The lamp on the roof shines the room as though it were still midday, its steadt light casting no shadows across stacks of parchment. Fillian Hellis leaned back in her chair, rolling the stiffness from her shoulders as she finally stamped the last document with her seal.
Done.
The Rosewind Mercantile Guild's affairs were settled. The diplomatic channels between Altena and Babelonia had been restored—thanks in no small part to her efforts—and now, at long last, she was free to return to her real mission.
Observe and get close to the Nyx Familia.
A slow smile curled her lips.
Then it vanished as she glanced at the pitiful sum listed on her payment receipt.
Her palm slammed onto the desk with enough force to make the inkwell jump. The scribe across from her flinched, his tired eyes lifting from his own paperwork.
"I demand extra compensation," Fillian stated, her voice sharp as a blade. "On top of the originally agreed remuneration."
The scribe sighed, rubbing at his temples. "Lady Hellis, the terms were—"
"The terms did not account for the fact that I was the one who established the trade route that allowed the Athena Familia to restore relations with Babelonia," she interrupted. "Nor did they account for the fact that I personally negotiated with three separate merchant lords to prevent tariffs from collapsing the agreement." She leaned forward. "I want my due."
The scribe stared at her for a long moment, then exhaled through his nose. "Fine. I'll make an appeal on your behalf directly to the top brass."
Fillian's eyes narrowed. "No. Send it to the Ministry of Finance."
"What?"
"Article Seven, Section Five of the Altenan Labor Act," she said smoothly. "Any labor not specified in initial contracts must be compensated accordingly. Sending it straight to the top will just get it dismissed." She smirked. "Sending this appeal to the top brass would be pointless." Her lips curled into a mirthless smile. "Our masters are powerful enough to ignore such petty things as labor laws."
The scribe blinked, then groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "You're tiresome."
Fillian stood, straightening her coat. "And don't forget—no more assignments. I am to focus exclusively on the newly reclassified Sigma Priority Mission: establishing relations with the Nyx Familia."
The scribe scribbled a note, muttering under his breath. "Yes, yes. Go befriend the goddess of chaos. Try not to start a war."
Fillian's smile returned, colder this time. "No promises."
With that, she turned on her heel and strode out of the office, her boots clicking against the marble floors. The doors swung shut behind her, sealing away the scribe's exhausted grumbling.
Finally.
Her all expense paid vacation could begin.
Fillian strode down the marble corridor, her heels clicking like a metronome counting down to someone's demise. The approved reassignment papers rested securely in her coat, their weight insignificant compared to the satisfaction of another bureaucratic battle won.
Sigma Priority: Nyx Familia.
A smirk curled her lips as she recalled her first encounter with Regulus Nihil—that bewildered boy-king stumbling through Andromeda's docks, all sharp tongue and zero self-preservation instinct.
"This will be easy," she murmured to the empty hallway.
A passing clerk dropped his armful of scrolls at her words. Fillian didn't break stride as parchment unraveled across the floor behind her, the clerk's frantic apologies fading into the distance.
Step one, Find the boy king.
Step two, Charm him with her womanly wiles.
Step three, Watch the chaos unfold.
Somewhere in Vespera, Regulus sneezed violently, nearly dropping the knife Borin had just thrown at his head.
The kitchen door swung open just as Borin's cleaver embedded itself in the cutting board beside Regulus' fingers.
"You sick, boy?" Borin growled, gesturing at the violent sneeze that had just ruined a perfectly diced onion.
Regulus wiped his nose on his sleeve. "I have never been sick in my entire existence in Genkai."
A beat of silence. The kitchen staff collectively held their breath.
Borin's eye twitched. "Then get back to chopping!" He yanked the cleaver free and pointed it at the mountain of vegetables waiting. "And if I see one more tear over those onions, I'm making you polish every damn fork in this tavern!"
From the doorway, Nyx's laughter rang out like silver bells.
Regulus opened his mouth to retort—just as another sneeze rocked through him. The carrot in his hand went flying, arcing perfectly over Borin's head before landing with a plop in the stewpot.
The kitchen exploded into chaos.
Regulus shook off the sneeze like a boxer shaking off a punch. His spine straightened. His fingers tightened around the knife. His eyes took on the terrifying focus of a man facing certain annihilation.
Borin took a step back. "Why do you suddenly look like you're about to storm a castle?"
Regulus didn't answer. The knife became a silver blur.
Thunk-thunk-thunk!
Perfect carrot coins exploded across the cutting board like golden shrapnel.
Swish-swish-swish!
Onions separated into paper-thin rings mid-air before landing in neat piles.
The kitchen staff collectively crossed themselves. A scullery maid nearly tripped.
"All my training..." Regulus muttered, his voice distant, ecstatic, unhinged, "...was for this moment."
A single celery stalk rolled toward the edge of the table. Regulus' knife flashed—
THWACK!
The celery stuck to the far wall, perfectly julienned.
Borin slowly moved his arms and folded it with the grace of a ballerina. "You may leave."
Nyx, watching from the doorway with a glass of wine, sighed dreamily. "I can't wait for the day he prepares me a feast."