“Sloppy footwork!”

Delahaye skittered back, low to the ground as she distanced herself from Primrose. The heiress stood opposite of her within the training arena, though their presence and purpose within the chamber were entirely different than before. Where before it had served as a spacious area for Delahaye to undergo her essence absorptions, the chamber now served its true purpose, providing ample space for the two women to spar.

Delahaye held her cutlass in front of herself. She had received no formal training in the use of a blade; everything Delahaye had learned, she had learned by doing. Through painful years of trial and error she had perfected an informal manner of wielding her preferred weapons. It had rapidly become apparent that, in the face of proper training, she was nothing but an amateur.

Primrose wielded an elegant spear with a grace and surety that made it function less as a weapon and more as an extension of herself. The spear was as long as she was tall, with a solid metal haft and a long, thin blade. A guard swept out from where the handle met the blade, with the appearance of long feathers. The only other colour on the otherwise solid brass spear was the dark leather grip.

Since the duel had begun, Delahaye had not even closed the gap between herself and Primrose. The noblewoman was unharmed, whilst Delahaye sported several bruises from where she had been thwacked by the flat of the spear’s blade.

“Aye, to you,” Delahaye grumbled, spinning her cutlass as she prowled just outside of Primrose’s reach. Her eyes were narrowed, fixated on Primrose’s. When the heiress lashed out once more, Delahaye’s cutlass rose to meet it. She parried the first blow, and rolled under the second. She scampered on three limbs as she ducked into Primrose’s guard, launching herself forward. Delahaye collided with Primrose’s midriff with a savage headbutt, knocking the wind out of the younger woman, who hadn’t been expecting such a move.

Delahaye rose up, well within the area where Primrose’s spear was all but useless. As she came up, she took Primrose under the chin with another headbutt. Her arm rose, and Delahaye brought the basket hilt of her cutlass down on her opponent’s head. She delivered a savage series of kicks and punches, the dazed Primrose too rattled to react for a precious handful of moments. When she finally shook herself back to full awareness, it was too late. Delahaye’s cutlass stopped within a hair’s breadth of her throat, and she tilted her chin up.

“I yield,” Primrose said firmly.

Delahaye smirked, stepping back. That was when Primrose’s spear soared from her side, stabbing up through Delahaye’s jaw, and out the top of her head.

…

Delahaye shot upwards with a scream. Her breathing was rapid, her eyes wide with panic. It took her several seconds to collect herself. She felt the firm stone table beneath herself, saw the gathered crowd of household guards and staff. They looked between her and Primrose, who was rising from an identical stone table to her left.

“You were doing well, until you decided to gloat.”

Delahaye looked to the woman who had spoken. She was a grizzled veteran Adventurer named Dichen, one of the higher ranking members of the Primadola household guard, and she also happened to be Samson’s grandmother. She shared his rich dark skin and golden eyes, though her hair had long since turned white, though it too possessed threads of gold much like Samson’s. She stood at the forefront of the gathered crowd, body ramrod straight in a perfect parade rest.

“You backed off from close quarters, which is the stupidest thing you could do when facing someone with a spear. Mirage Chamber duels are to the death, Miss Delahaye.”

Delahaye rubbed the bottom of her jaw, nodding begrudgingly along with Dichen’s harsh critique. She continued to disassemble everything she and Primrose had done wrong for the better part of an hour, and the crowd dispersed in that time.

“That will conclude your physical training for today,” Dichen said evenly. She turned sharply on her heel and marched out, leaving Delahaye, Primrose and Samson alone in the chamber. Delahaye looked to the heiress, who was likewise looking at her.

“Ouch,” Delahaye said, still feeling like she had a blade wedged through her brain.

…

In the aftermath of the lobotomy provided by Primrose’s spear, unreal as it had been, Delahaye was pushed to train all the harder for no better reason than beating Primrose the next time they sparred within the Mirage Chamber. The foundation of that was learning proper technique, which was the first hurdle in Delahaye’s training. Doing anything the “proper” way had ever been anathema to her entire way of life.

To succeed, that would have to change.

Enter, Skill Books. She’d been told of them by Primrose, as she had explained where she had picked up her particular style of fighting. In search of a Skill Book of her own, Delahaye had set off to find a shop. But with her lack of knowledge regarding the amenities of the central Spire, Delahaye had asked Primrose. In the end, the heiress had been unavailable, and had sent someone in her stead to guide Delahaye to a worthwhile shop.

The eternally harried young elf named Mel was Primrose’s foremost servant. A commoner from the second spire, she was the product of generations of preparation. Her family had worked for decades to acquire the funds for a set of essences, and as the only child of an only child, they had ultimately gone to Mel. Much like with Samson, she had been practically attached at the hip with Primrose from an early age, where she had been scouted by the Primadola family and taken into the household, with her family eventually joining her at the estate as well.

With the Adept, Needle and Thread essences, combining into the Master confluence, she was a peerless seamstress, which was one of the multitude of roles she fulfilled in service to the Primadola family.

Mel possessed many of the features that Delahaye, through her exploration of the city, had found to be quite common. Her skin was lightly tanned, her chocolate-brown hair was curly and held up in a bun that seemed incapable of containing it all, several locks hanging down over her face. Mel’s gentle grey eyes were almost circular, making her appear eternally wide-eyed. Her outfit was a simple grey dress with a white smock, with the mountain-and-wall crest of House Primadola proudly emblazoned on the breast. She moved with a frenetic urgency, seemingly incapable of remaining still for more than a moment.

“There are several choice picks for Skill Book vendors within the central Spire. I-It really quite depends on your, ah… p-proclivities? That is the right word, I reckon…”

Delahaye had to strain herself somewhat to keep up with Mel’s speech. She spoke rapidly, gesticulating wildly as she did so. With the way she moved, legs obscured beneath the skirt of her dress, the elf seemed to glide rapidly across the ground. She was a woman who moved at an all-together different speed than everyone else around her, which often left people not used to her mannerisms– like Delahaye– eating her proverbial dust.

“What’s my proclivities got to do with books? Other than the steamy ones?”

Mel looked at Delahaye for a moment, then her already flushed face turned an even deeper shade of red.

“Wh– N-No! Not that manner of proclivity!”

Delahaye cackled at her expression, and Mel harrumphed, turning around to continue leading the Outworlder, though she was much quieter. The people lining the streets, shoppers and vendors both, greeted Mel warmly. She flitted around, returning nods and waves even as she skittered through the crowd. When Delahaye finally pushed through the throng in her wake, she found Mel standing before a quaint little shop with a wooden sign hanging over its door.

The Quiet Nook was a cosy venue, with shelves of books spanning from wall to wall and floor to ceiling. Sitting behind a small desk in the corner was a bald, stocky woman with skin of such a deep blue that it bordered on black. Seemingly etched into her skin were glowing runes of a lighter shade of blue that matched her eyes, which were glowy, pupil-less orbs of blue flame. She pushed her glasses up higher on her nose as Delahaye and Mel entered.

“Welcome to The Quiet Nook! I am Badr Majid, proprietor!”

Delahaye nodded respectfully, beginning to peruse the shelves. There were all manner of books on display, and she was quickly drawn into browsing. With everything from books on Cooking Magic to Sex Magic, it was difficult to narrow down her search. At least, it would have been, were it not for Mel. The maid blinked, her grey eyes turning a shade of electric blue. She took off around a corner, and Delahaye followed, trailing Mel until they arrived at a section dedicated to more combat-oriented Skill Books.

“How’d you figure that out?” Delahaye asked, as she began to peruse the selection.

“O-One of my essence abilities, it allows me to search for objects within set… e-err… parameters within a small area.”

Mel stood off to the side, rolling a needle between her fingers, as Delahaye poked through several Skill Books. There were books dedicated to duelling, the use of two-handed swords, and even a tome dedicated to weaponizing kitchen utensils, but it was one Skill Book in particular that caught Delahaye’s eye.

The Skill Book she held in her hands was a thick, leatherbound article. The leather was the deep blue of oceanic waters, and the title was stencilled in silver leaf into the cover. The only other decoration was the embossing on the cover; a crashing wave, curling into the shape of a fist.

“Interestin’...”

Delahaye motioned to Mel, who nodded. The two of them made their way to the desk, where Badr Majid had remained whilst they browsed. Delahaye set down the small stack of Skill Books she had selected, which Badr surveyed, a floating quill and paper next to her cataloguing the items and tallying the price.

“Excellent choices… An Introduction to Cooking Magic; Revised Edition, The Foundations of Ritual Magic I, and…Oh, my…”

She held up the wave-embossed Skill Book, turning it over and over in her hands. Badr’s fingers swept over the title, and she set the book down.

“That is quite the find. I wasn’t aware I had any of Ocean’s militant teachings in my collection. The militant arm of Ocean’s church has not produced external works in some time!”

Badr finished tallying the costs, and Mel provided the payment. With the books placed into a neat satchel– which Badr provided for a generous discount– the two of them made for the door. As they reached the exit, Delahaye stopped.

“I just want to check something. Go on ahead, Mel. I’ll catch up.”

The elf pursed her lips, but nodded, exiting the shop. Delahaye quickly made her way back to the desk, slipping a final book from her coat, as well as the payment. Badr’s fingers passed over the title, and her brows raised. A droll smile curled her lips.

“You have discerning taste in the erotic, valued customer.”

…

Delahaye caught up to Mel after making her final, discreet purchase. The foot traffic had only grown heavier as the day wore on, and Delahaye nearly lost the maid in the crowd more than once, but she managed to locate her again each time. How exactly she managed to navigate the vast sea of humanity was a mystery to Delahaye, Mel simply wove through the crowd with an almost preternatural grace.

Delahaye was forced to jog in order to keep up with Mel. Despite her shuffling gait, the elf cleared distance like no one she had ever met before. Were she to run, Delahaye was confident that she would never catch up.

“Oy, Mel, slow down a spell, yeah?”

Delahaye called out after her, and the maid drew to a halt. She waited patiently, the satchel of books tucked in front of herself. She looked up at Delahaye, her wide eyes questioning.

“I’m famished, and I’m sure you are too, all the shufflin’ around you do. Let’s grab a bite to eat,” Delahaye said, hands on her hips as she cast her gaze around. The market district of the central Spire was full of interesting locations to eat. It was just a matter of narrowing down where to go. Finally, her eyes settled on a tavern.

“There we go! Fine digs, that! Come along, Mel! You ever had some proper tavern food?”

…

The interior of the tavern was far more grandiose than the exterior had suggested. A crystal chandelier dominated the ceiling, floating freely as magical candles orbited it. The fine wooden tables were paired with luxuriously plush seating, and Delahaye quickly found herself and Mel a seat.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

Delahaye stretched out across the booth, yawning loudly. Opening one eye, she spotted Mel staring at her teeth.

“Strange, ain’t they?”

She nodded quickly– then caught herself, rapidly shaking her head. Delahaye barked a laugh, waving a hand dismissively.

“I don’t care. Strange is what they are.”

The tables were polished so finely that Delahaye could readily see her reflection upon them. She turned her head from left to right, inspecting herself; the thin, hawkish features, her large, beak-like nose, the serrated shark teeth. After inquiring about a way to regain her hair, Delahaye had been supplied with an alchemical ointment, and she was once more blessed with a full head of hair. It had been from her hair that “Bloody” Delahaye had been derived. The curly mane of dark red hair was a core part of her identity, and to once more possess it was reaffirming.

The two of them perused the menu before placing their orders. Delahaye got herself a plate of fish, which tasted similar to salmon, as well as a fresh loaf of bread. Mel had gone for a simple stew. Despite the finery on display and the variety of gourmet dining options, the elf seemed to prefer the simple things. It was something Delahaye couldn’t fault her for.

“You ain’t just a maid, are you?”

Delahaye’s question broke the silence that had hung between the two of them since they’d sat down. Mel paused, pouting. She seemed to do that whenever she was thinking.

“N-No,” she said finally. “I am also an Adventurer. Though I have o-only just passed my assessment.”

Delahaye gestured with her fork to the needle that Mel was always rolling across her fingers. Despite the razor-sharp point, the needle didn’t do so much as scratch the elf’s skin.

“So that ain’t just a needle.”

Mel shook her head.

“You ain’t much of a talker, are you?”

Mel shook her head again, “Not unless I m-must.”

Delahaye nodded, and once more they lapsed into a comfortable silence, simply enjoying the food. Delahaye had managed to get herself some money, though she had pointedly refused to answer Primrose’s questions as to how.

The two were just finishing their meal when the quiet peace was disturbed. A part of Delahaye had been expecting it. She was a troublemaker at heart, and that had instilled in her a certain awareness for others looking to do the same. The clientele of the tavern was, as a rule, more bourgeois than not, seeing as it resided on the central Spire. A group of young nobles had seated themselves near Delahaye and Mel soon after they had arrived, and one of their number had been throwing looks in their direction throughout their stay.

He finally sauntered over, walking with a certain domineering swagger that Delahaye knew to associate with the most egregious noble pricks. The young noble placed his hands on the table, looking between the two women. His eyes bored right through Delahaye before passing on, but settled on Mel with an intensity that Delahaye did not appreciate.

“Can we help you with somethin’?”

Delahaye asked, washing down a mouthful of bread with a sip of water. The young man turned his nose up at her.

“I have come to inquire,” he said in a nasally, pompous voice, “What business you have in this establishment. It is a place of refinement, not a watering hole for low-Spire trash and servants.”

Delahaye took another bite of bread, kicking her feet up on the table as she leaned back in her booth. Mel shrank back in her seat, seeming to shrink into herself. The young man sneered at Delahaye, and she raised her brow in return. She continued to eat, and the longer the noble awaited an answer from her, the more frustrated he became.

“Well? Are you going to answer me, gutter rat?”

Delahaye gestured with the hunk of bread in her hand, “We’re eatin’, you got eyes, lad. Now why don’t you scamper back over yonder and leave us be, eh?”

She dismissed him with a wave, but the only reply she received was the bread being knocked from her hand. Delahaye watched it bounce off the floor with a vacant expression, still absently chewing the last mouthful she’d managed to snag. She sighed, still leaning back, her arms draped across the back of the booth.

“Mel?”

The elf hesitantly raised her head, and Delahaye grinned at her.

“Run on back home. I’ll cover the bill.”

The maidservant stood, taking up the satchel. When the noble made a grab for her arm, Delahaye’s foot rose to meet his hand, kicking it away. He hissed, shaking his hand. The blow had done little more than smart. But it hadn’t been meant to hurt him– merely divert his attention.

Delahaye had thought Mel to be quick, and surmised how fast she might be when she ran. When the maidservant did run, it defied every expectation she might have had. Mel was little more than a blur, and she was out the door before anyone could stop her.

That left Delahaye with the noble and his two compatriots.

She slowly got up, walking around the table and the fuming man. His friends leapt to their feet, knocking over their chairs in the process. Delahaye stood opposite of the three of them, limbering up as if she were preparing for a run. She sized up her opponents, cracking her neck, and then her knuckles. They were a trio of athletic young men, no older than nineteen by her estimation. They were far from amateur fighters to boot, given the way they held themselves. They doubtlessly had the advantage over Delahaye when it came to skill with their essence abilities, and likely with conventional weapons to boot.

But when it came to bar brawls? She was peerless.

“Right, lads,” Delahaye said, swaying from side to side unsteadily, like a drunkard who had failed to find their feet. She rubbed her nose with her hand, beckoning them forward with the other.

“Let’s do this.”

The two others looked to the man who had bothered Delahaye and Mel. He had yet to wipe the sneer from his face, and he gave them a nod.

“Teach this spire trash some manners.”

The first of them advanced on Delahaye, fists raised. When he lashed out with a right-hook, she swayed out of the way. Two more punches were side-stepped, and she ducked under a final haymaker, sweeping into a mocking bow as she did. When Delahaye rose again, she popped the young man across the face, flattening his nose. He staggered back with a cry of pain, hands clutched to his face. The sneer of the lead man faltered, but he ushered his other lackey forward with a gesture.

He was more proficient than the first. Delahaye staggered back as a high kick took her across the jaw, knocking a tooth free of her mouth. She hopped back, spitting blood, vision swimming and ears ringing. She caught the next blow with her forearm, but the man’s fist drove hard into her gut, knocking the wind from Delahaye. He followed it up by driving his knee up into her groyne, and she let out a harsh yelp of pain. When she broke free of his grapple, she made some distance, holding up a finger as she caught her breath.

“Hold up… Hold up just a second…”

The three men had regrouped, with the one with the broken nose having set it, though blood still trickled down his face. They paused as Delahaye spoke.

“What is it, trash? Going to surrender?”

Delahaye laughed, dismissing the notion with a wave.

“Hell no! I just wanted to thank you! Been a long time since I had a good, proper scrap!”

Tense silence reigned for a moment, before the leader gestured harshly. The two henchmen rushed Delahaye in unison, but she was prepared for them. The man with the broken nose rushed low, aiming to tackle Delahaye to the floor. She met his rush with her knee, which slammed once more into his nose. He fell back with a howl, and she kicked him savagely in the head. He fell limp, and she turned her attention to the other man.

He opened once more with a high kick, and she ducked under it. Delahaye rushed him, headbutting him in the chest before hammering him with a savage uppercut that took him under the jaw. His head snapped back, and Delahaye drove her hand into his throat. He choked and sputtered, falling back. When she brought her boot down on his head, he joined his friend in unconsciousness.

Delahaye caught her breath, wiping the blood from her face with the back of her hand. She gave the final noble a bloody-toothed smile, all too eager to see his pompous sneer erased.

“Just you an’ me now, lad. So, you gonna come teach this gutter rat a lesson?”

…

Mel, Primrose and Samson hurried down the street, the maidservant leading her lady and the hulking bodyguard towards the tavern where she and Delahaye had been eating. The last she had seen of the gangly Outworlder, she had been sizing up the noble and his companions.

“Did you get a look at them, Mel?”

The elf nodded. Another one of her essence abilities, Peerless Mind, granted her a marked increase to her memory, amongst other things. As they hurried down the street, she spoke, her usual stammer absent.

“Three young men. Humans. Fair skin. First had black hair, the other two blonde. Fine clothes, the leader bore a symbol on the breast, a sword crossed over a shield. House Kenester. The others had crests as well, minor houses… Houses Nell and Oryon.”

Primrose frowned. House Kenester was an up-and-coming house that had risen to prominence in the extended build-up to the Monster Surge. They were Adventurers through-and-through, with a tendency for looking down on others. They were Adventurers for the prestige, not for the sake of the people. The gloryhound behaviour of certain members of House Kenester had seen minor sanctions laid down by Primrose’s father, but little more than that.

“Young man… Black hair… House Kenester…”

Primrose slowed.

“Oh, dear. This isn’t good.”

Mel and Samson looked to her, and Primrose picked up the pace. Mel was more than able to keep up, but Samson, lacking his armour but still not built for speed, fell behind. He waved them on, and the two women set off at speed.

“M-My Lady?” Mel ventured, turning her concerned gaze in Primrose’s direction.

“I believe I’ve figured out who went and picked a fight with our Outworlder.”

Mel blinked, silently urging her to elaborate.

“Conroy Kenester,” Primrose said darkly, “An archetypical noble scion. Condescending, oppressively snobbish, with a hearty distaste for non-Adventurers, or anyone from the third Spire or below, for that matter.”

They slid to a halt in front of the tavern, with Samson hot on their heels, his every footfall shaking the ground. He thundered to a stop, tearing up the flagstones as he arrested his momentum. The three of them stood, catching their breath.

“M-Maybe… They talked it o-out…?” Mel ventured.

Then, the wall of the tavern exploded outwards.

…

I really have got to stop letting my guard down.

That was all Delahaye could think as she narrowly dodged another blow from the lead noble. He had proven himself to be far more proficient than either of his companions, much to Delahaye’s surprise. Unlike his two lackeys, this man was a brawler born and bred. Whereas she had learned her stuff in back alleys and bar room brawls similar to the one she now found herself in, his skills had been refined by years of proper training.

He drove Delahaye backwards with a relentless onslaught of punches. The attacks were made with such speed and ferocity that they could not have been derived from anything but an essence ability. It had been a simple bar brawl before, but with the attack of the leader the paradigm had shifted. The tavernkeeper had ducked below the bar, and the other patrons, who had been watching from the sidelines earlier, made themselves scarce.

Delahaye was battered and bruised, spitting out another tooth as she leapt back from her foe. The false unsteadiness of her earlier fighting style had become suddenly genuine. Her ears rang like a bell and lights danced in her eyes. She readied herself as the man threw himself forwards, raising her fists. She had no chance to block the blow, let alone counter it.

His fist drove into her chest with the force of a hammer, and Delahaye was rocketed backwards. She slammed into the wall, knocking the breath from her lungs and filling her vision with stars. The follow-up blow took her across the face, and everything went black.

…

Dust, plaster and shattered wood rained down from where the wall had exploded outwards. As the cloud of detritus settled, it revealed a young man in a rumpled yet nonetheless finely made outfit, standing hunched over the limp form of a gangly woman with a wild mane of red hair. His back was hunched, fists clenched, breaths heaved in and out with a near-bestial ferocity.

“That… Went about as expected,” Primrose said grimly. Mel looked at her, her already wide eyes opening even further.

“Conroy Kenester may be a prick, but he is also the pride of his house. He went against expectation, choosing a set of common essences. But what they produced suited him perfectly. Conroy is second to none in close quarters, an epitome of a user of the Onslaught confluence.”

Conroy turned to face Mel, Primrose and Samson, expression seething. One of his eyes was swollen shut, and his bared teeth revealed one to have been knocked out. He pointed a finger at Mel.

“You, servant. I gave your scum-shit companion here the comeuppance she deserved for acting above her station. Now it’s your turn.”

Mel blanched as Conroy started towards her. She let out a squeak as a massive hand settled on her shoulder, gently moving her out of the way. Samson and Conroy advanced slowly towards one another. The latter was forced to tilt his head upwards to meet the eye of Primrose’s bodyguard.

“Finally! Something worthy!” Conroy crooned.

He hopped backwards, dancing from foot to foot. He threw out several mock punches in Samson’s direction, who didn’t do so much as flinch. Then, he rushed forward, slamming his fist into Samson’s chest. The Swift Essence ability, Momentous Charge, was fairly common, and extremely well-regarded. When combined with its oft-awakened sister ability, Unstoppable Strike, the two abilities were capable of delivering a massive amount of damage at extreme speed. It had been that combination that had laid Delahaye out cold.

When Conroy’s fist collided with Samson’s chest, he did not even budge. Conroy staggered back with a scream, clutching his hand. It was obviously broken– and severely at that. He seethed, throwing another punch with his other hand. Samson caught it, staring down at his opponent as he began to squeeze.

With their attacker occupied, Mel and Primrose rushed to Delahaye’s side. The outworlder was unconscious, and severely wounded. Her nose and jaw were broken, as was one of her arms. Primrose held a hand over her, chanting the incantation to her strongest healing ability, Searing Restoration. Delahaye was enveloped in flames, which rapidly healed her wounds, though not entirely. At the very least, the breaks and fractures were healed. Mel followed Primrose’s lead, pressing the pads of her fingers together before pulling back.

She conjured threads from her fingertips, needles extending from the ends of several threads. She wove her hands in the air like an orchestra conductor, weaving a gurney out of dense, durable thread. The two of them moved Delahaye to the gurney, lifting it up with a bit of strain.

Behind them, Conroy screamed again as something in his hand snapped. Samson dropped him to the ground, where the young noble writhed, holding two broken hands to his chest.

“Let’s get out of here,” Primrose said hurriedly.

…

When the group arrived back at the Primadola Estate, they were met by a small contingent of the household guard. Dichen Delile stood at their head, hand on her sheathed sword. When she saw Primrose and her entourage charging towards the gate, a gurney held between them, she motioned for the gates to be opened.

“Grandson. Report.” She said sharply. The two of them stood amidst the gathered guards, as Mel and Primrose handed an unconscious Delahaye off to several white-garbed servants.

“Grandmother– er, Captain, sir,” Samson said, snapping off a quick salute, “Mel went out with Delahaye to get some Skill Books, to help with her training. They stopped for lunch, at Delahaye’s insistence, and were harassed by several noble scions. Conroy Kenester chief amongst them.”

Dichen nodded, motioning for him to follow as they walked. Between the two of them, Rocky rolled.

“Delahaye fought them, whilst Mel ran here to get us. She managed to dispatch the other two. I got a quick look. It was Gregor Nell and Ahab Oryon. However, whilst fighting Kenester, he was able to dispatch her. Frankly, sir, I’m not entirely sure how she survived.”

Dichen rubbed her chin thoughtfully. She turned to look at her grandson, inspecting the fist-sized hole that had been torn into his shirt.

“Living Bulwark. He broke his hand.”

Dichen nodded approvingly.

“Dismissed, Grandson. I’m sure there will be political fallout from this… debacle. But that is for the duke to figure out. We must simply prepare for any retaliation on behalf of House Kenester.”

…

Primrose looked down at Delahaye. The outworlder was still unconscious, though her wounds had since been tended to. Her clothes were still in a dire state, but that had been the least of her worries. Samson had spoken about the attack Conroy Kenester had used on Delahaye– as well as expressing his astonishment she had survived it at all.

She placed a hand on the sleeping woman’s chest, feeling around. Her coat and undershirt had been pushed inwards, ripped apart by the force of the blow. By all accounts, it should have blown a hole right through her chest. Yet, it had not. Something had arrested the momentum of the blow just enough to save Delahaye’s life.

Finally, Primrose found it.

Tucked into the breast of Delahaye’s coat was a book. It was heavily damaged, but as Primrose turned it over, she found the title to still be legible. She wished dearly that it had been rendered unreadable.

“I… The Delicate Art of Fisting? Is this fucking Sex Magic?”