.’ A touch of clarification would be… helpful..”

Talsen’s expression didn’t so much as flicker. “The kind that typically puts one in the ground,” he replied flatly.

Palgrin leaned back slowly in his chair, the faint scrape of chainmail and armor filling the room as the chair creaked alarmingly under his immense weight. His brow furrowed thoughtfully beneath the helm, and he nodded with exaggerated care, as though considering a most delicate matter.

“I assume you’ve prepared a lamb, per our traditions?” Palgrin inquired further with a deep voice. He started tapping his red gauntleted fingers lightly against the table, expecting—no, rather knowing—the answer already.

“And a potential sacrificial pyre to match,” Kalsev added, his grin sharp and mischievous. He leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head with an air of smug satisfaction.

“And from the same pen,” Talsen said, his tone flat. He gave a small nod to Kalsev, who stood without a word and exited the chamber.

Moments later, Kalsev returned, leading a line of servants carrying neatly stacked papers. The servants moved with precision, placing a document in front of each member of the council, including Mikhil. Once their task was complete, they lined up near the door, bowed in unison, and exited silently.

Only then did Kalsev return to his seat, dropping back into it with an exaggerated ease. He lazily picked up one of the papers, tilting it slightly as he scanned its contents with a disinterested expression.

“Our agents within the Balgrodovs have informed us that the Iomadae branch harbors grievances against the current ruling Restov branch,” Talsen began, his tone sharp and deliberate. “To our surprise, their issue is strikingly similar to ours: admission.”

Talsen picked up the paper in front of him with precise movements, retrieving a small reticle and fastening it over his right eye. The faint glow of the lens flickered as he adjusted it, inspecting the document with practiced care.

“Before you is a copied transcript of secret correspondence between Lord Quelos Iomadae and Algrod Restov,” he continued. “It concerns his daughter Cirina’s admission to the Academy… and her proposed marriage.”

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He turned the paper toward the group, holding it up for the Opetlevs to see.

“This is the original,” Talsen said, his finger tapping the bottom of the document. “You can see the authentic mark—the seal of Lord Quelos’ ring—stamped clearly here beneath the text.”

“Pray tell, are you suggesting that man used his position to arrange a marriage with someone two decades his junior?” a voice rose from near the end of the table. The speaker, a council member with a deep scowl, set the paper down with a sigh.

“I see a scandal brewing from a mile away,” he added, leaning back in his chair.

“Which is precisely why obtaining this letter required us to burn a few bridges with our contacts within the Balgrodovs,” Talsen replied smoothly, his tone steady and matter-of-fact.

He gestured toward Kalsev with a deliberate motion.

“Our embedded operatives have taken care of… the loose ends,” he continued, his eyes flicking briefly to the group. “Courtesy of the Kalgon Guild’s armed wing.” Kalsev made a mock bow.

“So they don’t know we have this?” Mikhil asked, setting his paper down on the table, his eyes flicking between Talsen and the document.

“They know it’s missing,” Talsen replied, his tone calm and measured. “They may suspect we’re involved, but they don’t have any evidence to confirm we’re the ones holding it.”

“Frankly, I’m confused why Algrod even keeps things like this lying around,” Mikhil said, frowning as he gestured toward the document.

“Documents like these should be reduced to ash.”

Talsen gave a faint, smirk as he placed the original missive on the table, his gaze lingering on it for a moment. He regained his composure in a brief second.

“Or better yet,” he continued, his voice dropping slightly, “use loyal men. Less likely to go missing—well at least when we’re not the ones involved in such disappearances.”

“Where was this even stored?” Palgrin rumbled as he gracefully placed his paper on the table.

“I wouldn’t say stored—more like lost,” Talsen replied, adjusting the reticle over his eye. “Some Restov clerk stumbled across it while cleaning their archives. Unfortunately for him, the clerk had a very close female friend, who just so happened to have a very close female friend of ours.”

Talsen’s gaze flicked toward Ulsika, who tilted her head slightly.

“A bit of pillow talk here and there,” Talsen continued, “and we knew everything we needed to know—who the clerk was, where he worked, where he kept it, his family… even his wife, expecting their first child.”

A faint murmur ran through the room, but Talsen carried on smoothly, his tone cold.

“All it took was a handful of gold to get the letter. And, of course, some change to pay someone to send him to the bottom of the Javerian River. The clerk’s gold exchanged hands. Payment for a job well done and… to not ask questions. It also helps that he knows what we do to loose ends. He did have a hand in their removal after all.”

“So we’re going to get the Iomadaes to kill Algrod for us?” Mikhil asked, leaning slightly forward.

Talsen chuckled softly, his eyes still fixed on the letter on the table. Anisia allowed herself the faintest grin, one that vanished almost as quickly as it appeared.

“Oh, no, no, no, young man,” Talsen replied, his voice smooth with a hint of disguised amusement. “Simmering family feud aside we are exploiting for our own benefits, no one is crazy enough to go after Algrod.”

He sharply looked up, his gaze sweeping across the room.

Silence.

The other members stared back at him with no expression as well.

Then, just as quickly, he recovered with his gaze returning to the letter. His smirk returned, sharp and deliberate.

“Well, no Balgrodov, at least,” he added with dry monotone.

A pause hung in the air before Talsen tapped the table sharply, his eyes lifting once more to meet the room.

“I have managed to make personal contact with Lord Quelos through… private methods,” he began, his voice even. “I did attempt to extend my condolences for certain developments a few years ago, though he did not seem particularly receptive to my kind words.”

He paused briefly, letting the weight of his words settle before continuing.

“Nonetheless, I have convinced him that perhaps Cirina might attend the Academy after all. A little late in my opinion, but who are we to hinder someone with a thirst for knowledge?” A faint smirk played on his lips. “Lord Quelos has agreed to parley, provided he can meet Lady Anisia personally… off the record, of course.”

The room turned its collective attention to Lady Anisia, who had remained silent throughout the discussion. Finally, with a slight incline of her head, she spoke.

“Tell him I accept.”

Talsen bowed gracefully. “Very well.”

He hesitated for a moment, then turned back toward Lady Anisia, his movements deliberate and smooth. “Might I inquire, Lady Anisia, if the original plan is still on the table?”

Anisia gave a single nod, her piercing yellow eyes scanning the room briefly before returning to Talsen.

“Very well,” Talsen repeated, straightening as he readdressed the group.

“In our original discussions,” he began, his tone sharp and precise, “Lady Anisia suggested that executing this cleanly may not even be possible.” His gaze shifted briefly to Kalsev, as if staring into his twin’s very soul with an invisible command.

Kalsev scanned the room, the silence stretching as all eyes remained fixed on him. Finally, he sighed and sat up straighter.

“Fine, brother. I shall relay my original idea.”

He gestured lazily toward the group, a mischievous grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“The Winter Palace of Javeria is hosting their annual ball next month, as you all know. Algrod’s little kingdom in Aracara will be filled to the brim with Balgrodov loyalists—an ideal setting, wouldn’t you agree?”

A few murmurs rippled through the room, but Kalsev pressed on, leaning forward, his hands gesturing wildly as he spoke.

“I happen to know an architect, Maximilian Uihal. Some of you will recognize him as the capricious genius behind many estates and palaces across the empire. Turns out, this man also happens to be the one who designed the Winter Palace for Algrod’s old man.”

“Xodlan Restov?” Mikhil inquired, frowning slightly.

“Ahh, you know your lore well, Mikhil,” Kalsev said with a wide grin. “Yes, Lord Xodlan Restov—governor of Aracara, creature extraordinaire, and a man paranoid, he truly seems to be convinced every shadow held an assassin.”

Kalsev shrugged with a pause.

“Nothing wrong with that, but if you fear an assassin after every door in your own home; you’re doing something wrong.”

“Anyways, back to the story. Apart from the large aviaries and enclosures for things that should not be pets, he also had the architect design and implement a series of tunnels beneath the palace. Escape routes, mostly. Little triggers hidden all across the palace that unveil secret passageways. And one of the main tunnels just so happens to lead right underneath the ballroom.”

Kalsev paused dramatically, letting the revelation hang in the air.

“We’re going to fill it with explosives and blow the whole thing up!”

The room fell silent.

Lady Anisia glanced at her fingernails, decently likely to be mentally calculating how long until the next manicure.

Mikhil blinked. “You… want to blow up the palace?”

“What? No, it was Maximilian’s idea,” Kalsev replied, as if the clarification made everything perfectly reasonable.

“Come again?” Ulsika said, her brow furrowing as she stared at Kalsev.

“Oh, originally, I was going after Maximilian because I’d heard from his friends in the Kalgon Guild that he was the architect, the one who designed the palace during its tunnel phase. He didn’t finish the whole thing, though. By the time he was pushed out—thanks to the usual fickle Balgrodovian personnel changes—the tunnels were already completed. After I heard about the tunnels, I thought… maybe we could slip a team in there and get the drop on Algrod. We approached him with this in mind and well…”

Kalsev said, his grin widening. “Maximilian told me, and I quote, ‘I’m on board if I get to blow it up.’”

“And when, exactly, did he say that?” Ulsika asked, her confusion growing evident on her face.

“Oh, when I kidnapped his wife,” Kalsev replied nonchalantly.

“Huh?” Palgrin rumbled, leaning forward.

“I wanted him on board,” Kalsev explained with a shrug. “So I napped his wife while she was on her way to the market or something, who knows. Little details.”

A small pause as he looked around the various members with no expression or faces of growing surprise. Kalsev continued.

“Me and my boys approached him—did the usual scary talk. ‘Hey, you’ll help us if you ever want to see your lovely wife again.’ You know, intimidation stuff.”

He grinned proudly.

“Maximilian said we could keep his wife—in much harsher words.”

Various members of council exchanged baffled glances and coughs disguising guffaws.

“He then inquired why the Opetlevs would want anything from a scorned mason like him,” Kalsev continued, unfazed. “So I told him the truth—what we Opetlevs always do. Messing with the Balgrodovs. The moment I mentioned the lions, he was on board. The man was absolutely furious. Had some very colorful things to say about them, especially about Xodlan and his spawn.”

“Can we trust him?” Mikhil asked cautiously. “He isn’t one of us.”

“Not entirely,” Kalsev admitted, leaning back in his chair. “But he’s crazy, if nothing else. When I mentioned the Balgrodovs, he started spilling every secret he knew. Every lie, every contact, every single thing he worked on for them. The man practically turned feral. Honestly, he looked ready to march straight to Algrod himself and start swinging. We offhandedly mentioned we may want to do something with the Winter Palace and… he pitched me the idea to blow it up.”

Another long silence followed.

Lady Anisia finally spoke up with a tap of her cane on the hard wooden floor. “A bold strategy but we should always have as many avenues of approach as possible.”

The circle turned their heads towards her.

“While we may not end up demolishing the marble eyesore; the tunnels are still useful. If all else fails. We can fall back to the original idea of a kill team.”

“Wouldn’t poison work?” Mikhil inquired, turning his head towards Talsen.

Talsen smiled, constrained snorts emitting from his nose as he glanced at Anisia.

“No.”

Mikhil glanced over at Anisia who seemed to be suppressing a smile.

Talsen continued .“We already tried.” He turned towards Mikhil.

“Trying to get into his supply chain was impossible; he sources his food from somewhere that even eludes us. No clear convoys or contacts with farms or butchers.”

He turned towards Ulsika with a knowing grin.

“But Ulsika’s ladies managed to make the impossible possible around two years ago.”

Mikhil shifted his gaze confusedly between the blonde advisor and the olive skinned woman.

“So… what happened?”

“Manticore Venom; lethal if it gets into you in any way.”

Talsev continued, whispering as he leaned into Mikhil.

“That oversized creature drank two mugfulls of it… and nothing happened.”

Mikhil blinked.

“Wait, he’s immune?” Mikhil asked.

“Seems like it.” Talsev replied.

“How is that even possible?” Mikhil continued his inquiry.

“Not a clue, but if Manticore venom cannot kill him, poison is out of the equation. But thankfully nothing helps someone die than a cold steel blade through their neck.”

Talsev leaned back into his chair. “That is if the blade is long enough to pierce his layers of fat.”

Lady Anisia tapped the floor, undivided attention once again diverted to her.

“I believe we have said all that is for now.”

Her yellow eyes scanned the room once before continuing.

“We will reconvene later.”

The chairs shifted as many members stood up and bowed. Most members made their way towards the exit while a few; Mikhil, Lady Anisia, Talsen, Kalsev and Palgrin, remained seated.

Ulsika stood up and gracefully approached Kalsev, who was playing with his rolled up copy of the message like it’s some dagger. She tapped him in the midway between harsh and gentle on the shoulder.

“So… you did give him back his wife, right?” Ulsika asked.

Kalsev paused.

He tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling with a puzzled expression.

“Huh,” he mused. “I knew I was forgetting something.”