I asked Myrda if she would be willing to help with some of the others’ weapon enchantments so we could finish them faster. She agreed without hesitation, already reaching for the next piece as if the decision had been made before I asked.

  It turned into a good night.

  We spent most of it talking while we worked, the rhythm settling in naturally. Our conversation drifted between enchantment theory and small, ordinary details of life that had nothing to do with circuits or mana. She talked about mistakes she had made early on, things she wished she had understood sooner. I talked about approaches that had worked for me, stripped down to process rather than history. Somewhere in the middle of all of it, I realized I had found a kindred spirit.

  Myrda was deeply dedicated to her craft. It was not enchantment, but it served the people around her just as meaningfully. She took pride in the work because it mattered, because it protected others, because it endured beyond her hands. That mattered to me. I appreciated the time we spent together, not as a lesson or a task, but as shared effort.

  The moment ended with a knock at the door.

  A voice followed it; one I was not expecting. Myrda’s reaction came first. She stiffened only slightly, her shoulders tightening just enough to be noticeable. That was enough to tell me who it would be before the door even opened.

  Randall stepped inside wearing a chef’s outfit that was so aggressively flamboyant it bordered on theatrical. The fabric shimmered in deep purples shot through with star-like flecks that caught the light every time he moved. The coat was tailored within an inch of its life, the sleeves flaring just enough to be dramatic, the buttons polished to a mirror sheen. The whole thing looked like it had been designed to offend good taste on principle alone.

  By any reasonable standard, it was ridiculous.

  Somehow, on him, it worked.

  He wore it with the absolute confidence of a man who had decided, long ago, that other people’s opinions were not his problem. The outfit did not wear him. He wore it unapologetically, like a declaration made visible. I look fabulous, and I am entirely at peace with that.

  He took in the room methodically. He looked at me. He looked at Myrda. He looked back at me again, paused on my face, then on the work spread across the table. His eyes tracked the tools, the drafts, the unfinished enchantments. After a moment, he nodded, as if everything fit together into a picture he already understood.

  I had expected anger. I had expected accusations, or a lecture, or to be thrown out for the marks on my face and the work I had done without permission.

  Instead, he smiled.

  He crossed the room and set a tray down in front of me, careful not to jostle anything nearby. The tray was loaded with food. There was freshly squeezed juice, a full meal portioned to match my regimen, and a banana placed neatly to the side as if it belonged there by default. The fact that he knew about that caught me off guard more than anything else he had done so far.

  I stared at the tray, genuinely stunned, my thoughts lagging behind the simple reality of what I was seeing.

  Randall was a terrible instructor. He endangered students. He carried a reputation he seemed to accept without protest, content to be known as the worst of the trio. He had never gone out of his way to correct that image. None of it aligned with the man standing in front of me now, relaxed, self-possessed, and visibly pleased with himself.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  He folded his hands behind his back, rocking slightly on his heels. “I know what you did. I’m not upset about it. It was something I needed to do.” He tilted his head. “The timing was inconvenient.”

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  He shrugged lightly. “But I received good news today. Knowing what happened last night helped me keep my mood intact.”

  He gestured toward the tray. “I enjoy cooking when I’m having a good day, and there was no way in hell I was going to let Greta near the kitchen, let alone food, ever again after last time.”

  Then he turned to Myrda, his expression shifting into something quieter.

  “I understand what happened to you yesterday,” he said. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  He smiled, and this time the expression carried real weight, the kind that settled rather than flashed. “My sister is better. That’s what the letter I received this morning says.”

  Myrda inhaled sharply, one hand tightening around the edge of the table.

  “I’ve requested time away,” Randall continued. “I’ll be traveling to the city guild hall after the new coppers finish recovering. It’s already been approved.” He paused just long enough for the words to land. “My sister will be joining the martial class.”

  He looked back at me. “I do hope you’re training the be… Meka well.”

  I opened my mouth to respond, but he raised a hand, already stepping back.

  “Well,” he said, turning toward the door, “good day to you both. I hope your future efforts go better than what happened to your face.”

  He laughed, the sound light and unbothered.

  “I’m looking forward to seeing Greta’s reaction when she finds out.” He glanced back over his shoulder. “I might even tell her myself just to see what happens.”

  The color drained from my face.

  Myrda went pale as well.

  We tried to get back to work.

  The attempt lasted only a few seconds before a massive, bellowing roar tore through the building, loud enough that it rattled tools on the table and sent a dull vibration through the floor beneath my feet.

  My heart dropped immediately. I knew that sound. I knew exactly who had made it, and I knew what it meant when it carried that much force behind it. Whatever was coming next was not going to be pleasant, not for me, and not for anyone close enough to get caught in the spillover.

  “Myrda,” I said quickly, already turning toward her, “you should hide.”

  She looked at me, tension snapping into place in an instant. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” I said without hesitation. “You do not want to be caught in this.”

  She studied my face for a brief moment, then nodded once. “You’re probably right.”

  She made a quick religious sign, the star of the god of well wishes and revenge, her fingers precise and practiced, then slipped out through the back door without another word. The door closed softly behind her, leaving the room feeling suddenly larger and far more exposed.

  I stayed where I was.

  My heart pounded as heavy footsteps closed in from the hallway. Each step struck the floor with intent rather than speed, measured and deliberate, as if whoever was approaching had no concern about being stopped. The footsteps slowed, then stopped directly outside the door. I could hear breathing through the wood now, controlled but furious, the kind of restraint that made things worse instead of better.

  I could picture Greta standing there, posture rigid, anger radiating off her in waves, fueled by whatever Randall had decided to tell her and whatever conclusions she had already drawn on her own.

  I probably deserved some of it. I had not broken the promise outright, but I had knowingly gone around it. I had asked Myrda to do what I was not supposed to do myself. Technicalities were never going to matter to Greta. I had made the choice, and that choice was about to come due. I had no idea whether I was going to survive what came next with my pride intact, let alone anything else.

  I chose not to hide.

  I did not pretend nothing had happened. I did not try to excuse the marks carved into my face and hands as an accident or a misunderstanding. I walked toward the door instead, every step feeling heavier than the last.

  I reached for the handle.

  Greta beat me to it.

  The door flew open as my hand touched it, the sudden motion yanking me forward. Greta stepped through at the same time and caught me squarely with her knee. The impact drove the breath out of me and sent me flying backward, my feet leaving the ground before I had time to react.

  The anger did not vanish, but something else took over immediately.

  Before my head could hit the floor, Greta’s hand was there, bracing it with practiced speed. She hauled me upright in one smooth motion, set me back on my feet, and brushed my shoulders as if checking for damage rather than expressing concern. The movements were efficient, automatic, born of long habit.

  Then she grabbed the back of my shirt.

  She marched us outside without a word.

  She held me out in front of her as she power-walked across the yard, her grip firm enough that there was no question of escape. Her eyes stayed locked on mine the entire time. There was unbridled rage in that stare, direct and unfiltered, the kind that left no room for argument or defense. It was terrifying in its restraint.

  She looked at my unnaturally white eyes and said nothing.

  There was no yelling yet. No accusation. No punishment.

  That silence pressed down harder than any shout could have. It left too much space for imagination, too much room for everything she had not said to pile up between us.

  So far.

  If I had not already been praying to my god the moment I heard that roar, I would have started right then, desperately trying to invent religion on the spot.