I nearly spat my tea across the table—like full, dramatic, sprinkler-system levels of spraying—right onto the poor attendant’s shoes.
The only thing that saved him from an herbal facial was my last-minute ability to slap a hand over my mouth, which sent the tea back down my throat in a humiliating little choke-giggle that made my eyes water.
I dabbed my lips with the napkin like some aristocrat recovering gracefully from a social crime, except my cheeks were blazing and my brain was halfway through listing every terrible thing I’d done in the last twenty-four hours that might warrant a private audience with Iskanda.
Which, let’s be honest, was a very long list. Possibly scroll-length. Possibly several scrolls tied together with string like some bureaucratic horror.
The attendant, meanwhile, didn’t so much as blink. He simply lowered the tray, nodded at me with that serene expression unique to people who have spiritually ascended beyond caring about other people’s nonsense, and murmured, "Second hall to the right, sir."
His voice had the dull politeness of someone reciting funeral rites. He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t explain. He didn’t even wink in that ’I know something you don’t’ kind of way. He just handed me a cup, delivered cryptic anxiety, and turned on his heel like a man fleeing responsibility.
"Wait—hold on, second hall to the right for what now?" I called after him, realizing far too late that my voice cracked like a teenage choir boy.
He didn’t answer. He didn’t even turn around. He simply disappeared behind a curtain of burgundy silk, swallowed whole by interior design that probably cost more than my entire miserable life.
Brutus raised a single eyebrow. On anyone else, it would have been judgment. On Brutus, it was the gentle, resigned expression of a parent discovering their kid had glued their own hand to a table again.
"What?" I snapped, sinking back onto the couch with a dramatic flop that made the cushions swallow me even deeper. "I’m allowed mystery summons. It’s very normal. Very casual. Happens to people constantly."
He didn’t respond, which was somehow worse than being mocked. Brutus’s silence was always the type that made you examine your life choices. The type that made you wonder if you’d accidentally set something on fire and forgotten about it.
Before I could spiral further into my anxiety stew, another attendant—this one far more enthusiastic and possibly fueled by black-market caffeine—swept in carrying a tray so large I thought it might be a decorative shield.
They lowered it onto the low table between us, and suddenly the entire world became food. An explosion of color, steam, glaze, honey, herbs, glistening oils—an absolute festival of decadence that made every single starving, desperate nerve in my body light up like a temple festival.
My mouth watered instantly. Aggressively. I might’ve left a permanent drool mark on the cushion.
I didn’t even wait for Brutus to reach for anything. With a feral little squeak of triumph that I will deny until the day I die, I dove in like an animal released into the pantry. Pastries disappeared. Skewers vanished. Something buttery and flaky dissolved on my tongue like I’d briefly entered paradise. I’m pretty sure I blacked out from joy for ten seconds.
Brutus leaned back slightly to avoid the food whirlwind that was me. "Are you going to tell me," he said calmly, "why an attendant said something to you that made you almost spit tea up your nose?"
I froze in place, halfway through lifting a caramel-glazed sweetbread to my mouth. I slowly lowered it to the plate, only because I suddenly felt the pressing urge to at least pretend to be a responsible adult.
"Oh. That." I cleared my throat, going for nonchalance. Failed miserably. "Iskanda apparently wants to see me after lunch."
Brutus nodded instantly, not even looking surprised. "Of course she does."
I glared. "Excuse me, what’s that tone supposed to mean?"
"That you get into trouble the way normal people breathe," he replied, popping a berry into his mouth without the slightest disruption to his serenity. "It was only a matter of time."
"I don’t get into trouble," I protested, offended in the way only someone deeply in denial can be. "Trouble gets into me. There’s a difference."
Brutus gave me a long, heavy stare. The kind with weight. The kind that said I was one incident away from proving him right.
I sagged. "It’s probably nothing," I muttered, stuffing the sweetbread into my mouth before anxiety could ruin it. "Maybe she just wants to congratulate me on my bravery. Or my poise. Or my unparalleled ability to maintain dignity under pressure."
He choked on his drink. I pretended not to notice.
We ate through the rest of the meal—me enthusiastically, Brutus like a civilized human—while my mind ran circles like a rabbit high on terror. What could Iskanda possibly want? Had I accidentally insulted a noble? Had I broken some invisible rule? Had my body done something weird again without my permission?
When lunch finally ended, I felt like I’d eaten enough to power a small empire. My limbs were heavy, my stomach warm, my anxiety louder. Brutus clapped a hand on my shoulder, a silent ’don’t die,’ as we exited the lounge.
And there, waiting in the hall like a well-trained herald, was the same attendant from before—still serene, still unreadable, still definitely judging me behind those polite eyes.
"Follow me," he said. No explanation. No details. Just a command that felt suspiciously like a trap.
Great. Wonderful. Fantastic. Just what my nerves wanted.
He led me through a set of twisting corridors, all marble and gold in that ’overcompensating for trauma’ architectural style the Spire loved so much. The air cooled as we walked, the hallways narrowing into tighter, quieter paths. Eventually we emerged at the foot of a grand staircase spiraling upward toward a high balcony walkway.
And there she was.
Iskanda stood at the top like she’d been carved from stone—hands clasped behind her back, shoulders straight, face unreadable but somehow still screaming "I have seen your sins." Her presence alone made my posture straighten instinctively, like some primal part of me feared disappointing her.
The attendant gave a quick bow, then retreated. Fast. Like he didn’t want to be caught within splash radius of whatever was about to happen to me.
Iskanda didn’t speak at first. She just looked down at me, the faintest smirk tugging at her lips, like she could sense my thoughts doing gymnastics.
Well. One of us had to break the silence and it probably shouldn’t be her because she terrifies me.
"So," I began, clearing my throat. "Am I in trouble, or is this one of those ’come with me if you want to live’ situations?"
Her smirk twitched. Barely. "Come along."
I swallowed hard. My legs felt suddenly weak—not from fear, not exactly, more like my body had spontaneously decided to betray me at the worst possible time. I started up the stairs, trying to look composed, but my foot caught on the first step.
I tripped. Loudly. Dramatically. Arms flailing like a drunken stork. I landed on my knees with a sound that could only be described as "pathetic squelch."
"Oh Saints above," I muttered, face burning. "Kill me. Put me out of my misery. Drop something heavy on my head."
When I lifted my gaze, Iskanda was already descending two steps toward me, hand extended. Her expression hadn’t changed, but there was something gentler in her eyes—warm, steady, painfully calm. The kind of look that made my stomach twist for reasons I refused to examine.
I took her hand—grumbling, burning red, wishing I could dissolve into mist—and she pulled me easily back to my feet. Her grip lingered half a second too long. Or maybe mine did. Hard to tell.
We continued upward, her hand still wrapped around mine like she wasn’t giving it back anytime soon. I tried not to think about it, which of course meant I was thinking about nothing else.
At the top of the stairs stood a tall brass-door elevator. Polished. Silent. Waiting.
We stepped inside, still hand-in-hand, the doors sliding shut with a metallic whisper. The elevator shuddered gently as it began to ascend.
"So," I ventured, because silence was dangerous and my brain feared it, "where are we going?"
"The second floor," Iskanda said, watching the doors like she was watching the world beyond them. "Where the Velvets and other staff reside. You’ll be building familiarity with the environment soon, so it’s best you start—"
I didn’t hear the rest.
Because the moment the elevator sealed us in together, her scent hit me like a tidal wave.
Warm, clean, sharp in some places and soft in others. Something herbal, something mineral, something distinctly Iskanda—commanding, earthy, and infuriatingly grounding. It filled the air like a physical thing. It slid into my lungs, onto my tongue, across my nerves. My head buzzed. My knees wobbled.
And because I am, unfortunately, me—
I squeezed her hand tighter. Then I did something even worse.
I sniffed. Out loud.
It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t dainty. It was the kind of little inhaling sound dogs make when they find a new brand of sausage.
Iskanda turned her head, eyes sliding to me with that maddeningly composed stare. A faint smirk curved her lips. Maternal, amused, knowing. Like she’d been expecting this. Like she’d been waiting for it.
Her brows lifted. "What is it?"
My brain: Abort. Die. Flee. Roll under the elevator floor and perish.
My body: squeeze her hand harder, cheeks flaming, continue sniffing like a deranged forest creature.
She raised her other arm slightly, angled just enough for the scent to shift, then—Saints preserve me—she leaned in and sniffed lightly at her own underarm.
She blinked once, then shrugged.
"Do I stink?"