Martin narrowed his eyes from his perch as the figure in the crowd made her approach. Unlike the others tripping over their skirts to get a glimpse of Fenice Phoenix's perfect smile, this one moved with a purpose—precise, deliberate, utterly uninterested in the spectacle. Her steps were silent, her hood low. No ambient mana trails. No enchantments screaming for attention. She was trained. And she wasn't here to swoon.
"Yep," Martin muttered to himself. "Let's ruin the mood."
He activated his windwalk spell and dropped silently from the upper plaza, landing behind a pillar near the figure's trajectory. His gloves slid onto his hands in a fluid motion. Light enchantments activated as he moved, softening the air around his boots, dampening his presence.
"Let's find the bastard or the bitch."
He shadowed the hooded figure until she slowed, pausing beneath a hanging lantern vine. She placed two fingers to her ear—an embedded communicator.
"Yes, I am about to deploy," she whispered.
Martin stepped forward. "Hello there."
"What—?!"
She barely turned before he silenced her with a palm across her mouth and a subtle injection of Horel, a fast-acting soporific developed for aggressive familiars and uncooperative humans alike. Her body went slack. Martin caught her before she hit the ground and retrieved her communicator.
"Did you deploy the poison, you bitch?!" a harsh voice snapped.
Martin lowered his voice a notch and replied, "Yes."
A pause. Then: "Good grief!"
Martin ended the call with a smile.
Three hours later.
Ludmila stirred, groaning as she came to. Her wrists were unbound, but an array of glowing sigils danced in the air around her, forming a deterrent barrier—less a cage, more like an invisible slap every time she thought about leaving.
"We meet again, Ludmila," Martin said from the far side of the room, legs crossed as he sipped from a mug of spiced tea. "Vercyne's really been working you to the bone. Should I be flattered?"
Ludmila sat up sharply. Her cloak was gone, her communicator dismantled and strewn across the floor beside her. "Why?!" she snapped. "Didn't you say you wouldn't act without provocation?!"
"I did," Martin replied casually. "Specifically, I said: 'Tell House Vercyne this—if they try again, I'll file a formal challenge. I don't need an excuse.'" He tossed her confiscated handbook back at her. "Did your handlers skip the 'no excuse' part?"
Her eyes narrowed. "What did you do?"
Martin turned a screen toward her. It displayed a combat arena feed—one of Varncrest's grand dueling halls. On it, Fenice Phoenix was finishing a match in spectacular fashion. His opponent—a boy in House Vercyne's navy-and-gold—lay crumpled at his feet, blade snapped, mana threads severed.
"I sent the heir of House Vercyne to fight the greatest swordsman of our generation," Martin said mildly. "Looks like he lasted… what, three seconds?"
Ludmila paled. "That's… he's… that was Malric! He's their rising star!"
"Was," Martin corrected.
"Why would you do this?" she asked, voice trembling with frustration. "This is going to escalate. They'll find out and retaliate. You've made yourself a target!"
Martin set his teacup down gently. "Of course they will. That's the fun part."
"You don't even care what happens next, do you?!"
"Not particularly," Martin said, brushing a fleck of dust from his sleeve.
Ludmila looked away, eyes glassy. "So what, you're going to keep me here? Interrogate me? Use me like some toy to dismantle their schemes?"
Martin snorted. "No. You're free to go."
She blinked. "What?"
"You're not a threat. Not right now. You're just a pawn who thinks she's clever." He stood and turned away, reaching for his coat.
Ludmila stared at the floor, fingers curling into fists. Then she looked up, eyes glinting with something darker. "Then destroy them."
Martin paused mid-step. "What?"
"They don't give me anything," she hissed. "They use me like I'm disposable. Force me to work, threaten to expel me. I gave up everything to be here. And now someone like you shows up and threatens their position? Good. Crush them."
Martin turned slowly. "Where is this going?"
Then Ludmila lunged—swift, sudden, desperate. She pulled a vial from her sleeve, uncorked it with her teeth.
Martin reacted fast, knocking it from her hand and grabbing her wrist.
"If you want to die, do it somewhere else!!" he snarled. "Don't give me more work!"
"My whole life's work is about to be stolen because you exist!" she screamed, trying to grab another vial. "They'll erase me! Replace me with some polished prodigy!"
Martin gripped her arms tighter. "That's not my fault!"
"Then let me die!!" she howled, thrashing. "You don't care anyway!"
"No! Because if you die here, I'll have to explain it! I'll owe someone a favor just to get it erased from the records! I'm not dealing with that!"
"You absolute coward!" Ludmila sobbed, still fighting. "Can't even stomach someone dying in front of you?!"
"Don't get the wrong idea!" Martin snapped. "I don't care about your trauma or your research! I care about convenience!"
"Well now you're just spouting contradictions!!" she spat, reaching for a third hidden vial.
Martin smacked it away, panting. "Calm. Down."
"You calm down!"
"I am calm!"
"Then why are you yelling?!"
"Because this is stupid!" Martin snapped. "You want vengeance? Fine! You want to break free? Fine! But you're trying to die like a sad side character in someone else's opera! That's beneath you."
Ludmila froze, her breath catching.
Martin leaned in close, eyes glinting. "If you're serious… if you want to prove them wrong… then kill the heir they replace Malric with. Take their research. Steal their funding. Lie, cheat, blackmail—exploit everyone and everything. Make your name untouchable."
"…Why are you helping me?" she whispered.
"I'm not," Martin said. "But I hate sloppy ambition. Either do it properly or go rot in a ditch."
Ludmila slumped back, exhausted. Her eyes still burned, but the fight in her limbs had quieted. "You're insane."
"Welcome to Varncrest," Martin said. "Where survival means playing five games at once and cheating in all of them."