Chapter Seventy-Three: Everybody Wanted a Piece
Fourthday, 12 Thawwane, 427 F.C.
Free Territory of Floodline — Sovereign House, Western Rooms
9:41 A.M.
46°F / 8°C — overcast, damp pavement, light river wind
Roman woke because Nyxara was stealing his pillow.
Not borrowing.
Stealing.
He opened one eye and found half his face pressed against the mattress while Nyxara slept peacefully beside him with both arms wrapped around the thing.
Roman stared.
“Yo.”
Nothing.
“Nyx.”
Her small horns barely showed through violet-black hair spread across the sheet.
No reaction.
Roman pulled.
Nyxara tightened her grip without waking.
“That's mine.”
From somewhere near his feet:
“So was the blanket.”
Roman looked down.
Céleste was awake.
White fox ears above the blankets.
Only her eyes and ears visible.
Roman:
“You got your own.”
Céleste:
“Cold.”
“You always say cold.”
“It keeps working.”
Roman looked toward the windows.
Gray Floodline morning.
Condensation along the lower black glass.
Forty-six degrees outside according to the room pane.
Not actually that cold.
Roman:
“Fraud.”
Céleste's tail slid out from the blanket and curled around his ankle.
Roman:
“See? Hostage situation.”
A soft page turned near the windows.
Roman froze.
Then looked.
Eirene sat in the deep chair beside the balcony.
Bare feet tucked beneath her.
Pale clothes under one of Roman's black cardigans.
A reading slate rested against one knee.
She had been so still Roman's senses had folded her into the room itself.
Again.
Roman stared at her for longer than necessary.
Eirene looked up.
Dark eyes met icy blue.
“Morning.”
Roman's chest did something irritating.
Not pain.
Different.
He covered it with attitude.
“When you get here?”
“Late.”
“That ain't time.”
“No.”
Roman kept looking.
Eirene lowered the slate.
“You want me to leave?”
“No.”
Too fast.
Céleste's ears twitched.
Eirene watched him.
Roman rubbed his face.
“Just—”
He stopped.
Didn't have a sentence he liked.
Eirene did not make him finish it.
She stood.
Crossed the room.
Sat on the edge of the bed beside him.
Nothing dramatic.
Her shoulder touched his.
Roman leaned into it without deciding to.
Eirene's hand found his.
That was it.
The missing pressure inside his room eased.
Roman hated realizing how much he'd noticed when she wasn't there.
So naturally he said:
“You stole my cardigan.”
Eirene looked down.
“Yes.”
“Everybody steal clothes.”
“Yes.”
“You ain't sorry.”
“No.”
Roman smiled.
There she was.
Nyxara finally woke.
One crimson-violet eye opened.
She looked at Roman.
Then Eirene.
Then the pillow in her arms.
“Oh.”
Roman:
“Thief.”
Nyxara pulled the pillow under her chin.
“Evidence says mine.”
“You took it off my face.”
“Possession.”
Céleste:
“She has a strong case.”
Roman:
“Y'all corrupt.”
A quiet mechanical clicking came from Roman's lounge.
Mireya.
Roman recognized the rhythm now.
Not footsteps.
Tool case.
He looked toward the open doorway.
Mireya crossed past without entering.
Glasses on.
Hair tied back.
Dark work clothes.
A slim Threatglass frame on her forehead instead of over her eyes.
She carried two floating diagnostic panes and a cup she had forgotten to drink.
Roman:
“Morning.”
Mireya stopped.
Looked into the bedroom.
Nyxara in bed.
Céleste buried at the foot.
Eirene beside Roman.
Mireya:
“Good. You're conscious.”
Roman:
“Romantic.”
“I need you conscious at seventeen hundred.”
“Why?”
“Calibration.”
“No.”
Mireya resumed walking.
“Cassiel also needs you.”
“Still no.”
“He says you're commentating.”
Roman sat straighter.
“What?”
Mireya disappeared into the lounge.
“No idea.”
“Come back.”
“No.”
Roman looked at Eirene.
“You hear that?”
“Yes.”
“I'm not doing commentary.”
Eirene:
“You are.”
Roman:
“Why everybody know?”
“Because Cassiel sent the broadcast schedule.”
Roman reached for his slate.
Could not find it.
Nyxara lifted it from beneath her hair.
Roman stared.
“How?”
“I rolled onto it.”
“You gonna break screen.”
“Then buy another.”
Rich-girl logic.
He took it.
The display was full of Crownless Open notices.
Preliminary showcase.
Sponsor auction.
Betting windows.
Press accreditation.
One feature exhibition.
One commentary assignment Roman absolutely had not approved.
Then Cassiel's message:
OREN PELL AND TESSA BRANN REQUESTED YOU.
Roman stopped.
Nyxara saw his face.
“You're doing it.”
Roman:
“Maybe.”
Céleste:
“You just changed.”
“Shut up.”
A second message:
DO NOT SWEAR DURING SPONSOR READS.
Roman:
“Now I'm not.”
Eirene leaned against him enough to read.
“Do it.”
Roman looked over.
“You wanna watch?”
“Yes.”
“From booth?”
“If there's room.”
Roman smiled.
“There's room.”
Eirene's fingers laced through his.
Roman didn't notice he had squeezed back until Nyxara's tail flicked against his leg.
The balcony doors opened.
Vaelora entered from outside.
Human form.
Black hair moving in the river wind.
Metallic-gold strands bright despite the gray weather.
Roman looked.
“You been outside again?”
“Yes.”
“Cold.”
“No.”
“You dragon.”
“Yes.”
Fair.
Vaelora carried something under one arm.
Roman's black racing coat.
Freshly repaired.
Roman sat up.
“Oh.”
She tossed it.
He caught it.
The side seam where the Wreckway bolt had ripped through was nearly invisible.
Roman ran his thumb over it.
“Xyra?”
“Xyra repaired the material. Astraea repaired the ward stitching.”
Roman looked toward the lounge.
“She's here?”
Astraea answered from behind him.
“Yes.”
Roman jumped.
“Why everybody fucking invisible today?”
Astraea stood near the wardrobe.
Layers of dark fabric and pale metallic accents, more covered than the others because that was simply how Astraea dressed.
She held a thin black ribbon between her fingers.
Her expression barely changed.
“You were distracted.”
Roman:
“Everybody use that excuse.”
Astraea approached.
“Turn.”
“Again?”
“Your hair.”
Roman turned automatically.
Astraea retied one of the loose blonde sections that had fallen around his shoulder during sleep.
Her fingers were careful.
Familiar.
Roman stopped complaining.
She finished.
Touched the side of his head once.
Then:
“Better.”
Roman turned back.
“You coming today?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Astraea's expression softened a fraction.
Not much.
Enough.
Sera's head suddenly appeared upside down from behind the bed.
Roman screamed.
“WHAT THE FUCK?”
Sera laughed so hard she rolled onto the floor.
Roman stared over the mattress.
Long silver-white hair everywhere.
Mr. Buttons sitting calmly beside her.
Roman:
“How long you down there?”
Sera:
“Seven minutes.”
“WHY?”
“Wanted to see when you'd notice.”
Céleste:
“I noticed.”
Sera looked betrayed.
“You didn't say.”
Céleste:
“Was funny.”
Roman:
“All of you got problems.”
Nyxara finally sat up, still holding the stolen pillow.
“Your problems.”
Roman looked around the room.
Nyxara.
Céleste.
Eirene.
Vaelora.
Astraea.
Sera on the floor.
Mireya working ten feet away pretending she wasn't listening.
For once the Western Rooms did not feel like a giant beautiful place built for one kid who had too much money.
It felt crowded.
Messy.
His.
Better.
Roman looked at Eirene again.
Still there.
Good.
He got out of bed.
“Food.”
Sera:
“Bath first.”
Roman looked down at himself.
“Why?”
Seven different expressions answered.
Roman:
“Fuck y'all.”
---
Fourthday, 12 Thawwane, 427 F.C.
Sovereign House — West Courtyard
10:38 A.M.
47°F / 8°C — cloud cover thinning, streets still wet
Roman's breakfast lasted twelve minutes before government found him.
Not Helena.
A regular clerk.
Worse.
The young woman crossed the courtyard in a dark Floodline service coat carrying a slate and stopped beside Roman's table.
“Executive Duvall?”
Roman had toast in his mouth.
He pointed at himself.
The clerk waited.
Roman chewed.
Swallowed.
“Yeah?”
“A citizen filed an emergency commercial petition regarding the tournament.”
Roman:
“No.”
The clerk looked down.
“I haven't told you what it is.”
“Still.”
Eirene sat beside Roman.
Nyxara across from him.
Vaelora eating enough breakfast for somebody with a much larger body hidden somewhere inside her.
Astraea had tea.
Céleste was systematically stealing fruit from Roman's plate while pretending she wasn't.
Sera had taken two chairs and was using one for her boots.
Mr. Buttons sat underneath the table.
Mireya had already left for the Freight Bowl laboratory.
Roman envied her.
The clerk continued.
“A vendor claims the temporary tournament ordinance discriminates against mobile food sellers.”
Roman:
“How?”
“Wheel-width restriction.”
Roman stared.
“What?”
“They require service carts under one-point-eight meters for upper concourse access.”
“Okay.”
“His is one-point-eight-seven.”
Roman:
“Then too big.”
“He says seven centimeters is regulatory tyranny.”
Roman stared.
Eirene calmly buttered bread.
Nyxara's mouth moved.
Céleste gave up pretending and stole another piece of fruit.
Roman:
“What he sell?”
The clerk checked.
“Fried river eel.”
Roman:
A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
“Good?”
“I don't know.”
“Why you bring me?”
“He demanded executive review.”
Roman leaned back.
“Deny.”
The clerk's stylus moved.
Then Sera:
“Wait.”
Everybody looked.
Sera:
“What sauce?”
Roman:
“No.”
The clerk, still professional:
“Apparently three.”
Sera:
“Review.”
Roman stared at her.
“You are not government.”
“Correct. My judgment is therefore cleaner.”
Eirene quietly laughed.
Roman looked toward her.
That alone nearly got the eel cart approved.
He caught himself.
“Send transportation inspector. If cart fit safe, let him through. If not, he gotta move seven centimeters of bullshit.”
The clerk:
“Understood.”
She left.
Roman shook his head.
“People really appeal food cart to me.”
Nyxara:
“You made yourself accessible.”
“Worst mistake.”
A large wall pane inside the courtyard gallery changed from local transit to international news.
No one asked it to.
Routine rotation.
Karsov.
A rail yard Roman recognized only because he had watched it change hands twice on maps.
Smoke.
Armored vehicles.
Floodline and Columbian logistics flags moving behind captured switching towers.
The headline:
HARK WESTERN FREIGHT LINE ABANDONED AFTER OVERNIGHT WITHDRAWAL
Another strip below:
KARSOV DENIES FRONT COLLAPSE — CALLS MOVEMENT “OPERATIONAL CONSOLIDATION”
Vaelora looked once.
“Retreat.”
Roman:
“Yeah.”
Astraea:
“They're shortening their supply lines.”
Roman looked at her.
She rarely inserted herself into war talk unless she had something worth saying.
“Bad?”
“For them?”
“Yes.”
“For us?”
“Potentially.”
Roman waited.
Astraea lifted her tea.
“Cornered states become creative.”
There it was.
Eirene's eyes stayed on the screen.
“Especially when they have fewer roads left.”
Roman glanced toward her.
She knew kingdoms.
More than she liked admitting.
A second headline crossed:
NAMARRA ACCEPTS THIRD INSPECTED MEDICAL CORRIDOR
Nyxara:
“Good.”
Roman looked.
“You know?”
“Nhal-Moran blood inspectors are assisting.”
“Didn't tell me.”
“You didn't ask.”
“Everybody running country behind me.”
Eirene:
“Yes.”
Roman:
“Damn.”
The feed moved on.
Ardenmere.
River estates.
No explosions in the shot.
Which somehow looked worse.
ROSEN MERE STEWARD FOUND DEAD IN FLOODLINE — SUCCESSION FACTIONS TRADE ACCUSATIONS
Roman's appetite dipped.
Only slightly.
Corvan had found the body on Secondday.
Since then, three Ardenmere factions had accused one another.
Morvale denied everything.
Rosen Mere claimed evidence tampering.
A third branch Roman barely remembered had suddenly discovered moral objections to murder.
Delphine had called them “opportunistic cunts” in a language Roman was steadily learning for the wrong reasons.
His slate chimed.
Speak of the devil.
Cassian.
Secure message:
delphine says dont let commentator mention her family
Roman typed:
why would they
Cassian:
because people are assholes
Roman:
fair
Then:
you entering open
Cassian:
tamsin says no
A second message arrived immediately.
Tamsin.
I said “not until we know whether three of his in-laws are actively attempting to murder him.”
Roman laughed.
Cassian:
same thing
Rhea sent:
I entered.
Roman:
obviously
Then Delphine:
I also entered.
Roman stared.
Roman:
why
Delphine:
Spite.
Roman looked around the breakfast table.
“Delphine entering.”
Vaelora:
“Good.”
Nyxara:
“Medical cleared?”
Roman:
“Probably not.”
Nyxara's eyes narrowed.
Roman quickly sent:
nyxara asking if medical cleared
Delphine:
Tell Nyxara I respect her deeply and therefore decline to answer.
Roman showed Nyxara.
Nyxara smiled without humor.
“Oh, she's getting examined.”
Roman:
“Not my problem.”
Nyxara stood.
Roman:
“Where you going?”
“Making it my problem.”
She kissed Roman's temple.
Then left with her cup.
Roman watched.
Eirene:
“You like that.”
Roman:
“What?”
“People who refuse to listen to you.”
Roman looked around.
Vaelora.
Sera.
Céleste.
Astraea.
Nyxara disappearing through the door.
Mireya somewhere building technology he hadn't asked permission to touch.
Roman:
“Apparently.”
Sera:
“Poor thing.”
“Shut up.”
---
Fourthday, 12 Thawwane, 427 F.C.
Bell Thread — Lower Meridian Motor Auction
2:52 P.M.
49°F / 9°C — dry, pale afternoon light
Marcella had not reserved Roman's day.
She had found an auction.
Different.
Better.
Her projection arrived while Roman was halfway through arguing with Vaelora over whether a truck required two spare tires.
The invitation contained six words:
OLD MOTORCARS. GIDEON'S BASEMENT. COME NOW.
Roman came.
So did Vaelora.
Xyra met them there because somebody had told her “project chassis” and that was apparently equivalent to a summoning ritual.
Eirene followed Roman without announcing that she was following.
Astraea came because Eirene came.
Céleste came because there was food downstairs.
Sera came because somebody had told her she shouldn't.
Marcella stood inside the entrance when the group arrived.
She looked at all of them.
Then Roman.
“You brought everybody.”
Roman:
“You said motorcars.”
Marcella considered.
“Fair.”
No sulking.
No weird monopoly claim.
She turned.
“Come on. Lot Thirty-One is hideous.”
Vaelora:
“How hideous?”
“Beautifully.”
Vaelora immediately liked Marcella more.
The Lower Meridian smelled like waxed stone, old leather, hot coffee and money.
Rows of collector motorcars sat beneath warm suspended lights.
Older designs from before high-efficiency aether suspension became standard.
Pre-Fold racers.
Government transports.
Retired luxury vehicles.
Two Namarrian coupes with bodies long enough to require their own postal districts.
A Karsovan executive sedan whose armor was hidden so elegantly Roman didn't notice until Xyra knocked on the door.
Xyra:
“Layered steel.”
Roman:
“How much?”
“Too much.”
“Need.”
“You need everything.”
“Correct.”
Eirene stopped beside a small silver Valedane roadster.
Roman noticed because she stopped.
Eirene did not usually stop for objects.
Roman walked back.
“What?”
“Old.”
“How old?”
“Three hundred eighty-eight.”
Roman checked the lot slate.
CALDRIS AURELINE 4 — SERIES II
Roman looked at her.
“Your family?”
“Yes.”
“You got one?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“They were considered vulgar.”
Roman stared at the little two-seat roadster.
Low windshield.
Silver body.
Deep blue interior.
Mechanical steering.
Very little decorative wardwork.
“Hard.”
Eirene's mouth moved.
Roman:
“What?”
“My grandmother hated them.”
“Then definitely hard.”
Eirene touched the front fender with two fingers.
Roman watched her face.
Not nostalgia exactly.
Something close.
“You want?”
“No.”
Roman waited.
Eirene looked at him.
“No.”
Roman smiled.
“Liar.”
She turned away.
Roman immediately raised his bidding slate.
Eirene caught his wrist.
“No.”
“What?”
“I can buy my own motorcar.”
“Then buy.”
“I don't need it.”
“Neither do I.”
“That has never stopped you.”
“Exactly.”
Astraea stood on Eirene's other side.
Quiet.
Then:
“Buy it.”
Eirene looked at her.
Astraea:
“You've looked at it for twenty-seven seconds.”
Roman pointed.
“See?”
Eirene looked between both of them.
“Conspiracy.”
Roman:
“Family.”
Astraea's eyes softened.
Eirene sighed.
Then raised her own slate.
Roman smiled.
Three minutes later Eirene owned a three-century-old roadster for an amount that made absolutely no visible difference to her finances.
Marcella found them afterward.
“What did you buy?”
Roman pointed.
Marcella looked at the little silver car.
Then Eirene.
“Cute.”
Eirene:
“It is not cute.”
Marcella:
“Tiny.”
“It is historically proportioned.”
Roman started laughing.
Eirene looked at him.
“Don't.”
Roman:
“Historically proportioned is crazy.”
Céleste appeared carrying fried dough.
“What's tiny?”
Eirene:
“Nothing.”
Sera:
“The car.”
Céleste looked.
“Cute.”
Eirene closed her eyes.
Roman put one arm around her shoulders.
“It's hard.”
Eirene leaned into him.
“Thank you.”
That was all she needed.
Across the aisle, a man screamed.
Everybody turned.
Some idiot had ignored the auction attendant and tried activating a retired Duvall security motorcar without authorization.
The old bloodprint system disagreed.
Violently.
The driver's seat compressed around him.
Not crushing.
Just locking his arms against his sides while a calm recorded voice announced:
UNAUTHORIZED OPERATOR. PLEASE REMAIN STILL FOR SECURITY COLLECTION.
The man:
“LET ME OUT.”
Roman stopped.
Looked at Gideon across the room.
Gideon took a drink.
Roman:
“That yours?”
“Formerly.”
“Why seat kidnapping people?”
“Anti-theft.”
Xyra:
“Elegant.”
Roman:
“Need.”
Gideon:
“No.”
The trapped man started kicking.
Vehicle:
PLEASE REMAIN STILL.
“I AM STILL.”
Vehicle:
EXCESSIVE MOVEMENT DETECTED.
Roman almost fell into Vaelora laughing.
Normal people.
No assassin necessary.
---
Fourthday, 12 Thawwane, 427 F.C.
Nevermorning — Old Crown Freight Bowl
5:22 P.M.
47°F / 8°C — cool, dry, light southwest wind
The Crown Freight Bowl smelled like fried food, wet concrete, hot wiring and bad decisions.
The event was still technically a showcase.
Nobody in the crowd cared about “technically.”
Forty thousand seats had been installed.
Thirty-seven thousand were already occupied.
Workers still bolted temporary railing onto an upper terrace while spectators argued about betting odds beneath them.
A giant illuminated board circled the bowl:
CROWNLESS OPEN — PRELIMINARY EXHIBITION
Underneath:
APPLICATIONS RECEIVED: 7,844
Roman stopped walking.
“Damn.”
Cassiel appeared beside him.
Dark coat.
Production slate.
Black recording crystal floating over one shoulder.
“Eight thousand one hundred twelve now.”
“They didn't update.”
“Seven-minute display delay.”
“Why?”
“Because if I let Ren attach live data directly to a stadium board, eventually it will display something obscene.”
Ren's voice came from behind them.
“Unsupported assumption.”
Roman turned.
Ren stood with Layla.
Blonde hair.
Dark street jacket.
A thin prototype Threatglass band pushed above his eyebrow.
Layla wore grease on one sleeve and carried a drink that was almost certainly Ren's.
Cassiel:
“You changed the odds board yesterday to say ‘SKILL ISSUE.’”
Ren:
“The favorite fell.”
Layla:
“He did.”
Cassiel:
“You're proving me correct.”
Ren shrugged.
Roman looked at Layla.
“You fighting?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I build things.”
“You drive.”
“Yes.”
“Same aggression.”
“No.”
Ren:
“She'd win.”
Layla looked at him.
Roman:
“You scared.”
Ren:
“No.”
Layla:
“Yes.”
Roman laughed.
The western concourse erupted in shouting.
Security moved.
Not assassin.
Roman's predatory sense barely stirred.
He looked.
A man had attempted to bring a goat into the premium betting section.
Not monster goat.
Goat.
Actual goat.
Security:
“No livestock.”
The man:
“He's my analyst.”
The goat chewed his sleeve.
Roman:
“Let him in.”
Cassiel:
“No.”
“Why?”
“Health code.”
“Analyst.”
“Roman.”
The man heard.
“BOSS SAID YES.”
Cassiel looked at Roman.
Roman immediately:
“I retract.”
The goat bleated.
Crowd booed.
Roman:
“Damn.”
Real governance remained unpopular.
They reached the production corridor.
Mireya had converted half a freight-control room into a sensor lab.
Twenty panes.
Three technicians.
Two medics.
Iven at a workbench with null-safe components.
Mireya herself stood in the center wearing the current Threatglass prototype.
Roman leaned against the doorway.
“Miss me?”
“No.”
Elys sat on the desk behind her.
Elys:
“She did.”
Mireya turned.
Elys smiled.
Roman:
“See?”
Mireya ignored both.
“Come here.”
Roman:
“Why?”
“Baseline.”
Roman approached.
Mireya touched the side of his neck with a scanner.
Roman:
“Cold.”
“Hold still.”
A pane opened.
ROMAN MARAUX DUVALL
Health Pool Estimate: 12,840 / 13,900
Mana Pool Estimate: 28,610 / 31,200
Vitae reserve: 76%
Passive leakage: 0.9%
Roman stared.
“My health low.”
“You were shot two days ago.”
“Still twelve thousand.”
Mireya:
“That is not what you're supposed to take from this.”
Roman smiled.
She continued.
“Do not intentionally leak during commentary.”
“Why would I?”
Mireya looked at him.
Roman:
“Fair.”
Iven glanced over from his null housing.
“Your gravity leakage bends the lens estimates.”
Roman:
“Hard.”
“No.”
Mireya and Iven had said it together.
Roman:
“Y'all boring.”
A colder pressure moved behind him.
Not temperature exactly.
Astraea.
Roman turned.
She had allowed a little mana out while listening.
The air sharpened.
Not ice.
More like a clear winter pressure against exposed skin.
Mireya's panes reacted.
Astraea noticed.
Contained it immediately.
Roman:
“Do again.”
Astraea:
“No.”
“Why?”
“People.”
She pointed toward the technicians.
One was rubbing his arms.
Control.
Good.
Roman smiled.
Eirene stood near the back wall.
Still.
Watching everything.
The glass tried reading her.
Numbers appeared.
Then shifted.
Then disappeared.
Mireya's face tightened.
Roman laughed.
“Broke it.”
Eirene:
“I did nothing.”
“That worse.”
Mireya:
“Later.”
Eirene:
“No.”
Roman:
“Definitely later.”
Eirene looked at him.
Roman smiled.
She looked away.
He knew that one.
Not refusal.
Delay.
Good.
Nyxara came through the medical door.
“Delphine passed.”
Roman:
“Fight?”
“Medical.”
“Oh.”
“Barely.”
Roman:
“She mad?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Nyxara handed Mireya a blood-chemistry pane.
Seraphine had signed the bottom.
Roman recognized her seal.
Freeblood clinic staff were handling nocturnal fighter protocols.
Isolde's Nightglass finance office was auditing betting irregularities.
Dare had apparently been assigned night-route emergency transport.
Tavian had sold one sponsor package before lunch for more money than Roman's first-life record contract.
Roman smiled.
Everybody had shit to do.
Nobody needed to stand behind him waiting for dialogue.
Cassiel appeared in the doorway.
“Roman.”
Roman:
“No.”
“Commentary.”
“Still no.”
Oren Pell's voice came from the corridor.
“Shame.”
Roman froze.
That voice was illegal.
Oren stepped in.
Five-seven.
Charcoal suit.
Bald head.
Voice large enough to belong to a giant.
Roman tried not to look impressed.
Failed.
Tessa Brann followed him.
Dark skin.
Gray streak through short hair.
Scarred ear.
Built like retirement had failed to convince her body.
She looked Roman over.
“That's the kid?”
Roman:
“I'm fifteen.”
“Exactly.”
“I'm level fifty.”
Tessa:
“And?”
Roman stopped.
Tessa smiled.
Roman immediately liked her.
Oren:
“We only need him for the feature exhibition.”
Cassiel:
“And sponsor read.”
Roman:
“No.”
Cassiel:
“Nadar Steam & Bun.”
Roman stopped.
Nyxara laughed.
Céleste, appearing from fucking nowhere with a food tray:
“He got you.”
Roman:
“Why everybody sneaking?”
Céleste:
“Walking.”
Roman looked at Cassiel.
“One ad.”
Cassiel:
“One.”
Sera's voice from the ceiling speaker:
“I want an ad.”
Everybody looked up.
Cassiel's face went dead.
“Where are you?”
Sera:
“Busy.”
Roman:
“With?”
A different voice screamed faintly in the background:
“MISS, YOU CANNOT REGISTER A RABBIT AS AN INDEPENDENT SUMMON—”
Sera's connection ended.
Roman stared.
Cassiel rubbed his face.
Eirene quietly took Roman's hand.
Roman looked at her.
She had the smallest smile.
Worth it.
---
Old Crown Freight Bowl — Broadcast Gallery
6:01 P.M.
Roman sat between Oren Pell and Tessa Brann.
Eirene sat behind him.
Not in a royal box.
Not hidden away.
Just behind his left shoulder with Astraea beside her.
Céleste had taken the seat behind Tessa.
Marcella sat on the rail until staff made her get down.
Vaelora stood farther back because chairs apparently insulted dragons.
Nyxara had returned to medical.
Mireya remained on sensors.
Sera was banned from the registration floor for fourteen minutes.
Roman had not asked why.
Xyra was downstairs inspecting the temporary ring support because she'd heard one of the contractors describe a mechanical brace as “probably enough.”
Ren and Layla occupied the technical balcony.
Elys had stayed with Mireya.
Nobody owned Roman's evening.
Everybody was simply there.
Different places.
Different reasons.
Roman liked that.
The bowl darkened.
Crowd noise rose.
Oren's broadcast voice rolled across forty thousand people.
“Good evening, Floodline.”
The crowd answered.
Roman felt it through the chair.
Oren:
“The Crownless Open is not yet open.”
Boos.
Tessa:
“Wonderful start.”
Laughter.
Oren continued.
“Tonight is an exhibition. A systems test. A rules test. A medical test. And, judging from concession sales, a test of whether forty thousand people can consume enough fried food to qualify as an infrastructure emergency.”
The crowd loved that.
Roman looked down.
The eel-cart man from breakfast was inside.
His cart apparently fit.
Roman smiled.
Government worked.
Oren:
“With me is former Dominion Open champion Tessa Brann.”
Applause.
“And Floodline's First Territorial Executive, Roman Maraux Duvall.”
The noise changed.
Not louder exactly.
Closer.
His name.
His territory.
Roman leaned toward the pickup crystal.
“What's good?”
The bowl erupted.
Tessa looked at him.
“That your professional opening?”
Roman:
“Worked.”
Oren laughed.
Behind Roman, Marcella whispered:
“He's impossible.”
Eirene:
“Yes.”
Roman looked back.
Eirene met his eyes.
There was affection in hers so quiet nobody would've caught it unless they knew her.
Roman did.
His grin changed.
Tessa:
“You're on broadcast, kid.”
Roman turned around.
“Right.”
The central board illuminated.
---
FEATURE EXHIBITION
MAREK VOST — 29 — KARSOVAN INDUSTRIAL BOXER
Health Pool: 4,880
Mana Pool: 2,410
Signatures: kinetic reinforcement / ferrous resonance
Leakage at rest: 2.8%
---
DALEN ORR — 32 — FLOODLINE DOCK GRAPPLER
Health Pool: 5,260
Mana Pool: 3,970
Signatures: water pressure / reinforcement
Leakage at rest: 3.1%
---
The crowd reacted immediately to the numbers.
Betting lines moved on side panels.
Tessa:
“And before everyone with a gambling account becomes stupid, bigger pool does not mean better fighter.”
Roman:
“Facts.”
Oren:
“Roman, useful distinction?”
Roman looked at the two men entering below.
Marek broad through the shoulders.
Compact guard.
Dalen heavier through hips and back.
Roman:
“Marek got less mana but he spend cheaper. Dalen can make the whole ring his problem.”
Oren:
“Meaning?”
Roman:
“Water pressure. If he leaks hard, Marek gotta fight like somebody sitting on his lungs.”
Tessa glanced at Roman.
“Better.”
Roman:
“What?”
“Description.”
“I know.”
Tessa smiled.
Bell.
Dalen leaked immediately.
Roman felt it four stories above.
The air thickened.
No water appeared.
Still—
Roman's lungs recognized depth.
Astraea's fingers tightened once against the back of Eirene's chair.
Marcella inhaled and frowned.
Vaelora looked interested.
The glass registered:
LEAKAGE: 8.4%
LOCALIZED PRESSURE EQUIVALENT: 1.29 ATM
Oren:
“There's the new problem.”
Roman:
“That's nasty.”
Tessa:
“For television?”
Roman:
“That's informative.”
Tessa laughed.
Down below, Marek moved forward anyway.
First jab.
Dalen parried.
Second touched.
Health shifted slightly.
Crowd screamed at forty points like somebody had lost an arm.
Roman frowned.
“People watching number too much.”
Oren caught it.
“Why?”
“Because that ain't blood bar.”
Tessa nodded.
Roman continued.
“Glass estimating strain. You can lose little number and still get fucked if shot land wrong. Or lose big number on something body recover easy. Watch fighter.”
Oren:
“Not scoreboard.”
“Exactly.”
The crowd couldn't hear Oren nod.
Somehow Roman felt it.
Dalen shot.
Marek sprawled.
Dalen's shoulder hit his hip.
The whole ring thumped.
Marek slid.
Roman leaned forward.
“He testing anchor.”
Tessa:
“Not finishing?”
“Nah.”
Dalen released immediately.
Tessa:
“Correct.”
Roman smiled.
Eirene reached forward and rested two fingers against Roman's shoulder.
No reason.
Just contact.
Roman's posture relaxed without him noticing.
Round continued.
Marek boxed clean.
Dalen made the air feel deeper.
Marek's breathing got louder.
Mana readings changed.
Dalen burned expensive.
Marek spent small bursts.
Roman tracked it.
Then—
a commotion rose from the lower east concourse.
Not part of fight.
Roman's eyes shifted.
Corvan appeared in the corridor below for exactly one second.
Red-brown hair.
Dark coat.
Then disappeared into a staff tunnel with two security people.
Roman's predatory sense registered hostility.
Far away.
Contained.
Eirene noticed Roman noticing.
“What?”
“Nothing yet.”
He didn't leave.
Corvan had it.
That was the point of having people.
Oren was talking.
Roman came back.
Dalen clinched.
Water pressure tightened.
Marek's breathing stopped.
Not from choke.
Choice.
Roman:
“He changed breath.”
Tessa:
“Explain.”
“Pressure fuck breathing rhythm. So don't breathe inside.”
Tessa looked down.
Marek exploded out of the clinch, backed three steps and inhaled only after clearing the dense pressure pocket.
Tessa:
“Good eye.”
Roman smiled.
Behind him Marcella:
“His head is going to get enormous.”
Astraea:
“Already is.”
Roman turned.
“Astraea?”
Astraea looked perfectly innocent.
Eirene's mouth twitched.
Roman:
“All right.”
Family disrespect.
Round ended.
Odds shifted.
ORR 1.48
VOST 2.82
A betting pane lit on Marcella's slate.
Roman saw.
“Don't.”
Marcella:
“I haven't.”
“You about to.”
“Maybe.”
Roman looked toward Eirene.
She had placed a wager.
Roman stared.
Eirene calmly locked her slate.
“How much?”
“Enough.”
“On who?”
“No.”
Roman:
“Eirene.”
She looked at him.
“You said Marek was efficient.”
Roman's eyebrows rose.
“You bet off me?”
“No.”
“That's exactly—”
Commercial light activated.
Cassiel in his earpiece:
“Read.”
Roman looked down.
Nadar Steam & Bun.
Of course.
He leaned toward the crystal.
“This break sponsored by Nadar Steam & Bun at Old Ninth Tide. Food hot, buns good, Mira mean as hell, Kei rich now. Go buy shit.”
Silence.
Oren looked down at his copy.
Tessa turned away.
Eirene covered her mouth.
Marcella openly laughed.
Cassiel:
“That was not approved.”
Roman:
“Was any part false?”
Cassiel:
“That is not the standard.”
Roman:
“Ad work?”
A production technician somewhere answered:
“Search traffic up three hundred percent.”
Roman:
“See?”
Cassiel disconnected.
Tessa recovered.
“You're going to get fired from your own event.”
Roman:
“Can't.”
Oren:
“Never underestimate contracts.”
Roman looked concerned.
Eirene whispered:
“Now you're scared.”
Roman:
“Little.”
---
6:18 P.M.
Second Round
Dalen stopped leaking.
The pressure vanished.
Marek hesitated.
Tiny.
Enough.
Dalen hit the body lock.
Roman:
“Oh, that's dirty.”
Tessa:
“Legal.”
“Still dirty.”
Dalen threw.
Marek hit shoulder-first.
Health estimate dropped nearly four hundred.
The crowd exploded.
Dalen mounted.
Short punches.
Ugly.
No magic spectacle.
Just a grown man hitting another grown man in the face while forty thousand people screamed advice they could not possibly execute themselves.
A drunk spectator somewhere below shouted:
“STAND UP!”
Tessa:
“Excellent coaching.”
Roman laughed.
Marek worked guard.
Recovered.
Got up.
His left eye already swelling.
Health remained above three thousand.
Didn't mean comfortable.
Oren:
“Vost still has reserve.”
Roman:
“Yeah, but eye going.”
Tessa:
“And legs?”
Roman watched.
“Fine.”
Dalen pushed again.
Marek's mana leakage rose.
The sensation changed.
Metallic.
Dense.
Roman felt his teeth.
The temporary ring bolts vibrated.
Xyra's voice suddenly entered production comms.
“Who approved ferrous fasteners in the inner plate?”
Nobody answered.
Roman smiled.
“There she go.”
Mireya:
“Xyra, not broadcast channel.”
“I know.”
A bolt beneath the ring hummed.
Then stopped because Marek pulled the resonance inward.
Good control.
His gloves shifted toward Dalen's reinforced wrist binding by maybe half an inch.
Tiny.
Enough.
Marek redirected the punch.
Stepped inside.
Uppercut.
Dalen's head snapped back.
Roman:
“OH.”
Health dropped.
Crowd stood.
Marek body shot.
Hook.
Dalen tried pressure again.
Too slow.
The ferrous field caught metal in his belt reinforcement.
Ruined his turn.
Marek hit right.
Dalen went down.
Roman stood with everybody else.
Tessa grabbed the back of Roman's coat.
“Sit.”
Roman sat.
“Why?”
“You're commentary.”
“I can comment standing.”
“No.”
The referee counted.
Six.
Seven.
Dalen stood.
Barely.
Roman:
“Legs gone.”
Tessa:
“Agreed.”
Dalen raised his hands.
Marek went body.
One.
Two.
Referee stepped in.
Finished.
The Crown Freight Bowl lost its fucking mind.
Marek Vost stood in the center of Floodline while tens of thousands of Floodline citizens chanted a Karsovan man's name.
Not his government.
Him.
MAREK.
MAREK.
MAREK.
Roman stopped talking.
For once.
Marek heard it.
His face changed.
Only briefly.
The war had killed his brother.
Floodline forces were currently dismantling pieces of the country where he had been born.
And Floodline was cheering him because he had fought well.
Not reconciliation.
Not forgiveness.
Just something messier.
People being people before governments could tell them what it meant.
Roman liked that.
Oren:
“Roman?”
Roman leaned forward.
“He earned that shit.”
Tessa:
“That's the analysis?”
“Yeah.”
Oren:
“Hard to improve.”
Behind him, Eirene leaned down.
“Good.”
Roman looked back.
“You bet him?”
She showed her slate.
Marek.
Thirty thousand crowns.
Roman:
“Only thirty?”
Eirene:
“I was being polite.”
Roman laughed.
Marcella showed hers.
Fifty thousand.
Same fighter.
Roman looked between both.
“Y'all used me.”
Marcella:
“You speak loudly.”
Eirene:
“You were correct.”
Roman:
“I need percentage.”
Both:
“No.”
Roman stared.
Astraea had not bet.
Roman:
“You?”
Astraea:
“I bet Dalen.”
Roman paused.
Astraea's expression did not change.
“You lost?”
“Yes.”
Roman smiled slowly.
“Damn.”
Astraea:
“I liked his pressure control.”
“Still lost.”
“Yes.”
Roman leaned over and kissed her cheek.
“Sorry.”
Astraea looked at him.
Then:
“You are not sorry.”
Roman:
“No.”
She smiled anyway.
---
Old Crown Freight Bowl — Upper Sponsor Concourse
7:11 P.M.
The event became capitalism immediately after violence ended.
Roman hadn't even finished eating when Cassiel dragged him toward the sponsor auction.
Not literally.
Cassiel had tried.
Roman had refused.
Eirene took Roman's hand and walked in the direction Cassiel wanted.
Betrayal was more effective when quiet.
Roman:
“You with him?”
Eirene:
“No.”
“Then why?”
“You'll complain longer if you don't go.”
“True.”
Nyxara rejoined them near the concourse.
Céleste beside her.
Vaelora behind.
Marcella had disappeared for six minutes and returned with three betting vouchers and somebody else's dessert.
Astraea stayed near Eirene.
Sera appeared wearing a staff badge she absolutely had not been issued.
Roman stared.
“What badge?”
“Staff.”
“You don't work.”
“Volunteer.”
Cassiel walked past.
“She is not a volunteer.”
Sera smiled.
Cassiel kept moving.
He had learned.
The sponsor auction occupied an old freight office converted into a live bid floor.
Projected lots floated over the room.
OPENING CEREMONY NAMING SLOT
ROUND BREAK PACKAGE
MEDICAL RECOVERY SEGMENT
RING CORNER A
RING CORNER B
FIGHTER WALKOUT PRESENTING SPONSOR
LIVE MANA-POOL GRAPH SPONSOR
Roman stared.
“They sponsor graph?”
Tavian, standing near Isolde:
“Someone will sponsor oxygen if Cassiel gives them ten minutes.”
Isolde:
“Eight.”
Roman looked at her.
“Vampires ruthless.”
Isolde:
“Capital is impartial.”
Dare, beside Tavian:
“That's rich-people bullshit.”
Roman pointed.
“See?”
Isolde looked at Dare.
Dare didn't care.
Freeblood.
Good.
Auctioneer announced:
“Medical Recovery Segment. Opening bid, two hundred fifty thousand.”
A Nightglass clinic representative raised.
A Columbia trauma company countered.
A Nhal-Moran blood-storage cooperative entered.
Roman watched numbers climb.
Four hundred.
Six.
Eight.
Nyxara:
“Too high.”
Roman:
“For ad?”
“For what they're getting.”
Roman looked.
“You should bid.”
“I don't own clinic.”
“Yet.”
Nyxara stared.
Roman:
“Joking.”
Mostly.
The package closed at 1.1 million to a coalition of Freeblood clinics and Nhal-Moran emergency blood services.
Seraphine's signature appeared on the approval.
Roman smiled.
Vampires buying sports medicine advertisements while other vampires somewhere were probably plotting how to kill him.
World continued.
Another lot opened.
OFFICIAL ODDS DATA PARTNER
Gideon's house bid immediately.
Roman:
“Rigged.”
Gideon, across room:
“I own the venue.”
“Exactly.”
A foreign betting syndicate countered.
Gideon raised.
They countered.
Gideon raised again without looking up from his drink.
Roman watched.
“Cold.”
Lucien's voice came from behind Roman.
“Gideon hates losing public auctions.”
Roman turned.
Lucien and Maris had arrived.
Of course.
Maris looked at the crowd.
Then at Roman.
“You commentated well.”
Roman:
“You watched?”
“Most of it.”
Lucien:
“The sponsor read was appalling.”
Roman:
“Sales up.”
Lucien:
“That does not make it less appalling.”
Avaros stood behind them in an immaculate black coat.
Roman stared.
“Why you here?”
“COMBAT.”
Fair.
Corvin appeared beside him.
Roman:
“You too?”
“Betting.”
Even fairer.
Arielle came last.
She looked toward the sponsor auction.
Then at Gideon.
“What's he bidding on?”
Roman:
“Odds.”
Arielle:
“He'll overpay.”
Gideon raised again.
Lucien:
“Yes.”
Roman:
“Family confidence.”
Gideon won.
Arielle:
“Overpaid.”
Gideon:
“I heard that.”
Roman smiled.
There.
Family.
Not cavemen.
Not relics.
Ancient Duvalls inside a modern sports-betting auction looking more comfortable than half the investors.
A staff runner approached Roman.
“Executive Duvall?”
Roman:
“What now?”
“Security requests your presence.”
The room changed around him.
Not dramatically.
Nyxara's posture shifted.
Vaelora stopped watching the auction.
Eirene's fingers tightened slightly.
Corvin was already looking toward the door.
Roman:
“Assassin?”
The runner blinked.
“I—don't know.”
Corvin:
“I do.”
Roman looked.
Corvin:
“Stay.”
Roman's eyes narrowed.
“Who?”
“Not for you.”
That didn't help.
“For?”
Corvin glanced toward the arena below.
“Ardenmere credential.”
Roman went quiet.
Delphine.
Corvin:
“We caught somebody trying to purchase a restricted backstage map using a fighter-agent account.”
Roman:
“Who?”
“Name's fake.”
“Money?”
Isolde answered without looking away from the auction board.
“Rosen Mere shell.”
Roman stared.
Again.
Eirene:
“Go?”
Roman thought.
Then shook his head.
“Corvin got.”
Corvin's mouth moved.
Tiny approval.
“Correct.”
He left.
Roman stayed.
That was harder than chasing.
Which probably meant it was growth.
He hated that.
Céleste leaned against his shoulder.
Nyxara stood close enough that their arms touched.
Vaelora remained directly behind him.
Eirene didn't release his hand.
No speeches.
The auction continued.
Roman listened to the next sponsor lot while somebody else hunted the assassin problem.
Exactly as Floodline was supposed to work.
---
Old Crown Freight Bowl — East Terrace
8:06 P.M.
44°F / 7°C — cloud breaking, cold clear wind entering the bowl
People were leaving.
Slowly.
Food wrappers.
Dropped betting slips.
Workers already sweeping the lower rows before the final spectators cleared.
A drunk man tried climbing over a barrier because it was “faster.”
His coat snagged.
He hung there until a sanitation worker cut him loose.
A couple argued because one had bet their dinner money on Dalen.
A little boy wearing fake Roman wings ran past shouting that his mana pool was “one million.”
His mother yelled:
“It is eighty-seven! Stop lying!”
Roman laughed.
The kid saw him.
Froze.
Roman:
“One million?”
The boy looked terrified.
Then doubled down.
“Two.”
Roman:
“Respect.”
The mother covered her face.
Normal people made the world better.
Roman stood near the east terrace rail with Eirene.
Not alone exactly.
Never alone anymore.
Astraea sat several steps behind.
Céleste had gone downstairs with Nyxara to steal whatever medical snacks remained.
Vaelora was talking to Xyra about modifying her truck.
Mireya and Elys were still buried in sensor data.
Marcella had dragged Julian and Maelira into an argument over whether betting on Roman's Sixthday race counted as insider trading.
Ren and Layla were somewhere below trying to access the retired freight-control grid.
Sera was banned from two additional areas.
Progress.
Roman looked out through the open upper arches.
Floodline beyond.
Wet roofs.
Lights.
Freight moving.
Far western airfield glowing beneath thinning cloud.
One Nightline satellite beginning its pass overhead.
Eirene:
“You were good.”
Roman:
“At talking?”
“Yes.”
“That's my old job.”
She looked at him.
Roman's stomach tightened.
Too close to a secret.
But Eirene didn't know what he meant.
Maybe she knew something.
Eirene was Eirene.
Roman stopped trying to solve her months ago.
Mostly.
“You staying tonight?”
“Yes.”
Roman looked quickly.
She noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Eirene:
“Again.”
“Just asking.”
“I answered.”
Roman leaned on rail.
The cold wind pulled strands of bleach-blonde hair loose.
Eirene reached over.
Put them back behind his ear.
Roman:
“You keep disappearing.”
There.
He hadn't meant to say it.
Eirene went still.
Not supernatural-still.
Human still.
Roman stared out at the city.
“Like—”
He stopped.
Didn't want a speech.
Eirene didn't give him one.
“I know.”
Roman looked.
She stepped closer.
“I won't tonight.”
That was enough.
Roman's shoulders eased.
Eirene touched her forehead lightly to his temple.
Roman closed his eyes for a second.
No system.
No war.
No tournament.
No cameras this high.
Just her.
Then Marcella's voice shouted from thirty feet away:
“ROMAN, JULIAN SAYS YOU CANNOT LEGALLY BET ON YOURSELF.”
Roman opened his eyes.
“WHY?”
Julian:
“CONFLICT OF INTEREST.”
Roman:
“THAT'S BULLSHIT.”
Eirene started laughing against his shoulder.
Roman looked at her.
She rarely laughed loudly.
That made him laugh too.
Astraea shook her head.
Marcella came running up the terrace with Julian behind her and Maelira walking at a normal pace because apparently one imperial sibling had dignity.
Marcella:
“I said he should be allowed.”
Julian:
“Of course you did.”
Roman:
“See? Marcella get it.”
Marcella:
“I want odds.”
Julian:
“You cannot create a market around whether the territorial executive crashes.”
Roman:
“Why not?”
Maelira:
“Because people will assume he knows whether he intends to crash.”
Roman stared.
“Who intends?”
Marcella:
“You, occasionally.”
Eirene:
“Frequently.”
Roman slowly looked at her.
She smiled.
Betrayal from the favorite hit different.
Roman:
“Wow.”
Astraea stood.
“You drove into an assassin vehicle.”
Roman:
“That was tactical.”
Julian:
“You mounted the hood during Wreckway.”
“Tactical.”
Marcella:
“You almost put a wheel into a curb during practice.”
Roman:
“Alleged.”
Vaelora shouted from below:
“I SAW IT.”
Roman leaned over the rail.
“YOU WASN'T SUPPOSED TO.”
“YOU TOLD ME TO WATCH.”
“That don't mean remember!”
The whole group started laughing.
Roman stared at them.
His girls.
His cousins.
Friends.
People doing their own shit and still somehow ending up back around him.
Better than a schedule.
Better than turns.
Better than anybody owning a day.
Roman's slate chimed.
Tin Voss.
Sixthday. 14 Thawwane. 8:30. Rain forecast moved to 70%.
Roman smiled immediately.
Eirene saw.
“No.”
Roman:
“What?”
“You're smiling at weather.”
“Race.”
Marcella:
“Tin?”
“Yeah.”
Julian:
“Still doing that after the assassination attempt?”
Roman looked at him.
“Yes.”
Julian sighed.
Maelira:
“You knew the answer.”
“I hoped age brought wisdom.”
Roman:
“I turned fifteen three weeks ago.”
“Exactly.”
A second message appeared.
Cassiel.
CROWNLESS OPEN PROVISIONAL REGISTRATION: 9,004
Then:
Three Horizon-state champions cleared neutral entry screening.
Then:
One Karsovan fighter requested Marek Vost specifically.
Roman looked back toward the emptying arena.
The event was already growing teeth.
A third message.
Corvan.
Backstage buyer alive.
Roman's smile faded.
Talking?
Corvan:
Not yet.
Then:
Had Delphine's route schedule.
Roman stared.
Eirene read over his shoulder.
Her face went cold.
Roman:
“Cassian know?”
Yes.
Good.
He locked the slate.
Didn't run downstairs.
Didn't ruin the night.
Corvan had it.
Cassian had Delphine.
Tamsin had the contracts.
Rhea had whatever needed hitting.
Phaedra had Cassian.
Gideon had the building.
Isolde had the money.
Seraphine had the blood.
Mireya had the numbers.
Floodline had workers sweeping popcorn out of the aisles while international murder plots developed two floors below.
Real city.
Roman looked at Eirene.
“You hungry?”
“No.”
“Food anyway?”
“Yes.”
Astraea:
“I'll come.”
Marcella:
“Obviously.”
Julian:
“I have somewhere to be.”
Marcella grabbed his sleeve.
“No.”
Maelira laughed.
Vaelora came up the stairs.
Nyxara and Céleste reappeared carrying stolen medical crackers.
Sera emerged from a staff corridor wearing a different unauthorized badge.
Mireya called from below:
“ROMAN, DO NOT LEAVE.”
Roman shouted:
“FOOD.”
“I NEED YOUR POST-EVENT BASELINE.”
“AFTER.”
“FIVE MINUTES.”
“TWENTY.”
“TEN.”
Roman:
“FIFTEEN.”
Pause.
Mireya:
“FINE.”
Roman smiled.
Eirene looked at him.
“Negotiation.”
“Government.”
She took his hand again.
They started down.
Not Roman and one girl.
Not Roman plus a court.
Just an overlapping mess of people arguing over dinner, betting lines, cars, medical scans and whether Sera's newest staff badge said SANITATION INSPECTOR.
Roman noticed.
Stopped.
“Sera.”
She looked down.
“What?”
“You ain't sanitation.”
“I could be.”
“No.”
Mr. Buttons emerged from inside her coat wearing a tiny laminated badge.
Roman stared.
The badge read:
ASSISTANT.
Roman closed his eyes.
“I'm going home.”
Eirene pulled him toward the stairs.
“No, you're eating.”
Roman opened one eye.
“Bossy.”
“Yes.”
Roman smiled.
Fine.
Floodline could have him for the next fight.
The assassins could wait in whatever room Corvan had put them in.
The war could keep chewing westward for one more meal.
Tonight he wanted noodles, his repaired car, Eirene beside him, Nyxara stealing his drink, Céleste stealing his food, Vaelora complaining motorcars were too slow, Astraea quietly correcting everybody, Mireya arriving late from the lab, Sera lying about her badge, and whoever else decided to show up.
That was enough.
For Fourthday, anyway.