“Never, under any circumstances, should one accept a meal prepared by someone with a Cooking Skill above the second Tier. It will ruin you; regular food tastes bland by comparison, worse even, like ash gathered from the armpit of a filth-infested rodent.”

~Unknown

Rosita

Luxury. A word with meaning rooted firmly in the subjective. Surely, one could not be condemned for taking ridicule in the mere concept, for what were words if not ways to convey an idea? Such blatant ambiguity was unnecessary; uncertainty was a disease, a rot to be removed.

Luxury. To indulge, especially publicly, was to reveal yourself - to expose a weakness. While a common laborer might find luxury in a pair of comfortable shoes, they seldom crow as such.

They cared not for such things, not really. It was kept private, where words were seldom necessary to begin with. They had work to do. They always had work to do. No, luxury was the domain of petty politicians, though even they wormed their way into common affairs as neighbors played at the significance they wished they possessed. It was a way to flaunt one's status, though even in this they were riddled with deceit. They exaggerated. They put on airs.

Truly, there was no need for luxury.

Piercing shrieks pulled Rosita from idle thought, if only because they were no longer the primal wails of one clinging desperately to their mutilated conviction. No, what drew her attention was the pained string of numbers her subject sobbed through ragged breaths. Professionalism dictated Rosita review her administrations. The shallow cuts carved into the subject’s torso were enough to summon a scowl.

I barely touched you… What was worse, the scowl was responsible for the increasingly deep wrinkles etched into Rosita’s forehead, undeniable proof that her mana could no longer keep time at bay. It was vexing.

The room was dimly lit by a single candle, one that was, by design, always in view of Rosita’s subject. She recognized it as one of her slow burners. Time. An adversary, to be sure, but one she had manipulated to her own ends on countless occasions. Beneath the flickering light, hours could pass and not a single drop of wax would drip down the candle’s length.

If anyone could last that long, I suspect the sight would torment them. Perhaps it was wishful thinking that inspired Rosita to reach for that particular set of candles; they were expensive and for good reason. Irony had played a cruel hand indeed; by the time she could afford expanding her collection of tools, seldom did she need them.

A spell-scripted lockbox rested on the small stand next to Rosita’s worktable. With her free hand, she deftly input the number sequence upon the correct surface, for several were decoys, and was rewarded by the telltale click of the hidden locking mechanism. It was almost a shame.

Rosita drummed the fingers of her gauntleted hand against the worktable, eliciting a whimper from her still-sobbing subject. A small blade extended from each fingertip of the tool, like the twisted imitation of a fingernail or talon. They were not the source of the noise, though, for they stabbed into the wood without the slightest hint of resistance.

“A pity, but it seems we are done for today.” How the subject reacted to that news was beneath Rosita’s notice. They had served their purpose, albeit disappointingly. She did not need to call upon The System to know the underwhelming outcome of her efforts. With practiced movements, she loosened the straps fastening the gauntlet to her forearm and let it clatter onto a nearby tray alongside a selection of other tools, most of which she’d commissioned herself.

There was only a single exit, a doorway filled with an unnatural darkness. It was black in its purest sense, like an unsettling panel of nothing. Rosita did not hesitate to walk through it; unlike light, sound and myriad other things, the dense spellscript concealed in the surrounding woodwork did not block her passage. Beyond was a short, slightly curved hall topped with a similarly scripted doorway, except it featured a physical door to keep out prying eyes; there were times when subtlety trumped pure efficiency. It opened to Rosita’s touch like it would for scarce few others, allowing her to step easily into her office.

It was an inherited space, for there was a predecessor to the position it represented. Rosita left much of the decor untouched since her arrival. Fine silks, rare bottles of wine, and a cabinet containing Skill-crafted oddities were but a few of the extravagant pieces cluttering the room. Luxury. A farce. A performance for any who she was required to meet with. The space was not a reflection of her, and she liked it better that way.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

The cushion residing on Rosita’s desk chair was, perhaps, one of the few notable exceptions. When pouring through paperwork, she did not deny herself the small comfort it provided.

A stack of reports on the desk demanded her attention, compiled and summarized by those with the Skills necessary to parse through the local governance. Two of the reports were marked as urgent, so they were easily ignored; their contents would be fabricated. A largely precautionary counter-intelligence tactic, but also a coded message.

Hidden amongst the reports would be something her people believed worth Rosita’s immediate attention. After the disappointment that was her most recent subject, it was difficult to feel much anticipation over the fact.

The balcony called to her, so Rosita scooped up the relevant reports to read outside. Potted plants dotted the outdoor space, and it gave her ample view of busy thoroughfare below. She occupied the Third Seat, for she represented the interests of law enforcement in all matters related to the Crown. An office with a view was one of the many perks granted by her position.

One might even go so far as to call it luxury. The invasive thought threatened another scowl, but Rosita kept her annoyance in check. To simply know the word, to know of luxury, was to be infected by the concept. Normally, such errant thoughts would be quickly dismissed or seldom have the chance to worm their way into Rosita’s mind. Their frequency had been increasing over recent years, and it was easy to understand why.

She was bored.

Those with the mettle to withstand Rosita’s attention seldom found themselves at her mercy; it was not the strong of will who volunteered in exchange for a reduced sentence. The limbs of her Skill Tree were riddled with thorns, and her dependence on others to Advance was proving to be one of them.

Most of the reports were to be expected, detailing the comings and goings of watched people and places. Purging the city of criminal activity was not an option, but that did not mean letting it go unsupervised.

“Perhaps I should incite a gang conflict…” It had been some time since the city’s law enforcement were tested, and, unlike Rosita, most of them could still benefit from the experience. The chatter of the streets and clamor of the city set a pleasant backdrop as Rosita flipped through the pages and scanned their contents, all the while contemplating unleashing violence upon them with the same casual consideration one might give their evening meal.

It was a shame, really, that Rosita could not take a more active hand in the cultivation of a rival. Doing so would cross a line; there was a difference between monitoring the criminal element and directly aiding it. There were some principles that could not be so easily warped by stagnation. Still, the fact that she’d entertained the possibility - felt its temptation for even a moment - was telling.

There was one report towards the bottom of the stack that differentiated itself. Seldom were matters from outside the city brought to her attention, with a few notable exceptions.

“Elbura…” she muttered the village name as her eyes darted across the page. The initial message was brief; someone had reported a girl with a social-adjacent Core Skill.

Perception [Social, Truth] would make her the bane of the upper crust. No doubt Crown factions were already scrambling to send representatives or lay a claim.

They would under normal circumstances, at least. In verifying the report, some clerk stumbled upon the Skill registry for the town.

A calculating smirk touched Rosita’s lips, growing sharper the more she read. Quickly, she retreated into her office and began making the necessary preparations to attend to the matter personally. For the first time in a long while, she felt the thrill of potential as the seeds of an idea lay root in her mind. There was more than one prize in Elbura, and Rosita had decided she wanted them both.

Lionel

It was not often someone stormed into Lionel’s office unannounced. He recognized the culprit as one of his communications officers, and there were few situations in which they would be so brazen despite the Slayer Lieutenant’s occasionally lax attitude towards protocol. Immediately, Lionel felt his muscles tense; visions of destroyed towns and rampaging Beasts and a dozen other awful possibilities flashed through his mind. Had one of his Slayers died in the field?

“Sir, pardon the interruption I-”

“You are forgiven. Give the report.” There was no time for niceties or nonsense.

“Yes, sir. It concerns the personal matter you asked us to monitor.” Lionel felt his blood turn to ice at the statement. “There has been a dispatch to Elbura.”

“Right… thank you, you are excused.” The officer gave a quick nod before retreating. Lionel had given specific instructions regarding informing him of any news involving Tulos’ little village, so there was no need to address the interruption. His information network was not as expansive as most, but he had enough friends in The Capital to get by.

He slumped in his chair and took a moment to process the sudden shift in circumstances.

“Well… shit.”