Chapter Seventy-Two: Five Million Crowns in the Rain
Rain tapped the black glass hard enough to wake Roman before Céleste's foot did.
Barely.
He opened one eye.
Gray morning beyond the balcony.
Wet stone.
Water running in silver threads down the exterior glass.
One white sock pressed against his thigh.
Roman looked down.
Then toward the other end of the bed.
Céleste had somehow rotated ninety degrees during the night.
Again.
Her white fox tail was tucked underneath one of Roman's blankets, only the tip visible beside Nyxara's discarded sweater.
Roman pushed Céleste's ankle.
It came back.
He pushed again.
This time her toes curled against him.
“Move.”
A sleepy sound.
No words.
“You awake.”
“No.”
“You answered.”
“No.”
Roman sat up.
That finally disturbed her enough for one white fox ear to appear from beneath the blanket.
Her eyes stayed closed.
“Cold.”
“Got blanket.”
“You're warmer.”
Roman stared.
Céleste smiled without opening her eyes.
Sneaky little—
He pulled his leg away.
Her tail caught his wrist.
Roman stopped.
Looked at it.
“Your whole species cheats.”
“Mm.”
He gave up.
The Western Rooms were quieter than usual.
After last night, everybody had either finally gone home or been forced home by Helena, Gideon, Doctor Vey, exhaustion, or some combination.
Roman's racing jacket was on the sofa.
One sleeve torn.
His helmet sat beside it with a crack in the outer finish.
Not structural.
Mireya had written that across the visor in bright red because apparently she no longer trusted him to understand words spoken once.
COSMETIC. DO NOT THROW IT AWAY.
Roman stared.
“Rude.”
Céleste:
“What?”
“Nothing.”
His chest felt tight when he stood.
Not dangerous.
Just healing.
One of the anti-Progenitor bolts had left a thin black discoloration around the closing wound where his regeneration was still chewing through whatever bullshit alloy had been designed specifically to make him have a worse night.
He rolled one shoulder.
Better.
His phone showed seventy-three notifications.
Roman immediately locked it again.
Fuck everybody.
The bedroom door opened.
Nyxara walked in holding two coffees.
Roman looked.
Then at the second one.
“Mine?”
“No.”
“Who?”
“Mine.”
“You got two?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“One is better.”
Roman stared.
Nyxara smiled and handed him the better one.
“Morning.”
He took it.
“Love you.”
“I know.”
There was zero hesitation in the answer.
Roman stopped for half a beat.
Nyxara was already drinking hers.
He looked at her.
She looked back over the rim.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Your face says something.”
“Everybody keep—”
Céleste, still buried:
“We know.”
Roman drank.
Strong.
Sweet enough.
Exactly right.
Nyxara had learned his coffee months ago and never mentioned it.
That was the kind of shit that got him.
Not speeches.
Remembering stupid details.
Roman walked toward the balcony.
Rain streaked the glass.
Floodline below looked darker when wet.
Nevermorning's signs still burned, although half the district had shifted into its morning rhythm.
Night workers leaving.
Day freight beginning.
Covered market streets steaming under heaters.
A pair of fairies flew underneath the eaves between two buildings, one carrying a tiny umbrella that was doing absolutely nothing.
Farther west, one military transport climbed through low cloud.
No alarm.
Routine.
The news crawl in the lower corner of the wall screen read:
KARSOV CONFIRMS WITHDRAWAL FROM HARK RAIL TRIANGLE
Below that:
NEUTRAL MEDIATORS SEEK NEW TALKS AFTER THIRD WEEK OF LOSSES
Roman looked at it for maybe five seconds.
Then his gaze dropped lower.
WRECKWAY ATTACK — FOUR SUSPECTS HELD, INVESTIGATION CONTINUES
His own face appeared.
Blood on his shirt.
Wings out.
Bad angle.
“Why they always pick ugly picture?”
Nyxara came beside him.
“You were shot.”
“Still.”
Céleste's voice:
“You were bleeding from your mouth.”
“Could pick before.”
“They did.”
Picture changed.
Roman sitting on the hood of the R9 twenty minutes before the race.
Hair right.
Jacket right.
No blood.
Roman nodded.
“Better.”
Nyxara laughed quietly.
The balcony door opened behind them.
Cold wet air moved through the room.
Roman turned.
Vaelora stepped inside.
Human form.
Black hair damp at the edges, metallic-gold strands catching gray light.
Roman stared.
“You outside?”
“Yes.”
“In rain?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I like it.”
Fair.
A tiny line of water ran from her jaw down her neck.
Roman picked up a towel from the back of the sofa and threw it.
Vaelora caught it.
“Dry.”
She looked at towel.
Then Roman.
“Are you commanding me?”
“Yes.”
She smiled.
Then dried her hair.
Roman liked winning easy battles.
The lounge door opened next.
Xyra.
She wore dark work clothes and smelled faintly of machine oil.
Roman immediately forgot breakfast.
“My car.”
Xyra closed her eyes.
Nyxara:
“Good morning, Xyra.”
“Morning.”
Roman:
“Car.”
Xyra looked at him.
“Good morning, Roman.”
“Morning. Car.”
Céleste laughed under the blanket.
Xyra walked into the room and threw something onto the bed.
Roman's left mirror.
Broken housing.
He stared.
“Why bring corpse?”
“To motivate you.”
“Sera did this.”
“Sera says the assassin did it.”
“Sera lie.”
“Probably.”
Roman picked it up.
The glass itself had survived.
Housing hadn't.
“When?”
“Body panel comes off today. New quarter section tomorrow. Alignment check tonight.”
“Drive tonight?”
“No.”
Roman's eyes narrowed.
“Why?”
“Because half your front suspension is on a stand.”
“Can put back.”
“Yes.”
“So?”
Xyra stared.
Roman stared back.
Nyxara drank coffee.
Vaelora sat on the sofa and started drying her hair.
Céleste finally lifted her head enough to watch.
Xyra:
“You are not racing a half-repaired grand tourer in forty-eight-degree rain one day after getting shot.”
Roman:
“That's four separate problems.”
“Yes.”
“None individually enough.”
“All together are.”
Roman smiled.
“We got another car.”
Xyra's face changed.
“No.”
Roman smiled wider.
“Gideon got cars.”
“No.”
“Ren.”
“No.”
“Layla.”
Xyra pointed at him.
“No sleeper.”
Roman:
“Why?”
“Because you'll decide you like it and start modifying a second car before I finish the first.”
Roman stopped.
That was possible.
Nyxara:
“She knows you.”
“Everybody say that too.”
Sera walked through a door that did not exist five seconds earlier.
Roman's reaction was immediate.
“No.”
She hadn't even spoken.
Sera stopped in the doorway.
“What?”
“Whatever.”
“You don't know what I want.”
“Exactly.”
She stepped through.
The impossible doorway disappeared.
Mr. Buttons did not come with her.
Worse.
Sera wore black, silver and deep violet with enough metal chains around one hip to announce every third step.
Her extremely long silver-white hair was braided loosely today, almost reaching her knees.
She walked straight past everybody.
Straight to Roman.
Then took his coffee.
Roman stared.
She drank.
Made a face.
“Too sweet.”
“Then why take?”
“Wanted to know.”
She handed it back.
Roman looked at the cup.
Then her.
“You got problem.”
Sera leaned against him.
“I heard you're trying to race tonight.”
Xyra:
“He isn't.”
Roman:
“I am.”
Nyxara:
“He isn't.”
Roman turned.
“You too?”
Nyxara:
“I want you alive long enough to take me somewhere.”
Roman paused.
“Where?”
“Don't know yet.”
“Then how—”
“That's your problem.”
Roman smiled despite himself.
Okay.
That was a date.
Céleste finally sat up.
Blanket around her shoulders.
Her hair looked destroyed.
“I want Ninth Tide tonight.”
Roman:
“For?”
“Food.”
“Can eat here.”
“Not the same.”
She looked at him.
That was also a date.
Roman looked around slowly.
Nyxara wanted later.
Céleste wanted Ninth Tide.
Sera was already physically attached to his side.
Xyra wanted him in the garage whether she'd admitted it or not.
Vaelora had been staring at the rain and Roman's racing magazines for the last two minutes.
Roman:
“What you want?”
Vaelora looked over.
“A car.”
Roman almost dropped his coffee.
“Yes.”
Xyra:
“No.”
Roman pointed at Vaelora.
“Say again.”
Vaelora:
“A car.”
Roman:
“YES.”
Xyra rubbed her forehead.
Vaelora continued.
“One that can survive me.”
Roman:
“Even better.”
“Not small.”
“Obviously.”
“Not quiet.”
Roman looked at Xyra.
Xyra:
“Do not involve me.”
Roman:
“You already involved.”
“I repair your mistakes.”
“Same skill.”
Sera:
“I want a car too.”
Everyone:
“No.”
Sera looked offended.
Roman:
“You crashed mine.”
“A little.”
“You don't get new victim.”
Céleste's phone chimed.
She looked down.
Then silently held it toward Roman.
A message from Mireya.
Do not let him drive today.
Roman stared.
“When she send?”
Céleste:
“Six fifty-four.”
“Before I woke?”
“Yes.”
Roman:
“Conspiracy.”
Céleste's second message appeared.
Also tell him I need him at the lower lab before noon.
Roman:
“No.”
Céleste typed.
Roman watched.
He said no.
Three dots.
Mireya:
Tell him the glass reads mana pools now.
Roman paused.
“Wait.”
Céleste smiled.
Got him.
Roman ate breakfast under a glass canopy while rain made the courtyard stone shine black.
No giant gathering.
No fucking conference.
Just people crossing in and out of his morning.
A covered fountain ran beside the terrace.
One Cait Sith had climbed onto the warm housing around it and gone to sleep.
Two junior clerks were eating at the far end.
A courier came through soaked from the shoulders down, dropped a packet at Helena's temporary desk, grabbed a roll, and kept walking.
Floodline was awake.
Roman ate fried potatoes.
Céleste stole three.
He slapped her hand on the fourth.
She stared.
“Enough.”
“It's one.”
“Four.”
“That was historical.”
Roman looked at Nyxara.
“She learning your shit.”
Nyxara:
“Good.”
Sera sat on the edge of the table rather than using the empty chair beside her.
Vaelora had gone to change.
Xyra went back underground.
Roman suspected she was already working on his car.
That counted as affection whether Xyra liked it or not.
Helena crossed the courtyard carrying three folders.
Roman saw them.
“No.”
She kept walking.
“I didn't say they were for you.”
“Good.”
“They aren't.”
“Better.”
She placed them in front of Gideon, who had just sat down two tables away.
Roman smiled.
Gideon looked at him.
“Enjoy your breakfast.”
“Will.”
Helena placed a fourth folder in front of Roman.
His smile died.
“This one is yours.”
“You set me up.”
“Yes.”
Roman looked at the cover.
WRECKWAY INCIDENT — PROPERTY DAMAGE
He slid it beneath his plate.
Helena:
“That doesn't make it cease existing.”
“Can't see.”
“That is not the same.”
Roman took another potato.
Gideon:
“Repair bill is mostly mine.”
Roman looked up.
“Why?”
“My facility.”
“My car hit their car.”
“Your car is your problem.”
“Fair.”
Gideon drank coffee.
His tone stayed casual.
“Four attackers alive.”
Roman's chewing slowed.
There.
No speech.
Just information entering breakfast.
“Fifth?”
“Corvan found him after midnight.”
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
“Talk?”
“No.”
Roman:
“Yet.”
Gideon gave him one look.
“Corvan said the same thing.”
Sera smiled.
“That's encouraging.”
Nyxara:
“From you, no.”
Helena opened another folder at Gideon's elbow.
“Isolde traced one payment chain into Ardenmere.”
Roman:
“Morvale?”
“Adjacent.”
“What mean?”
“Someone wanted it to look like Morvale.”
Roman stopped.
Gideon:
“Which means either Morvale is clever, or somebody wants Delphine killing the wrong cousin.”
Roman leaned back.
Rain ticked against the canopy.
Céleste stopped stealing food.
Sera's heel stopped tapping.
Nyxara looked toward Gideon.
“Who benefits?”
Gideon:
“Everybody in a succession dispute.”
Roman:
“Shitty answer.”
“Accurate.”
Helena's phone chimed.
She checked.
“Delphine's river guard retook North Marrow checkpoint at dawn.”
Roman:
“Casualties?”
“Not ours.”
That didn't mean none.
He understood.
Didn't ask.
The news screen inside the dining room showed footage of rain somewhere else.
Ardenmere.
A stone river bridge.
Smoke behind it.
Delphine's crest flying again.
Roman watched while chewing.
Then Cassian appeared briefly in the footage.
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Not posing.
Standing under an awning with Phaedra in humanoid form beside him.
Tamsin walking across frame with three slates.
Rhea carrying a cracked barricade section like it weighed nothing.
Roman smiled faintly.
They had shit.
They were handling shit.
His phone buzzed.
Cassian.
you alive
Roman:
unfortunately
Cassian:
delphine says fuck you
Roman:
why
Long pause.
Then Delphine herself:
Because your assassination attempt is now being cited by three of my relatives as evidence I am “exporting instability.”
Roman:
they sent it
Delphine:
That is why I said fuck you instead of blaming you.
Roman laughed.
Nyxara:
“What?”
Roman showed her.
Nyxara's mouth curved.
Roman typed:
come tournament later
Cassian:
what tournament
Roman looked at the message.
Then at Gideon.
Then at nothing.
“Tournament.”
Gideon slowly lowered his coffee.
“No.”
Roman:
“I ain't tell you yet.”
“I know that tone.”
Sera:
“What tournament?”
Roman looked at her.
“I don't know.”
Céleste:
“Then why did you invite Cassian?”
Roman:
“Because now gotta make one.”
Gideon shut his eyes.
Helena looked toward the rain.
Probably praying for patience.
Roman smiled.
Breakfast improved.
The first thing Roman felt inside the lab was weight.
Not gravity.
Close.
A student stood in the center of a blue-lined test square thirty feet away.
Sixteen maybe.
Fire affinity.
Roman didn't know him.
Did know the air around him was hot enough to fog the inner surface of the observation glass.
The kid exhaled.
Stopped containing mana.
Pressure expanded.
Roman's shirt shifted against his chest.
A metal stool scraped backward half an inch.
The air got hotter.
Not flame.
Pressure.
Like somebody had placed warm hands against every inch of the room and started pushing.
Roman smiled.
“That's hard.”
Mireya didn't look away from her slate.
“It's uncontrolled.”
“Still.”
“His leakage is fourteen-point-seven percent above baseline.”
The kid inside the square gritted his teeth.
A display over him showed:
HEALTH: 1,862 / 1,862
MANA: 3,114 / 3,520
LEAKAGE: 18.4%
THERMAL PRESSURE: RISING
Roman stopped.
“Oh.”
There it was.
Numbers.
Simple ones.
Actually useful.
“How accurate?”
“Health within four percent. Mana within seven under clean conditions.”
“Clean?”
Mireya looked around.
“This lab is clean.”
Roman looked toward Sima in the next test bay trying to stop two summons from eating insulation.
“Debatable.”
Mireya ignored him.
She handed Roman the newer Threatglass.
Smaller now.
Dark frame along one temple.
No giant glowing lens.
He put it on.
The student inside the square became data.
Not a fucking destiny.
Just measurements.
Health.
Mana.
Current drain.
Affinity.
Temperature rise.
Roman:
“Can lie?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Mireya finally looked at him.
“Why is that good?”
“Means fights still fights.”
Mireya thought.
“Correct.”
The student released more mana.
The pressure hit harder.
Roman's ribs felt it.
The steel legs beneath one bench groaned.
Heat increased.
Then the instructor snapped:
“Enough.”
The student contained.
Pressure disappeared.
Not instantly.
Like water draining.
The room cooled over several seconds.
Roman looked at Mireya.
“People been able to do this?”
“Apparently.”
“Apparently?”
“Mana leakage was always real. Post-Fold ambient saturation is making the physical coupling easier to notice and much stronger in awakened populations.”
Roman:
“So everybody been walking around leaking little gravity?”
“Not gravity.”
“Feels like.”
“Because pressure has force.”
“Same family.”
“No.”
Roman smiled.
Mireya's eyes narrowed.
The adjacent test square activated.
This time water affinity.
A girl released.
Roman's smile disappeared.
The air didn't get wet.
His chest still felt deeper.
Heavy.
Breath subtly harder.
Like standing too far beneath water without actual water existing.
Roman touched his throat.
“Okay. That's nasty.”
Mireya:
“Exactly.”
The girl contained it.
Roman looked at the glass again.
“Fights gonna be crazy.”
Mireya:
“Of course that's what you got from this.”
Roman:
“Cassiel coming?”
She looked toward him.
“Why?”
Roman smiled.
Mireya:
“No.”
“You don't even know.”
“I know your face.”
A black crystal recording lens rotated in the doorway.
Cassiel Orpheus Morcant stepped in behind it.
Elegant dark coat.
Two editing slates under one arm.
Alert eyes already reading the room like footage.
Roman pointed.
“See?”
Mireya:
“You invited him before you had an idea?”
Roman:
“Got idea now.”
Cassiel looked toward the test square.
Then the floating health/mana readout.
Then Roman.
“I'm listening.”
Roman smiled.
“Fight tournament.”
Cassiel did not laugh.
That was why Roman liked him.
He looked toward the blue-lined square again.
“How large?”
Roman:
“Big.”
“Local?”
“World.”
Mireya:
“No.”
Cassiel:
“Prize?”
Roman thought.
“Five million.”
Mireya's head snapped around.
“Of your money?”
Roman:
“Yeah.”
Cassiel:
“Don't.”
Roman looked offended.
Cassiel continued.
“If you announce five million, sponsors will cover more than five million to be attached to it.”
Roman paused.
“Oh.”
Mireya:
“You just became interested for the wrong reason.”
Roman:
“Money right reason.”
Cassiel already had a slate open.
“Single elimination?”
Roman:
“Sure.”
“Weight divisions?”
“No.”
Mireya:
“Yes.”
Roman:
“Why?”
“Because a three-hundred-kilogram minotaur and a forty-kilogram pixie do not have comparable physical mechanics.”
Roman looked toward her.
“Pixie got magic.”
“That is not the point.”
Cassiel:
“Open class plus divisions.”
Roman:
“Too many.”
“Open class is the spectacle. Divisions are where specialists get serious competition.”
Roman considered.
Better.
“Fine.”
Cassiel:
“Lethality rules?”
Roman:
“Don't kill.”
Mireya:
“Excellent detail.”
“Why you hating?”
“Because you're designing an international combat event in six sentences.”
Cassiel:
“He's done more with fewer.”
True.
Cassiel paced toward the observation glass.
“Where?”
Roman:
“Wreckway.”
Mireya:
“No.”
“Why?”
“Half the infrastructure was attacked yesterday.”
“Then somewhere else.”
Cassiel:
“Old Crown Freight Bowl.”
Roman looked.
“Where?”
Mireya:
“South Nevermorning.”
Cassiel pulled up an aerial.
An enormous abandoned circular freight sorting basin.
Concrete.
Old rails.
Tiered loading levels.
Roman's eyes lit.
“Fire.”
Cassiel:
“Forty-six thousand seats after temporary stands.”
“More.”
“Sixty if we use upper freight terraces.”
“More.”
Cassiel looked at him.
Roman:
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Mireya:
“He's deciding how expensive you are.”
Roman:
“Gideon pay.”
Cassiel smiled.
“You should tell Gideon.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Funniest if later.”
Mireya:
“I am not participating in this.”
Roman looked at the glass in her hand.
“Need numbers on broadcast.”
Mireya went quiet.
Cassiel noticed.
Roman smiled.
Got her.
He pointed toward the display.
“Health. Mana. Current reserve. Leakage.”
Mireya:
“Not live health.”
“Why?”
“Because an opponent should not get a precise medical readout during a fight.”
Roman:
“Delay it.”
Cassiel:
“Broadcast only. Ten-second delay.”
Mireya thought.
Roman and Cassiel watched.
She hated both of them.
“Twenty.”
Roman:
“Ten.”
“Fifteen.”
Cassiel:
“Twelve.”
Mireya looked at him.
Cassiel:
“Television.”
Mireya:
“Fifteen.”
Done.
Roman:
“Prize five million.”
Cassiel:
“Champion?”
“Yeah.”
“Runner-up?”
Roman:
“They lost.”
Cassiel:
“They still made the final.”
Roman shrugged.
“One million.”
“Semifinal?”
Roman:
“Damn, everybody need paid?”
Cassiel:
“If you want elite entrants who aren't already rich, yes.”
Fair.
Roman leaned against the workbench.
“Five champion. One second. Quarter each for semifinal losers.”
Cassiel calculated.
“Six-point-five million base purse.”
Roman:
“Cheap.”
Mireya:
“You are disgusting.”
Cassiel:
“Sponsors can make it larger.”
Roman looked toward him.
“How much?”
Cassiel's recording lens rotated once.
“If the international stream performs?”
Roman smiled.
There was the adult who saw stories.
“Ten?”
“Easily.”
“Twenty?”
“Possibly.”
Roman:
“Make twenty.”
Mireya:
“That is not how sponsorship works.”
Roman:
“Cassiel figure.”
Cassiel:
“I will.”
Roman pointed toward him.
“See?”
Mireya put both hands over her face.
The fire-affinity student inside the testing square released mana again.
Pressure rolled through the room.
Hot.
Heavy.
Cassiel's recording lens rotated toward him.
Cassiel:
“Can the audience see that?”
Mireya looked through her fingers.
“Not directly.”
Roman:
“Then show glass distortion. Pressure number.”
Cassiel:
“Good.”
Mireya lowered her hands.
She was interested now.
Finished.
Roman's phone buzzed.
Céleste.
you promised lunch
Roman checked time.
11:58.
He had not promised.
Probably.
Maybe.
Nyxara sent immediately after.
She says you promised.
Roman typed:
did i
Nyxara:
No.
Then:
Come anyway.
Roman smiled.
Cassiel saw.
“Romantic emergency?”
Roman:
“Worse.”
He left them arguing over cameras.
Sera stole the umbrella.
Roman didn't understand why she had one.
Most of Nevermorning's main streets were covered.
The Rainmarket wasn't.
Old district choice.
Apparently people liked actual weather enough to preserve three blocks without overhead climate shielding.
Roman did not.
Rain hit his hair.
“Give.”
Sera walked backward holding the black umbrella.
“No.”
“You ain't using.”
“I am.”
“You outside it.”
“Fashion.”
Roman reached.
Sera lifted it higher.
Platform boots gave her maybe another two inches.
Not enough.
Roman took it.
Sera grabbed his arm.
Now both under it.
She smiled.
“There.”
Roman looked at her.
“You could've just stood under.”
“Less fun.”
Of course.
Céleste walked on his other side wearing a hooded black coat with her white fox ears tucked through properly fitted openings.
Nyxara walked ahead carrying two bags from a boutique Roman had not entered.
Roman:
“What y'all buy?”
Nyxara:
“Things.”
“What things?”
“Mine.”
Roman:
“Then why I pay?”
She looked back.
“You didn't.”
Roman stopped.
“Oh.”
Céleste laughed.
Roman had gotten too used to paying.
That was probably bad.
They crossed the wet street.
A fairy courier shot between umbrellas.
A pixie shouted something rude at a delivery cart.
Steam poured from food stalls.
Rainwater ran bright with reflected advertisements.
A butcher had hung a handwritten sign:
MANA PRESSURE INSIDE — PLEASE CONTAIN YOURSELF
Roman pointed.
“New?”
Céleste:
“Three fights this week.”
“Why?”
“People leaking.”
Nyxara:
“One vampire frightened a clerk badly enough to crack three bottles.”
Roman:
“With pressure?”
“Yes.”
Roman smiled.
Céleste hit his arm.
“Don't.”
“I ain't doing.”
“You're thinking.”
Everybody had become oppressive.
They reached the restaurant.
No private room.
Roman didn't want one.
A covered outdoor counter overlooking the rain.
Six stools.
Hot noodle broth.
Grilled meat.
Céleste immediately sat beside him.
Nyxara sat on the other.
Sera stared at both.
Then pulled Roman's stool backward two feet.
Roman:
“Yo.”
She put another stool between them.
Sat.
Céleste:
“Childish.”
Sera:
“Effective.”
Nyxara laughed.
Roman:
“Why don't y'all fight each other?”
Sera:
“We do.”
Céleste:
“Not over you.”
Roman:
“Damn.”
Nyxara:
“You sound disappointed.”
Roman:
“Little.”
Three girls stared.
Roman:
“Joking.”
Sera:
“No you weren't.”
Roman smiled.
Their food arrived.
For maybe five minutes nobody discussed assassins, war, money, magic, titles or tournament brackets.
Just food.
Céleste complained that Roman had ruined the sauce by adding too much pepper.
Roman told her weak bloodline.
Her tail hit him.
Nyxara switched bowls with Roman without asking because she liked his more.
Sera stole noodles from both.
Roman finally slapped her chopsticks away.
She used her fingers.
“Savage.”
“Former archmage.”
“Same thing.”
A pair of teenagers two stools down recognized them.
Whispered.
Looked.
Whispered again.
Roman heard every word.
“That's Roman.”
“No shit.”
“Is that all three?”
“Shut up.”
Sera turned.
“Yes.”
Both froze.
Roman covered his face.
“Why?”
Sera smiled sweetly.
The two teens nearly died.
Céleste:
“You enjoy terrifying civilians.”
“They were talking.”
“People do.”
Nyxara leaned toward Roman.
“You didn't answer me.”
“What?”
“Tonight.”
Roman thought.
“Next race planning.”
Nyxara stared.
“Roman.”
“What?”
“You promised me somewhere.”
“I said I would take you.”
“Exactly.”
“After.”
Céleste:
“Ninth Tide.”
Roman:
“Also after.”
Sera:
“My turn.”
Roman slowly looked.
“What turn?”
She smiled.
“My turn.”
“You got no plan.”
“I do.”
“What?”
“Secret.”
“That ain't plan.”
“It is if I know.”
Roman:
“Why everybody want tonight?”
Céleste ate another bite.
“Because you almost died yesterday.”
There.
Simple.
No dramatic silence.
No crying.
Just truth dropped into lunch.
Roman stopped.
Nyxara's hand moved under the counter.
Found his.
Didn't squeeze.
Just held.
Sera's knee stayed against his.
Céleste stole one piece of meat off his plate.
Roman looked at her.
She looked back.
“Mine.”
He let her have it.
Rain hit the awning above them.
Cars moved through the wet street.
A screen across the market changed from music to world news.
Karsov again.
Armored retreat.
Not collapse.
Not surrender.
But bad.
A reporter stood beside a ruined rail yard.
FOURTH DEFENSE LINE ABANDONED
A smaller ticker:
AVARRA CALLS FOR JOINT HORIZON AIR COMMAND
Another:
NAMARRA ACCEPTS INSPECTED HUMANITARIAN CORRIDOR
Nyxara looked once.
“Your war is getting expensive.”
Roman:
“Their war.”
She looked at him.
Roman corrected.
“Ours too.”
Better.
Sera ate another stolen noodle.
“Everyone will come to your tournament.”
Roman looked at her.
“How know?”
“Five million.”
“Cassiel talk?”
“No.”
“Then?”
“You have a face.”
Roman hated this world.
Sera smiled.
“Also Buttons told me.”
Roman stopped.
“No.”
Sera ate.
Roman:
“Sera.”
“Mm?”
“Rabbit don't know.”
She looked toward the wet street.
Mr. Buttons sat beneath a vendor's table.
Roman stared.
“How he get here?”
Sera:
“Walked.”
“From Rook?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
Mr. Buttons looked at him.
Roman looked away.
Not today.
Cassian looked like he hadn't slept.
Delphine looked like she'd decided sleep was politically suspicious.
Roman entered the South Salon carrying two bags of leftover Rainmarket food.
Rhea immediately took one.
Roman:
“That wasn't for you.”
Rhea:
“Thank you.”
“Okay.”
Tamsin sat near the window with documents spread across the table.
Cassian stood behind her.
One hand rested lightly against the back of her chair.
Phaedra sat near the fireplace in humanoid form, bluish-silver hair loose, quietly eating an apple.
The last bonded true unicorn looked deeply uninterested in Ardenmere inheritance law.
Correct.
Delphine was barefoot.
Roman noticed because her wet boots were by the door.
Her dark hair had partly escaped whatever formal style she'd started the day with.
She looked more like sixteen and less like a princess when irritated.
Roman preferred that.
“Merde.”
Roman:
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You keep saying that. Teach.”
Delphine looked at Cassian.
Cassian:
“Don't.”
Roman:
“Why?”
Tamsin:
“You will abuse it.”
“Exactly.”
Delphine almost smiled.
She slid a map toward Roman.
Not an information dump.
One river.
Three marked estates.
Two burned crossings.
A black circle around Rosen Mere.
Roman looked.
“That's people paid assassins?”
“Maybe.”
“Thought Morvale.”
“That was the point.”
Cassian dropped into a chair.
“My wife has too many cousins.”
Delphine:
“Your family is not allowed to make that criticism.”
Roman:
“True.”
Cassian looked at him.
“You have ancestors coming out of dimensions.”
Roman:
“Also true.”
Rhea tore bread from Roman's bag.
Delphine leaned over, took half without asking.
Rhea gave it.
No words.
Tamsin finally looked up.
“The assassin money uses Rosen Mere assets, but three of those assets were controlled by Morvale administrators until two months ago.”
Roman:
“So either one.”
“Or both.”
“Or somebody else.”
“Yes.”
Roman leaned back.
“Trash.”
Cassian:
“Correct.”
Phaedra bit through the apple.
Crunch.
Roman:
“Tournament.”
Everyone stopped.
Cassian:
“What?”
Roman:
“Made it.”
“You invited me before it existed.”
“Exists now.”
Delphine:
“Of course it does.”
Roman:
“Five million first.”
Cassian:
“I'm in.”
Tamsin:
“No.”
Cassian turned.
“What?”
“You are married into an active succession conflict.”
“So?”
“You were nearly assassinated yesterday.”
“Roman got shot.”
Roman:
“Don't bring me in.”
Tamsin:
“He is not a defense.”
Roman:
“Rude.”
Cassian:
“Free Banner is combat-adventure.”
Tamsin:
“Yes.”
“So?”
“Which is precisely why you have a terrible relationship with avoiding unnecessary fights.”
Cassian looked at Delphine.
“Help.”
Delphine considered.
“I also want to enter.”
Cassian stared.
Tamsin stared harder.
Rhea:
“I am entering.”
Tamsin closed her eyes.
Roman smiled.
“See?”
Phaedra raised one hand.
Everyone looked.
Phaedra:
“No.”
Cassian:
“You?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I have nothing to prove by being kicked by strangers for money.”
Roman:
“Five million.”
“I possess money.”
Fair.
Tamsin looked toward Rhea.
“You cannot hit civilians with structural steel.”
Rhea:
“Why would I?”
Everyone remembered yesterday.
Rhea:
“That was assassin.”
Delphine laughed.
Actual laugh.
Tired but real.
Cassian looked at her.
Something softened.
His hand moved from Tamsin's chair to Delphine's shoulder as he passed.
Delphine caught it.
Kept his fingers for a second.
Then released.
Tamsin watched.
No jealousy.
Just the complicated reality they'd all walked into willingly.
Roman looked at Tamsin's engagement band.
Then at Cassian.
“Perrin good.”
Tamsin looked toward him.
“I know.”
“Eveline got him.”
A little tension left her shoulders.
“Good.”
Rhea:
“He is not dying.”
Roman:
“Never said.”
Rhea:
“Everyone acts like feelings mean dying.”
Roman:
“Facts.”
Delphine looked at Rhea.
“You spent two hours hitting training dummies after the engagement.”
Rhea:
“Yes.”
“Because?”
Rhea took another bite of bread.
“Feelings.”
Roman laughed.
Tamsin smiled.
Cassian pointed at Rhea.
“See? This family is impossible.”
Delphine:
“You married into it.”
Cassian:
“Which one?”
Silence.
Then even Tamsin laughed.
Good.
Roman's phone buzzed.
Corvan.
Rosen Mere account manager disappeared 41 minutes ago.
Roman showed Delphine.
Her smile vanished.
Cassian read.
“Alive?”
Roman:
“Don't know.”
Another message.
Found car. No body.
Delphine stood.
No drama.
Shoes.
Coat.
Back to princess.
Rhea stood with her.
Tamsin started gathering papers.
Cassian:
“Where?”
Delphine:
“Floodline embassy office.”
Roman:
“Why?”
“Because if he ran here, someone helped.”
Roman:
“I got people.”
“I know.”
“Then stay.”
Delphine stopped.
Looked at him.
Roman shrugged.
“Eat. Let Corvan hunt.”
She thought.
Then slowly took her coat back off.
That might've been growth.
For all of them.
Rhea sat again immediately.
Cassian stole her bread.
Rhea hit his shoulder.
Normal.
Roman left them there.
Gideon found out about the tournament from a betting screen inside his own casino.
Roman considered that perfect.
The private race book had six wall-sized displays.
Four showed racing.
One showed Wreckway repair work.
The sixth suddenly changed.
Black background.
Cassiel's lens logo.
Then white letters:
COMING TO FLOODLINE
Gideon stopped.
Roman stood three feet away.
Trying not to smile.
THE CROWNLESS OPEN
Gideon looked at Roman.
Roman looked at screen.
OPEN COMBAT TOURNAMENT
5,000,000 CROWN CHAMPION PURSE
Gideon:
“Roman.”
Roman:
“Looks hard.”
“Roman.”
Cassiel stood behind them with a recording slate.
“Technically the full purse is six-point-five million.”
Gideon turned.
Cassiel did not move.
“Runner-up and semifinal compensation.”
Gideon looked back at Roman.
Roman:
“See? Professional.”
Gideon:
“You announced an international fighting tournament inside my territory before asking who owns the arena.”
Roman:
“I own territory.”
“Who owns the freight bowl?”
Roman paused.
Gideon smiled.
“Fuck.”
“Yes.”
Roman:
“How much?”
“Twenty percent.”
“Robbery.”
“Thirty now.”
“That's not how negotiating work.”
“It is when you begin by trespassing.”
Cassiel quietly turned his recording lens away.
Roman pointed.
“Don't save that.”
Cassiel:
“I save everything.”
Gideon:
“Twenty-five, plus venue concessions.”
Roman:
“Twenty.”
“Twenty-five.”
Roman looked around.
A wall display showed sponsorship interest climbing in real time.
Six companies.
Nine.
Fourteen.
One dragon armor manufacturer.
Two betting houses.
A Valedane beverage company.
A Nevermorning noodle chain.
Ssilith's bank.
Roman:
“Twenty-two.”
Gideon:
“Twenty-five.”
Roman:
“Twenty-three.”
Gideon:
“Done.”
Roman stopped.
“You supposed go twenty-four.”
“I know.”
Roman stared.
Gideon walked away.
“Old ass hustler.”
Gideon called back:
“Learn.”
Cassiel smiled.
Roman looked toward him.
“Registration?”
Cassiel handed him a slate.
Three hundred twelve preliminary requests.
Roman blinked.
“Already?”
“We posted nine minutes ago.”
“Who?”
Cassiel scrolled.
Adult mercenaries.
Guild fighters.
Professional duelists.
Monster-hunters.
Two retired soldiers.
Three people whose biographies simply said independent.
One hellhound wrestler from Nhal-Mora.
A kitsune kickboxer from Valedane.
A Belisaran stone-blooded pit champion currently living as a refugee in Columbia.
Roman:
“Hard.”
Cassiel:
“We haven't opened hostile-state international applications yet.”
Roman:
“Open.”
Cassiel:
“Security?”
Roman:
“Screen warrants.”
Cassiel:
“Citizens of active enemy states?”
Roman thought.
A Karsovan mechanic wasn't automatically Karsovan government.
Avarran boxer wasn't an air strike.
“Let people come.”
Cassiel nodded.
No speech.
Just wrote it.
Roman:
“No propaganda banners.”
“Agreed.”
“No countries fighting countries.”
“Fighters have names.”
“Exactly.”
Cassiel smiled.
There.
They understood each other.
Gideon returned carrying another slate.
“If this becomes an international incident, I am billing you.”
Roman:
“Country pay.”
“You are country executive.”
“Different pocket.”
“Unfortunately, you have learned government.”
Roman smiled.
Someone entered the private room.
Tin Voss.
Warehouse jacket.
Dark hair still wet from outside.
Roman looked.
“Tin.”
Tin looked at him.
“Still slow?”
Roman:
“Get out.”
Tin smiled.
Gideon:
“He's here about the race.”
Roman straightened.
“What race?”
Tin looked toward Gideon.
“He didn't tell you?”
Roman:
“Tell what?”
Gideon smiled.
Revenge.
“There is an old wet-route circuit beneath West Floodgate.”
Roman's face changed.
Tin:
“Physical road. No fold. Six point eight miles.”
Roman:
“When?”
Tin:
“Five nights.”
Roman:
“Bet.”
Tin:
“You haven't heard rules.”
“Don't care.”
Gideon:
“You should.”
Roman:
“Fine.”
Tin handed him route map.
Old maintenance roads beneath the flood-control ring.
Partially open roof sections.
Service tunnels.
Two steep descents.
One long floodwall straight.
Roman stared.
Wet road.
Concrete.
Tight.
Mean.
Perfect.
Tin:
“No combat.”
Roman:
“Why?”
“Because you'll have enough trouble staying on road.”
Roman looked up.
Tin smiled.
“Still got your mirror?”
Roman:
“New one tomorrow.”
“Shame.”
Roman:
“What bet?”
Tin considered.
Roman expected jacket.
Money.
Car part.
Tin:
“If I win, you work one full shift with my electrical crew.”
Roman stared.
Gideon started laughing.
Cassiel immediately lifted his recording lens.
Roman:
“What?”
“Eight hours.”
“Why?”
“Because every time you see infrastructure you say somebody built it.”
“They did.”
“Come find out how.”
Roman looked at Gideon.
Gideon:
“Excellent bet.”
Roman:
“Everybody against me.”
Tin:
“If you win?”
Roman smiled slowly.
“Your car.”
Tin's smile died.
“No.”
“Scared.”
“That's my car.”
“Exactly.”
Tin:
“Absolutely not.”
Roman:
“Then jacket.”
Tin:
“You don't want my jacket.”
Roman:
“That's why.”
Tin sighed.
“Fine.”
They shook.
Cassiel filmed it.
Roman saw.
“Don't make trailer.”
Cassiel:
“Too late.”
Vaelora had bought a truck.
Roman walked through the lower security doors, stopped dead in the middle of the garage, and forgot whatever Nyxara had been saying to him.
The thing parked beside the Gravesend looked like somebody had told a military engineer to build a civilian utility vehicle and the engineer had taken the request personally.
Black.
Tall.
Wide enough that Roman briefly questioned whether it would clear the western ramp.
Heavy mechanical suspension.
Physical tow assembly.
Deep wheel wells.
Actual steel beneath the decorative armor instead of some luxury-market imitation.
Nothing polished enough to become useless.
Roman slowly looked at Vaelora.
“You bought that?”
Vaelora stood beside the driver's door with her arms folded.
Human form.
Black hair streaked metallic gold.
Green eyes pleased with herself.
“Yes.”
“Today?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
Vaelora stared.
Roman thought about the question.
“Right. Money.”
“Correct.”
Xyra slid out from beneath the front axle on a mechanic's creeper.
Dark work trousers.
Hair tied up.
A little oil across one cheek.
“She bought the base chassis,” Xyra said. “The factory suspension isn't surviving her.”
Vaelora looked offended.
“It is rated for industrial hauling.”
“You weigh more than industrial hauling when you partially shift.”
Roman looked between them.
“We?”
Xyra rolled back underneath.
“She asked politely.”
Roman:
“I ask politely.”
From underneath the truck:
“No.”
“Sometimes.”
“No.”
“Fuck you.”
“See?”
Roman smiled.
The Gravesend sat four bays over with half its front body removed.
Roman tried not to look.
Failed.
His face tightened.
Xyra noticed from beneath Vaelora's truck.
“Stop mourning.”
“My car naked.”
“It is a machine.”
“Exactly.”
Mireya sat beside the R9's exposed front suspension with three diagnostic panes hovering around her.
Elys sat on the workbench beside her.
Quiet.
One leg swinging.
She held a wrench Mireya had apparently given her twenty minutes ago and had not yet surrendered.
Roman walked closer.
“You fixing?”
Mireya:
“Measuring.”
“Same.”
“No.”
Elys handed Mireya the wrench.
Mireya took it without looking.
Stopped.
Looked down.
Correct size.
Elys smiled.
Mireya stared at her.
“You've been giving me the wrong one deliberately.”
Elys:
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Wanted you to look at me.”
Mireya went silent.
Roman immediately turned away before Mireya could accuse him of spying.
That was not his business.
Interesting.
Still not his business.
Probably.
Ren's voice came through a speaker under the R9.
“You absolutely turned away so you could listen harder.”
Roman:
“Why you in my garage?”
A tiny service display underneath the car lit up with Ren's face.
Blonde hair.
Smug expression.
Layla somewhere behind him saying something he couldn't hear.
“Remote diagnostics.”
Mireya:
“He means he hacked the maintenance bus.”
“I was invited.”
“You were not.”
Roman crouched.
“Race Sixthday.”
Ren stopped smiling.
“What race?”
Roman smiled.
“Tin.”
“Oh.”
There it was.
Ren understood immediately.
Layla's voice from behind him:
“You're going to lose again.”
Roman:
“Why she always hating?”
Layla came into view.
“Because you brake like the pedal insulted your mother.”
“I fixed that.”
“Mostly.”
“That's improvement.”
“Barely.”
Roman stood.
“Sixthday. Fourteenth Thawwane.”
Mireya looked up.
“Exact time?”
Roman:
“Tin said after dark.”
Xyra:
“That is not an exact time.”
Roman looked toward her.
“Why everybody engineer calendar?”
“Because you asked us to stop letting you destroy continuity.”
Roman paused.
Fair.
He checked his slate.
Tin's message was already there.
Sixthday, 14 Thawwane. 8:30 P.M. West Floodgate maintenance ring. Rain or dry. Don't cry if wet.
Roman showed everybody.
Layla:
“He's funny.”
Roman:
“No.”
Ren:
“He is.”
“No.”
Vaelora:
“I like him.”
Roman stared.
“Why?”
“He defeats you.”
“Relationship over.”
Vaelora's eyebrow rose.
Roman:
“Never mind.”
Good decision.
Nyxara came through the upper garage doors carrying drinks.
One for herself.
One for Roman.
She handed his over without asking.
Roman took it automatically.
That had become a thing.
He liked that it had become a thing.
Céleste followed wearing a dark hooded coat, white fox ears through the proper openings.
No food in her hands.
Roman narrowed his eyes.
“Where food?”
Céleste:
“I ate.”
“All?”
“Yes.”
“Without me?”
“Yes.”
Roman looked genuinely offended.
Céleste smiled.
Sera's voice came from inside Vaelora's truck.
“I had some.”
Everyone turned.
Roman walked to the rear passenger window.
Sera sat inside.
Legs crossed.
Silver-white hair piled halfway across the seat.
Black-and-violet street clothes.
One of Roman's old racing jackets again.
Roman leaned through the open window.
“How long you been there?”
“Long enough.”
Vaelora walked over.
“No.”
Sera looked at her.
“What?”
“This is mine.”
Sera:
“The truck?”
“Yes.”
“I wasn't stealing it.”
“You were sitting in it.”
“Yes.”
Vaelora opened the rear door.
Sera stared.
Vaelora stared back.
Roman watched.
This could go either way.
Sera finally sighed and climbed out.
“Dragons are territorial.”
Vaelora:
“You live in a door.”
“Exactly. I understand property.”
Roman laughed.
Then Vaelora looked at him.
“Come.”
“Where?”
“Driving.”
Roman smiled.
“Oh.”
Xyra:
“No.”
Roman:
“Why you no everything?”
“Because she has never driven.”
Vaelora:
“I can fly.”
“That is precisely why I'm worried.”
Roman:
“Driving easier.”
Every driver in the garage looked at him.
Roman slowly added:
“Eventually.”
Better.
Vaelora held out the keys.
Roman looked.
Then at her.
“You want me teach?”
“Yes.”
Roman smiled.
“That's date?”
Vaelora considered.
“Yes.”
Roman:
“Fire.”
Nyxara leaned against the R9.
“Go.”
Roman looked toward her.
“Our thing?”
“Thirdday.”
Roman stopped.
She smiled.
“You thought I forgot?”
“Nah.”
“You did.”
“Maybe.”
Nyxara tapped his chest lightly, avoiding the healing wound.
“Thirdday, 11 Thawwane. Evening. Mine.”
Roman nodded.
“Got.”
Céleste lifted one hand.
“Fifthday.”
Roman looked.
“What?”
“Mine.”
“Everybody got calendar now?”
Céleste:
“Yes.”
“Doing what?”
“Nothing.”
Roman:
“That still ain't a date.”
“It is.”
“Where?”
“My mother's garden house.”
Roman remembered.
Valecourt grounds.
Foxfire ponds.
Quiet.
Probably no explosions.
Suspicious.
Céleste looked at him.
“Fifthday, 13 Thawwane.”
Roman:
“Fine.”
She smiled.
Marcella came down the stairs before Roman finished saying it.
Expensive black coat.
Burgundy underneath.
Hair done.
Not a strand wet despite the weather.
Imperial technology.
Or servants.
Probably both.
She saw Roman surrounded by three girls, Vaelora holding truck keys, Xyra underneath the vehicle and Sera still wearing Roman's jacket.
Marcella stopped.
“Am I interrupting a transportation cult?”
Roman:
“Yes.”
She walked directly over anyway.
“Good.”
Marcella caught Roman by the open front of his jacket and pulled him half a step closer.
No greeting.
Just:
“Fourthday.”
Roman looked down at her hand.
Then her.
“What Fourthday?”
“Me.”
“Doing what?”
“I'm not telling you.”
Sera:
“She was going to make you dress formal.”
Marcella slowly turned toward her.
Sera smiled.
Marcella looked back at Roman.
“Not anymore.”
Roman laughed.
“You changing whole date because she guessed?”
“Yes.”
“Petty.”
“Imperial.”
Julian's voice came through Marcella's phone.
“You cannot call everything imperial because you are annoyed.”
Marcella looked down.
Apparently she'd left him on speaker.
“Watch me.”
Maelira laughed somewhere in the background.
Roman:
“Where y'all?”
Julian:
“Transit.”
Marcella:
“They're boring.”
Maelira:
“You were invited.”
Marcella:
“I chose Roman.”
Roman's eyebrows rose.
Marcella saw.
“Don't make that face.”
“What face?”
“The one where you think you won.”
Roman smiled.
Marcella leaned closer.
“You didn't.”
Then kissed his cheek and stole the drink from his hand.
Roman stared.
“You got money.”
Marcella drank.
“Yours tastes better.”
Nyxara:
“It doesn't.”
Marcella looked toward her.
“Then why do you keep buying it for him?”
Nyxara smiled.
“Because he likes it.”
Marcella paused.
That landed.
Not rivalry.
Information.
She handed Roman's drink back.
“Fine. I'll find something else.”
Roman:
“To steal?”
“Yes.”
Xyra, still under the truck:
“His sunglasses are in the center console.”
Roman:
“XYRA.”
Marcella immediately went toward the Gravesend.
Roman chased her.
The entire garage deteriorated.
Vaelora laughed.
Nyxara sat on the hood of a repair cart to watch.
Céleste took Roman's abandoned drink.
Sera climbed back into the truck while Vaelora wasn't looking.
Mireya yelled at everyone to stay away from the open suspension.
Elys quietly stole Mireya's screwdriver.
Roman's slate rang while he was trying to stop Marcella from reaching inside his damaged car.
Eirene.
Roman stopped.
Marcella still had one arm through the window.
“Answer.”
Roman:
“You stealing.”
“I can do both.”
He answered.
Eirene appeared in pale projection above the phone.
White-silver hair.
Valedane evening clothes.
Somewhere behind her, rain hit a tall palace window.
Her eyes moved once.
Roman.
Marcella halfway inside his car.
Vaelora's giant truck.
Sera inside it.
Céleste with Roman's drink.
Xyra under an axle.
Mireya surrounded by diagnostics.
Elys holding stolen tools.
Eirene:
“I called at an interesting time.”
Roman:
“Normal.”
Marcella, muffled inside the car:
“Found them.”
Roman grabbed her waist and pulled her backward.
She came out holding his sunglasses.
Eirene watched.
Roman:
“Give.”
Marcella put them on.
“No.”
Eirene's mouth moved slightly.
Possibly a smile.
Roman looked at the projection.
“What up?”
“I received Cassiel's tournament notice.”
“Already?”
“Yes.”
“Entering?”
“No.”
Roman:
“Why?”
Eirene looked at him like he had asked why water was wet.
“I do not need five million crowns.”
“Ten now.”
Pause.
“You increased it?”
“Yeah.”
“That did not improve my answer.”
Roman laughed.
Eirene continued.
“Valedane will send competitors.”
“How many?”
“Too many already.”
“Good.”
“And you owe me an evening.”
Roman stopped.
There it was.
Marcella slowly looked toward the projection.
Céleste's ears rose.
Nyxara drank.
Sera leaned out of Vaelora's truck window.
Roman:
“When?”
Eirene:
“Not this week.”
Roman blinked.
“Everybody else booking.”
“I know.”
“How?”
Eirene simply looked at him.
Roman:
“Right.”
Never ask how Eirene knew something.
She continued.
“I want you in Valedane after the tournament registrations settle. No race. No camera crew. No diplomatic dinner.”
Roman:
“Food?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“Games.”
Roman smiled.
“Better.”
“And one hour where nobody asks either of us to explain metaphysics.”
Roman:
“Best.”
Eirene's expression softened.
“Then remember.”
“Got you.”
“Good.”
Projection ended.
Sera:
“She got the best date.”
Céleste:
“She waited.”
Marcella adjusted Roman's sunglasses.
“I can beat that.”
Nyxara:
“That's not the point.”
Marcella:
“I know.”
Then, after half a beat:
“Still can.”
There she was.
Roman liked that better.
Mireya finally spoke from beside the R9.
“I want one too.”
The garage went quieter.
Roman turned.
Mireya looked immediately irritated that she had said it in front of everybody.
Elys looked at her.
Roman:
“Date?”
Mireya pushed her glasses higher.
“No.”
Roman waited.
Mireya:
“Maybe.”
Roman smiled.
She pointed at him.
“Do not.”
“What?”
“That.”
“What?”
“Your face.”
Everybody laughed.
Mireya looked toward Elys.
Elys was smiling too.
Mireya:
“You're not helping.”
Elys:
“I know.”
Roman walked over.
“What you want?”
Mireya looked down at the exposed suspension.
Then at Roman.
“A day in the engineering quarter.”
Roman:
“That's work.”
“No meetings.”
“Okay.”
“No war room.”
“Good.”
“No interrupting me every seven minutes asking if something is finished.”
Roman:
“Hard.”
Mireya's eyes narrowed.
“Then no.”
Roman:
“Fine.”
“No touching prototypes without permission.”
“That's too far.”
Mireya turned away.
Roman grabbed her sleeve lightly.
“Fine.”
She looked back.
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
Mireya thought about it.
Then nodded once.
“After the tournament prototype is stable.”
Roman:
“Exact date later?”
“Yes.”
Good.
No need to schedule every relationship like a dentist appointment.
Just enough that nobody disappeared.
Vaelora tossed Roman the truck keys.
He caught them.
“Firstday mine,” she said.
Roman smiled.
“Tonight.”
“Tonight.”
Then she looked toward Sera.
Sera was somehow back inside the truck.
Vaelora closed her eyes.
“Sera.”
Sera:
“Yes?”
“Out.”
“Oppression.”
Roman laughed all the way to the driver's side.
Céleste stole Roman's meat again.
He watched the chopsticks cross the table.
Watched one glazed piece leave his bowl.
Watched it enter her mouth.
Céleste chewed.
Roman:
“You got your own.”
“Mine different.”
“You ordered it.”
“Yes.”
“Then?”
“I wanted that one.”
Roman slid his bowl farther away.
Céleste's white tail curled behind her stool.
“Mean.”
“Survival.”
Merrit's old counter was packed.
Not glamorous.
Better.
Night couriers.
Two mechanics.
Three academy students.
One tired security worker.
A fairy asleep inside a scarf pocket on somebody's shoulder.
Outside, mist moved down the station stairs and made the blue founding line shine.
Dare sat farther down with two Freeblood couriers.
He had his own life.
Roman liked seeing that.
Kei's usual stool was empty.
His new Blackwarren transformation had earned him Doctor Vey's personal order to stay home.
He had sent Roman twelve complaints.
The newest was a photograph.
Kei lying face-down on his couch.
His younger sister sitting cross-legged on his back while reading.
Caption:
tell this bitch move
Roman replied:
nah
Immediate:
fuck you
Roman saved that too.
Céleste leaned against his shoulder.
“You're smiling.”
“Kei suffering.”
“That's romantic.”
“Different romance.”
She laughed.
Roman checked the in-world calendar on his slate.
FIRSTDAY — 9 THAWWANE
Below it:
SECONDDAY — 10 THAWWANE
THIRDDAY — 11 THAWWANE
FOURTHDAY — 12 THAWWANE
FIFTHDAY — 13 THAWWANE
SIXTHDAY — 14 THAWWANE
SEVENTHDAY — 15 THAWWANE
Céleste saw.
“Planning?”
Roman:
“Everybody hijacking week.”
“Good.”
Roman looked.
“Good?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
She took another piece of meat.
Roman slapped her chopsticks.
Céleste stared.
Roman stared back.
Then she leaned closer.
“Because if we don't take your time, something else does.”
That was irritatingly accurate.
Roman:
“Government.”
“War.”
“Rook.”
“Ren.”
Roman:
“Ren don't count.”
“Ren counts twice.”
“Facts.”
Céleste rested her chin briefly against his shoulder.
Roman looked at the schedule again.
“Secondday garage.”
“Xyra.”
“Probably.”
“Thirdday Nyxara.”
“Yeah.”
“Fourthday Marcella.”
“Yeah.”
“Fifthday me.”
Roman glanced over.
“Claiming whole day?”
“Maybe.”
Roman:
“Greedy.”
Céleste:
“Fox.”
Roman laughed.
“Sixthday race.”
She immediately frowned.
Roman:
“What?”
“Tin.”
“Yeah.”
“Wet?”
“Rain or dry.”
“Stupid.”
“Fun.”
“Same thing.”
Roman looked farther down the calendar.
“Seventhday empty.”
Céleste:
“It won't stay empty.”
Roman knew.
The tournament alone was already turning his messages into garbage.
Astraea had sent one earlier he hadn't opened yet.
Roman frowned.
“Shit.”
Céleste:
“What?”
“Astraea.”
He opened it.
Not a complaint.
A photograph.
A quiet upper Rook garden with evening light across silver stone.
Then:
I refuse to reserve you like a dining room. When you have time, come find me.
Roman read twice.
Céleste read over his shoulder.
“That's very Astraea.”
Roman:
“Yeah.”
Second message arrived.
Preferably before your next vehicle catches fire.
Roman smiled.
“She's hating.”
Céleste:
“She likes you.”
“Same.”
He replied:
bet
Three dots.
Astraea:
That is not an answer.
Roman:
means yes
Pause.
I know. I wanted you to type more.
Roman laughed.
There.
She wasn't absent.
She was just Astraea.
Didn't need to compete with Marcella's Fourthday or Céleste's Fifthday.
Céleste bumped his shoulder.
“Go.”
Roman:
“Where?”
“Nyxara.”
“That's Thirdday.”
“I know.”
“Then?”
“You promised her tonight too.”
Roman stopped.
Right.
Nyxara's original “somewhere” drive.
Not the same as her Thirdday date.
Different.
Céleste saw the realization.
“You forgot.”
“No.”
“You did.”
“Little.”
She rolled her eyes.
Roman:
“Could stay.”
“No.”
“You kicking me out?”
“Yes.”
“Rude.”
“You came for food.”
“And you.”
Céleste's expression softened.
Just a little.
“Fifthday.”
Roman smiled.
“Fifthday.”
He stood.
Merrit's cashier immediately:
“Pay.”
Roman:
“I was going.”
“No, you weren't.”
Dare laughed from down the counter.
Roman:
“Everybody disrespectful.”
He paid.
Nyxara drove like she had personal beef with straight lines.
Roman sat passenger.
He hated it.
He also liked it.
That made it worse.
Her car was dark burgundy-black, long and low, quiet until she asked something from it.
Then not quiet.
Roman held the door handle through the third corner.
Nyxara saw.
“You're scared.”
“No.”
“Your pulse.”
“Everybody need stop listening to my body.”
“I can't.”
“Then lie.”
“No.”
She smiled.
The road opened along the eastern floodwall.
Wet black pavement reflected signal lights.
Floodline's river shimmered beyond the barrier.
A freight train moved beneath them.
Far above, two civilian sky-ferries crossed opposite directions.
Roman looked over.
“Where we going?”
“Nowhere.”
“You been saying that.”
“Yes.”
“Whole city somewhere.”
“Not tonight.”
She took another curve.
Roman leaned with it.
Better.
“Thirdday still?”
Nyxara:
“Yes.”
“Then what's this?”
She looked at him briefly.
“This is because yesterday you almost died.”
Roman went quiet.
Nyxara faced road again.
No dramatic confession.
No fear speech.
No fucking relationship summit.
She just drove.
After maybe thirty seconds, Roman reached across the center console.
Nyxara looked down.
He took her hand.
She let him.
Her thumb moved once across his knuckles.
That was all.
The radio interrupted music.
“—Karsovan forces abandoned the Hark rail triangle before dawn following the loss of two ammunition depots and the capture of the eastern switching complex…”
Roman listened.
“Neutral military observers now describe the northern campaign as structurally one-sided, though coalition commanders warn that Karsov retains deep industrial reserves west of the current line…”
Nyxara:
“They're losing.”
Roman:
“Yeah.”
“Quickly.”
“Not quick enough.”
Nyxara looked at him.
Roman knew.
Wrong answer.
Not morally.
Practically.
War didn't become safe because you were winning.
It became dangerous in different ways.
Cornered countries did stupid shit.
His father had taught him that.
His grandfather too.
First life had taught it in a different language.
Roman looked out the window.
“Still got civilians west.”
“Yes.”
“Can't just crush.”
“No.”
Roman exhaled.
“Annoying.”
Nyxara smiled.
“You're learning governance.”
“Don't say ugly things on date.”
“This is not the date.”
Roman looked over.
She smiled.
“Thirdday is the date.”
“So this?”
“Mine anyway.”
Roman laughed.
Better answer.
Roman came home and found Cassiel asleep on his sofa.
One boot on.
One off.
A black recording crystal hovered above him, rotating slowly.
Roman closed the door.
“Bro.”
Cassiel opened one eye.
“Registration.”
“Go home.”
“Four thousand eight hundred twelve.”
Roman stopped halfway across the room.
“What?”
Cassiel sat up.
“Tournament applications.”
“Already?”
“It has been eight hours.”
“That ain't long.”
“For you?”
Cassiel rubbed his face.
“Apparently not.”
Roman dropped into the opposite chair.
The calendar panel on Cassiel's slate now correctly read:
SECONDDAY, 10 THAWWANE, 427 F.C.
Cassiel handed the slate over.
Applicants:
Columbia.
Valedane.
Nhal-Mora.
Varkesh.
Independent city-states.
Guild enclaves.
Mercenary companies.
Refugees.
Foreign residents.
Four hostile-state citizens already requesting neutral-entry review.
Roman scrolled.
“Let them.”
Cassiel:
“Within screening.”
“Obviously.”
“Your definition of obvious is historically expensive.”
Roman ignored him.
A second number appeared.
SPONSORSHIP OFFERS — 31,440,000 CROWNS
Roman stared.
“Damn.”
“Before international broadcast packages.”
“Prize bigger.”
Cassiel:
“Yes.”
“Ten million first.”
Cassiel:
“I knew you would say that.”
“Two second.”
“I wrote that already.”
Roman looked.
Cassiel had.
“Half million each semifinal.”
Also there.
Roman stared.
“You know me.”
“Occupational hazard.”
Roman smiled.
Another tab.
CROWNLESS OPEN — PROVISIONAL PURSE
Champion: 10,000,000 crowns
Runner-up: 2,000,000
Semifinalists: 500,000 each
Division purses: pending
Performance bonuses: pending
Sponsor awards: pending
Roman:
“Hard.”
Cassiel:
“Gideon used a more technical word.”
“What?”
“Exposure.”
Roman laughed.
“Where tournament date?”
“Not set.”
“Why?”
“Because the freight bowl requires structural review, Rook wants medical standards, Mireya wants the sensor package tested, Gideon wants insurance, Helena wants treaty screening, and Seraphine wants vampire feeding protocols.”
Roman stared.
Cassiel:
“This is what happens when your stupid idea becomes real.”
Roman:
“Make happen.”
“I am.”
Good.
His phone buzzed.
Corvan.
Roman opened it.
Photograph.
A black sedan outside South Gate.
Driver's door open.
No person.
Second image.
A dead man inside a drainage cut farther down.
Roman's smile disappeared.
Message:
Rosen Mere account manager. Somebody got there first.
Roman typed:
when
Between 11:20 and 11:50.
Roman:
why
Corvan:
Working.
Then another:
He had Crownless Open registration open on his phone.
Roman sat back.
Cassiel saw his face.
“What?”
Roman showed him.
Cassiel read.
Then looked toward the registration number.
Four thousand eight hundred twelve.
Roman:
“He was watching.”
“Maybe.”
“Or coming.”
“Maybe.”
“Or somebody wanted him here.”
“Also maybe.”
Roman frowned.
Cassiel:
“Don't invent certainty because the mystery annoys you.”
Roman looked over.
“Sound like Helena.”
“I've been editing you for years.”
Fair.
Roman called Corvan.
Second ring.
“Yeah.”
“You think tournament bad?”
Corvan was quiet for a second.
“Security nightmare.”
Roman:
“That's not answer.”
“Also best fishing net you've accidentally built.”
Roman smiled.
Cassiel immediately:
“No.”
Roman:
“You don't know.”
“I know your face.”
Roman:
“Fuck that phrase.”
Corvan laughed through the call.
“Thousands of fighters, agents, gamblers, old military, mercs, foreign houses, crime crews, noble security, sponsors. Everybody who wants money or attention comes.”
Roman:
“Assassins too.”
“Maybe.”
“Then find.”
Corvan:
“That's the job.”
Simple.
No dramatic vow.
Roman liked Corvan.
Another message came in.
Tin.
Roman opened.
Sixthday, 14 Thawwane. 8:30 P.M. Don't bring the black car if Xyra still got it in pieces.
Roman typed:
itll be ready
Xyra responded from another thread almost immediately.
No guarantee.
Roman:
why you reading tin chat
Xyra:
Because you forwarded the route to the garage group.
Roman stared.
Fuck.
Cassiel:
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Roman opened his week.
Secondday — Xyra / garage
Thirdday — Nyxara
Fourthday — Marcella
Fifthday — Céleste
Sixthday — Tin rematch, West Floodgate, 8:30 P.M.
Seventhday — open
Below that, unscheduled:
Astraea — find her
Eirene — after tournament registration settles
Mireya — engineering quarter, date TBD
Vaelora — tonight completed / driving lesson continued
Sera — ???
Roman stared at the final line.
Sera had added it herself.
He knew because there was a little rabbit icon beside it.
Roman:
“No.”
Cassiel:
“What now?”
Roman looked toward his closet.
The door opened.
Not normally.
Beyond it:
Silver grass.
Black sky.
Mr. Buttons sitting under a crooked white tree.
Sera's voice came through.
“Secondday technically started.”
Roman stared.
“You cannot book whole day at twelve-twenty.”
“I didn't.”
“What you booking?”
“Twenty minutes.”
Roman narrowed his eyes.
“Why?”
“Come find out.”
Cassiel raised his recording crystal.
Roman pointed.
“No.”
Cassiel:
“Documentary.”
“No.”
Roman stood.
His healing chest pulled slightly.
He ignored it.
Walked toward the impossible closet.
Stopped.
Looked back.
“Twenty.”
Sera's voice:
“Thirty.”
“Twenty-five.”
“Done.”
Cassiel:
“You negotiate extradimensional dates exactly like casino revenue.”
Roman:
“Everything money.”
He stepped through.
The door closed.
Cassiel sat alone.
Three seconds.
Five.
Then Roman's voice came faintly through the solid closet door:
“SERA WHY THE FUCK IS THERE A SECOND MOON?”
Cassiel immediately lifted the recording crystal.
Roman:
“I HEARD THAT SHIT TURN ON.”
Cassiel smiled.
The closet stayed closed.
Outside Sovereign House, Secondday, 10 Thawwane had barely begun.
Floodline's streets were wet.
The war kept moving.
Delphine's family was still trying to decide its future with inheritance claims and hired killers.
The Crownless Open had existed for less than a day and was already worth more money than most small cities saw in a year.
Tin Voss had Roman's Sixthday night reserved for humiliation.
Half Roman's romantic life had independently colonized the rest of his week.
And somewhere inside an impossible piece of Sera's residence, Roman was apparently arguing with astronomy.
Sovereign House continued operating without him.
Exactly as it should.