Scenes Compilation

Generated: 2026-01-17T03:48:33+00:00 Metastable directory: /builds/bahaynes/varanth/series/metastable

Note: Each top-level heading (#) below corresponds to one source file. The original file H1 is removed to avoid duplication. A comment under each heading shows the source path.

Table of Contents

The_First_Observation

The Hall of Pledges loomed at the end of the mountain pass—all basalt and bronze, built when Velestra still believed mass equaled power.

Mal arrived on the coldest day of winter. Appropriate for a substitution no one wanted. Not Taren. Remember that. Keep breathing.

Hall Master Sovithan received him in an office meant to make even a Dracan feel small. The desk was carved from a single slab of stone; the ledgers were real ink on heavy paper, the weight of precedent.

"Malric Aerath. Substitute tribunat for your brother Taren, currently engaged in the eastern campaign." Sovithan's voice vibrated in Mal's chest—not unkind, not warm. "Your family's obligation is noted."

"I'm honored to serve." The formal words tasted like someone else's speech. Taren's, probably. Say the line. Don't explain. He doesn't care.

"Administrator Kaevath sponsors your studies. You'll have access to the main archives, practice grounds, and commons. Western wing is clergy-only; northern dormitories remain under renovation. Evening prayers are mandatory. Questions?"

Mal had dozens. He asked none. "No, Hall Master."

"Third wing, eastern corridor." Sovithan returned to his ledger, dismissal clear.

A Chiropteran novice waited outside—young, pale, moving with that near-silent air glide. "You're replacing someone," she said over her shoulder as she guided him through arched corridors. "People expected your brother. He's... known. Campaign reports." Her grin flashed vestigial fangs. "I'm Lyss. If you need anything, the Chiropteran wards tend to know where things are. Light bones make for good eavesdropping."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"It's not bad," she added quickly. "Just... they'll need time to adjust."

She left him with directions and a sympathetic look.

The room was fine. Adequate. A desk by the window, a bed along the wall, a welcome packet of schedules and protocols written in that severe script the clergy loved. Furniture sized for someone his build, but the floor still showed the drag marks of larger pieces—Taren-sized, or whatever noble had occupied the space before him.

Mal unpacked his notebooks first, stacking them in chronological order. Four years of field observations, anatomical sketches, transformation metrics. Evidence that he existed in a way that wasn't just Taren's shadow.

His field kit came next: brass calipers, hand-lens, measuring tape, vials of copper salts for neural stabilization, ironroot tincture for blood fortification, aconite extract sealed under triple warning sigils. Dangerous, yes. Also necessary.

Through the window he saw a courtyard laid out for spectacle—gravel raked smooth, practice rings marked in bronze, ornamental plantings along the borders. A training arena positioned exactly where scholars could observe.

Someone was already there.

Felan. Female. Mid-twenties. Tiger morphotype. She wore a tailored garment that flowed with her shifts—expensive silk most shifters never touched. Discipline in every line of her body.

Mal lifted his notebook before conscious thought caught up.

Subject: Felan, ≈25, Tigran. Transition 2.3 seconds. Heat dispersion normal. Proprioceptive mapping optimal.

She held tiger-form for half a minute, then flowed back to human. Clean. Controlled.

Return transition 2.2 seconds. Consistent timing. High-skill subject, likely noble training.

Another shift. A heartbeat of hesitation before completion. Sweat at her temple despite the cold.

Third transition 2.8 seconds. Minor instability. Early interference?

Mal leaned closer to the glass. The woman reset her stance, inhaled, shifted again. The heat shimmer intensified. Coming back to human, she stumbled.

Fourth transition 3.2 seconds. Visible distress. Progressive degradation. Not fatigue—pattern interference, cumulative.

She should stop. He knew she wouldn't. People like her never did.

She drew another breath, jaw set, and shifted.

Halfway through, everything seized. Her skeleton tried to be two architectures at once; muscle fiber rippled without direction. Eyes flickered between human brown and feline gold. The air warped with waste heat. She made a sound that was all terror.

Mal was already running, field kit in one hand, notebook under his arm. Heart's a hammer. Focus on the math.

The courtyard air bit like knives. The Felan woman knelt on the gravel, body stuck between templates. Fur rippled across skin in waves that never finished. Jaw elongating, retracting. Bones grinding as they fought themselves. The scent hit him—fear sharp as acid, undercut by something botanical and wrong.

"Don't force it," Mal said as he dropped beside her. "You're feeding the loop."

Her eyes cycled between round and slitted, pupils snapping tight, blowing wide. "Can't—" The word fractured mid-syllable.

Mal leaned in, let his wolf nose parse through sweat, ozone, burned sugar. There. Bitter, floral residue coating her skin. "You've been near aconite. Wolf's bane. South gardens?"

She managed a nod that jolted her unfinished musculature. "Every morning—read there—"

"How long?"

"Weeks—" Her form spasmed. She keened.

Aconite corrupted proprioceptive memory, especially with repeated rapid shifts. Low exposure was nuisance. Daily exposure plus perfectionist drills was a slow weapon.

Mal measured out three drops of concentrated extract into a tin cup of water. Fifty-three kilograms, maybe a little more with muscle. Advanced corruption. Agitated. The dosage had to be exact.

"This is going to scatter your focus," he told her. "Your conscious mind keeps firing a corrupted map. We need to disrupt control completely so your hindbrain can rebuild from genetic baseline." Hands steady. Voice steady. Heart anything but.

She stared at the cup, unable to close fingers that kept flickering into paws. "Will it work?"

"If we do nothing, you lock like this. That's certain." Mal met her frantic, shifting eyes. "This gives you a chance."

She drank.

The collapse was immediate. Structure gone. Muscles liquefied, bones softening, skin rippling with no template to follow. She screamed—raw, animal. Heat rolled off her in choking waves.

Mal gripped her shoulder. Her skeleton writhed under his palm, trying three patterns at once. "Let go. Stop fighting. Trust your body."

For a heartbeat, two, five, she was nothing but motion. Then the chaos began to funnel. Bones locked. Muscle fiber aligned. Fur rippled into place.

Tiger. Whole. Solid.

She held the form for four breaths before shifting back to human—smooth, automatic, perfect. Then she collapsed into him, all that strength suddenly heavy and shaking.

"You're alright," Mal said, trying to will his pulse into something calmer. "Reset worked. Mapping's clean."

She was crying, silent and startled by it. "Couldn't stop. Thought I'd be stuck there."

"You won't. Memory might blur for a few hours, but the pathways are restored." He only realized his hands were still on her shoulders when she leaned forward and pressed her forehead to his.

The purr started low in her chest and resonated straight through him.

Brain. Gone.

"Thank you," she said, still purring. "I'm Kat. Katherina Therisan. You just saved my life."

"I'm—Mal. Mal Aerath. I arrived this afternoon. I was—" Words scattered. Focus. "I study transformation mechanics. I saw your transitions degrading. I should have introduced myself before dosing you."

Kat laughed, shaky. "You smell like pine and old books and danger." She tapped his chest with two fingers. "Strong shoulders. House Therisan remembers kindness. If anyone bothers you, I have cousins who love bothering back."

"That's not—" His face burned. "You're still impaired. Disinhibition is a side effect. We need to get you to medical."

"Don't want medical. Want to stay here." She nuzzled his shoulder. "Definitely keeping you." Another purr, louder. "Mal clouds."

Footsteps scraped over gravel. Another Felan approached—compact, powerful, Oncan morphotype with military posture.

"Kat," she said, voice even. "Status?"

Kat beamed. "Sira! This is Mal. He saved me with science. We should keep him."

Sira's eyes flicked from Kat to Mal, recalibrating. "Name?"

"Malric Aerath. Kat experienced proprioceptive collapse from cumulative aconite exposure combined with repetitive transitions. I administered a counter-agent. She'll recover fully but she's currently disinhibited."

Sira crouched, checking Kat's pulse, temperature, pupils with efficient touches. "From where?"

"South gardens. She's been reading there daily." Mal realized he was still bracing Kat upright. "I have notes. Observations. If you want them for medical records."

"You have notes?" Sira's eyebrows rose despite herself.

"Window faces the courtyard. I document transformation mechanics. When I saw the degradation pattern—" He cut himself off. "I know. Introduce yourself first next time."

"You saved her from permanent neural scarring." Sira stood, offered him a hand. "Can you stand, Kat?"

"Can float," Kat said dreamily. "Like clouds. Mal clouds."

"She's definitely still impaired," Sira muttered. She hauled Kat to her feet with the ease of long practice. "Thank you, Scholar Aerath. We'll talk again when she's sober enough not to try to adopt you."

"I'm not adopting," Kat protested. "I'm appreciating. There's a difference. Mal, tell her."

"There's definitely a difference," Mal said, because apparently his mouth worked faster than his brain now.

Sira's look held gratitude, warning, sympathy. "Welcome to the Hall, Scholar. You've made an impression."

They left him alone in the courtyard, field kit scattered, adrenaline still spiking.

Collect data. Write it down before memory romanticizes it.

Back in his room, Mal sat at the desk until his hands steadied enough to hold a stylus.

Day one. Case one: Katherina Therisan (Felan, Tigran morphotype).

Cause: Cumulative aconite exposure + high-frequency transitions → catastrophic proprioceptive corruption.

Treatment: Forced neural reset via precisely dosed aconite counter-agent. Outcome: full recovery; temporary disinhibition.

Observations:

Mal hesitated, then added another line.

Subject expressed gratitude while impaired. Behavior consistent with aconite-induced disinhibition. Do not assume sincerity. Do not assume insincerity either.

He looked back out the window. The training grounds were empty; the purple flowers along the path looked harmless.

Placement pattern suggests deliberate cultivation. Naturalized or introduced? Who stands to gain? Observe, measure, prove. His mentor's voice. Safe. Responsible.

Another voice, smaller: How many people get hurt while you prove?

Mal closed the notebook. Pulse still too fast. Residual adrenaline, obviously. Nothing to do with purring, or the way Kat had leaned into him, or the moment she said we should keep him as if he were something wanted.

That was just the aconite talking.

Definitely the aconite.

He lay back on the too-small bed, stared at the ceiling, and tried very hard to believe it.

Next: The Morning After

The_Morning_After

Mal was in the archives before dawn. If he stayed in his room he'd obsess over yesterday's disaster, and obsessing served no useful purpose.

The archives were built for Dracan—soaring ceilings, wide aisles, shelves rising three stories. But someone maintained this space with care. The brass fixtures gleamed. The floor was swept. The scent of old paper and preservative oils was strong but not unpleasant.

Mal found the natural philosophy section and lost himself in texts about transformation theory, taking notes, trying to think about anything except the way Kat had pressed her forehead to his and purred.

"You're up early."

Mal nearly fell off his ladder.

Kat stood at the base, flanked by Sira. Her eyes were clear and lucid. Her expression: profound embarrassment.

"I'm told I owe you an apology," she said. "And a thank you. Possibly in that order."

Mal climbed down. "No apology necessary. You were impaired. It wasn't—you didn't—it was the wolf's bane."

"Sira explained." Kat's smile was rueful. "Apparently I proposed adoption. And commented on your shoulders."

Mal's face burned. "You were very kind. Under the circumstances."

"I was mortifying." Kat stepped closer. "But I am genuinely grateful. Sira explained what would have happened if you hadn't intervened. So. Thank you, Mal Aerath. Properly and soberly. You saved me from something terrible, and you did it because you noticed I needed help." She paused. "That's not nothing."

"It's observation. Just—paying attention. Seeing patterns."

"Most people don't," Sira said. "Pay attention, I mean. Especially not to problems that aren't theirs."

Assessment. Maybe approval.

"I'm a scholar," Mal said. "I study transformation mechanics. When I see someone in distress, it seems wrong not to help."

"Well." Kat's smile warmed. "I'm glad you did. And I meant what I said yesterday, even if I said it strangely. If anyone gives you trouble here, you tell me. House Therisan has resources. And we remember kindness."

"That's not necessary—"

"It's already done." Kat glanced at Sira. "We should let him get back to his research. But Mal? Join us for breakfast? I promise to behave with perfect propriety and not comment on anyone's shoulders."

"I would be honored."

They left him in the archives. Mal stood there for a long moment, trying to process what had just happened.

Kat had thanked him formally. Offered House support. Invited him to breakfast.

He was supposed to be invisible here. The substitute. The one who wasn't Taren.

Instead, he'd made himself immediately visible by saving someone important on his first day.

Well. Taren would have handled that more smoothly. But at least I didn't let her lock into permanent neural damage.

He returned to his research, but found himself distracted.

Through the archive windows, he could see the south gardens. The ornamental plantings. Purple flowers along the border, clearly visible even from here.

Wolf's bane. Growing where scholars went to read, to relax, to practice.

Kat had been exposed daily for—how long? Weeks? Months?

He pulled out his notebook, flipped to his private observations.

South gardens contain wolf's bane in ornamental plantings. Mature specimens, well-maintained, positioned along primary pathways where scholars would brush against them regularly.

Question: Accidental inclusion or intentional? Native species or introduced?

Do not speculate aloud. Observe. Measure. Prove.

His mentor's voice, clear in memory: Conjecture ruins reputations, Mal. Yours and theirs. Never accuse what you cannot prove.

Mal closed the notebook and returned to his research texts.

He didn't hear the footsteps until they were close—heavy, deliberate, the distinctive sound of someone with Dracan mass moving through the archives with careful precision.

A woman stood at the end of the aisle. Dracan, clearly—seven feet tall, shoulders suggesting immense strength carefully controlled. She was dressed as a mid-level administrator, and her dark hair was pulled back in a severe knot.

She was also reading while she walked—a tablet of reports, consulted with casual confidence.

"Administrator Thalyra Renaris," she said without looking up. "Medical oversight and scholar welfare." She reached the end of the aisle, finally glanced at Mal. "You're the Aerath substitute. Malric?"

"Yes, Administrator." Mal bowed. "I'm honored."

"Mm." Thalyra set down her tablet, pulled a book from the shelf with practiced ease. "I've been reviewing incident reports. Yesterday's case involving Kat of House Therisan. Your intervention was noted."

"I study transformation mechanics. I recognized the symptoms."

"Yes, I saw the report. Wolf's bane exposure causing cumulative proprioceptive degradation, treated with controlled counter-agent administration." Thalyra opened the book—a medical text—and compared something to her tablet. "The diagnosis was precise. The treatment was unorthodox but effective. The documentation was thorough." She looked up. "All of which suggests you've done this before."

"I've encountered wolf's bane poisoning in shepherds. In the mountains near my home."

"Shepherds who lost the ability to hold wolf form consistently while working." Not a question. "Dangerous around flocks. Your treatment protocol helped them re-establish stable form-memory."

Mal blinked. "Yes. How did you—"

"I read your sponsor's letters. Your mentor wrote extensively about your field research." Thalyra returned the book to its shelf. "Dr. Ashvin speaks highly of your observational skills. Less highly of your willingness to share your conclusions."

"My mentor taught me to prove before I speak."

"Sensible. If somewhat frustrating for those trying to prevent future incidents." Thalyra picked up her tablet. "I'm interested in preventing future incidents, Scholar Aerath. Three cases in six months, all with similar symptoms, all dismissed as spiritual inadequacy. Yesterday's case would have been the fourth—and likely permanent—if you hadn't intervened."

"You think there's a pattern."

"I know there's a pattern. What I don't know is the mechanism." Thalyra's eyes were sharp, assessing. "You identified wolf's bane exposure in Kat's case. Environmental factor, not spiritual failure. Which raises obvious questions about the other cases."

Mal said nothing. Let them ask. Don't volunteer.

"The south gardens," Thalyra continued. "Where Kat spent time daily. Did you observe anything notable about the plantings?"

"Wolf's bane grows along the borders. Purple flowers, spiky leaves. Mature specimens."

"Mature suggests they've been there for some time."

"At least two growing seasons. Possibly longer."

"And the placement?"

Mal hesitated. "Along the primary pathways. Where scholars would naturally brush against them."

"Convenient placement for accidental exposure."

It wasn't a question. It was bait.

Mal kept his expression neutral. "The gardens are maintained by the clergy. I assume they selected plants appropriate for the climate."

Thalyra's smile was thin. "Of course. Appropriate for the climate." She made a notation. "Tell me, Scholar Aerath—if you were investigating these incidents, what would you examine first?"

"The other three cases. Verify whether they also had environmental exposure to wolf's bane or similar compounds. Establish whether there's a common factor beyond symptoms."

"And if there is a common factor?"

"Then the pattern suggests systemic cause rather than individual failure."

"But not necessarily intentional cause."

Mal met her eyes. "I observe patterns. I don't speculate about intentions without evidence."

Something shifted in Thalyra's expression. Interest, maybe. Or respect.

"Your mentor trained you well."

"She taught me that accusations require proof. And that being right eventually doesn't protect you from being wrong initially."

"Wise woman." Thalyra closed her tablet. "I'd like to offer you expanded access to the archives. Medical texts, historical incident reports, environmental surveys. For your research into transformation mechanics. Purely academic, of course."

"That's generous."

"I'm interested in preventing future incidents. You're interested in understanding transformation disruption. Our interests align." Thalyra paused. "I'm also interested in patterns. And in people who notice them but know when to stay silent."

"I prefer to understand before I speak."

"Then you're already ahead of most." Thalyra produced a document—authorization for expanded archive access, already prepared. "But eventually, Scholar Aerath, if you want to prevent harm rather than simply document it, you'll need to speak. The question is when you'll trust someone enough to do so."

She left the document on the shelf beside him and walked away, footsteps deliberate and measured.

Mal stood there for a long moment, holding the authorization.

She'd baited him. Tested him. Tried to get him to speculate, to theorize, to accuse.

He'd stayed factual. Careful. Proven.

And somehow, that had been exactly the right response.

Mal looked at the authorization, then at his notebook with its careful observations and unspoken theories.

She knows. She knows I saw more than I said. She knows I suspect deliberate cultivation. She's waiting to see if I'll trust her enough to say it.

The question was—should he?

Prove first. Speak second. Always.

But another voice, quieter: How many people get hurt while you're busy proving?

Mal tucked the authorization into his notebook and returned to his research.

But now he was looking for different things. Evidence. Patterns. Proof.

Not just for understanding.

For speaking.

Later, in his private notes:

Administrator Thalyra. Dracan, medical oversight. Intelligence suggests high competence, possibly noble-born (carries herself with authority beyond her stated rank). Interested in transformation incident patterns. Attempted to elicit speculation—I declined. She approved.

Observation: She already knows about the wolf's bane cultivation. She's testing to see if I'll notice independently. Question: Why does she need an outside observer? What prevents her from investigating directly?

Hypothesis (private, unproven): The clergy resist external oversight. She needs someone without clerical ties to document what she already suspects.

Risk assessment: She's positioning me as her investigator. Possibly without full disclosure of political complications. Need to understand her agenda before committing further.

Do not speculate aloud. But prepare evidence. If she's right about the pattern—if this is intentional—someone needs to stop it.

And if I'm the only one positioned to prove it...

Mal stopped writing, stylus hovering.

Then I need to decide: when is caution wisdom, and when is silence complicity?

He left the question unanswered.

But he kept working.

Next: Training

Morning_Routines

The common hall at breakfast was less formal than dinner—scholars and tributaries claiming tables by affinity rather than rank. Mal arrived early, scanning for familiar faces.

"Mal. Over here." Kat waved from a table near the windows, Sira seated beside her with the look of someone enduring the early hour. He made his way over.

"You're a morning person," Kat observed, sliding bread and preserves across the table. "I respect that, even if I don't understand it. Sira actively resents it."

"I'm awake," Sira muttered into her tea. "Barely."

"Careful, cleric Hestin might cite that as a failure of faith." Kat's smile was genuine. "Help yourself. The kitchen prepares for Ursine appetites, so there's always excess."

The spread was generous—dark breads still steaming, soft cheeses, preserved fruits, salted meats, oat porridge with honey. Mal took measured portions, conscious of not appearing greedy.

"So," Kat said, leaning forward. "I have something worth your attention. You look like someone who doesn't receive gossip often."

"I don't, generally."

"Perfect. You'll savor it more." Kat glanced around. "Mira Stellan—Felan, western tributaries—is currently being courted by not one but two Vulpine scholars. Both entirely convinced of their romantic superiority. Both completely ignorant that Mira is actually interested in the Ursine archivist."

"Sounds inefficient."

"It's magnificent," Kat corrected. "I've been observing for weeks. The Vulpine boys are so earnest. So confident. So thoroughly mistaken." She bit into her bread. "Though I suppose I should understand. I've received my share of misdirected attention."

Sira choked on her tea.

"What?" Kat's expression was innocent.

"The Lupan lordling at winter solstice."

"Ah. Yes." Kat dismissed the memory with a wave. "Sweet enough, but convinced my disinterest was somehow a strategic challenge. Eventually I explained that I was as likely to court him as I was to grow wings and take to the mountain passes."

"You were tactful."

"I mentioned his sister. Suggested her attendant might appreciate his poetry." Kat smiled.

"Which had nothing to do with the amount of time you were staring at her instead."

"They corresponded quite happily after. Everyone benefited."

She turned to Mal. "The principle is simple: romantic attention is only flattering when it points in the correct direction. Otherwise it becomes merely awkward."

Mal found himself smiling. "Does this occur frequently?"

"Constantly. The Hall is populated by young nobles with time and insufficient oversight. Everyone is expected to form alliances, to cultivate connections. Some interpret this rather literally." Kat's eyes sparkled. "Though I've made excellent connections myself. Sira, for instance. Best decision I ever made, befriending someone who can throw knives with precision and looks appropriately intimidating."

"I am intimidating," Sira said.

"You are. It's exceptionally useful."

A cluster of younger scholars passed their table—three Vulpines, speaking rapidly. Mal caught fragments: "—ceremony this afternoon—" "—finally of age—" "—mother sent new attire—"

One of them noticed Mal observing and smiled shyly—a young man, perhaps seventeen, bright-eyed and nervous. Then they were past.

"That's Petran," Kat said quietly. "Vulpine, from one of the eastern tributary houses. His coming-of-age ceremony is this afternoon. Full formal ritual—he's been preparing for months."

"He appears anxious."

"He's terrified," Sira said. "First major transformation ceremony with the entire Hall bearing witness. Everything formal, everything prescribed. Slip once, and it's public."

"That seems excessive."

"It's tradition," Kat said. "The clergy prefer their ceremonies. Families enjoy watching their children participate in ancient, ritualized observance. I find it somewhat theatrical, but—"

She stopped as someone approached their table.

Administrator Thalyra Renaris moved with characteristic Dracan precision, a tablet balanced under one arm. "Lady Therisan. Lady Falen. Scholar Aerath." She nodded to each. "May I?"

"Of course, Administrator." Kat gestured to the empty chair.

Thalyra settled carefully—even reinforced furniture creaked under her mass. "I wanted to address you again, Scholar Aerath. Your work last week was precise. House Therisan has expressed their formal appreciation through appropriate channels, but I thought direct acknowledgment merited equal priority."

"The treatment was straightforward. Any scholar with suitable training could have—"

"But they did not," Thalyra interrupted. "You did. There is a distinction." She paused, pale eyes fixed on him. "I've also been reviewing your archive access logs. Your research has been thorough. Systematic."

Mal kept his face neutral. Had she found something? Observed a pattern in his selections? His analysis of Lyss's tea had shown trace amounts of Ergot Alkaloids—batsbane.

"Transformation mechanics are complex. I want to understand them properly."

"Commendable." Thalyra's expression remained unreadable. "If your studies yield any particular insights, I would appreciate hearing them. I'm always interested in new analytical perspectives."

"Of course, Administrator."

"Good." Thalyra rose with careful movement. "Enjoy your breakfast. And Scholar Aerath—I will see you at this afternoon's ceremony. Attendance is mandatory for natural philosophy scholars. The opportunity for observation is valuable."

She departed before Mal could respond.

Kat was watching him with undisguised interest.

"She's simply being polite," Mal said before Kat could speak.

"No," Kat said. "She's being interested. There's a difference. Thalyra doesn't expend politeness unless it serves a purpose. If she's reviewing your archive patterns and ensuring you'll attend a ritual ceremony, she's positioning you toward something."

"Positioning me toward what?"

Sira looked at Kat, then back to Mal. "That," she said dryly, "is the useful question."

The morning light through the windows had shifted, warm and angled. Breakfast continued around them—the scrape of chairs, the low murmur of conversations layered like sediment. Mal reached for his tea. It had cooled, but he drank it anyway, his mind already moving to the afternoon.

Next: Ceremony

Training

Mal was going to be late. Not sure exactly when that started mattering to him, he increased his pace.

"Five minutes, that's five laps!" Sira bellowed across the sparring ground. Mal felt his ears burn red. The rest of the trainees didn't seem at all surprised at Sira's yelling, already used to it.

"If I do that, how am I supposed to beat you in the ring?"

Sira looked Mal over, "You aren't going to anyway, and next time don't be late!"

Mal begrudgingly turned to the outside of the arena, when a thought struck him. Shrugging off his tunic he let his mind imagine fur and claws, the feeling of wind in his face, and yanked that invisible muscle which triggered the rearrangement of his bones. Time was always funny in the transition, but that one felt fast.

Loping around the outer edge of the courtyard Mal raised his eyes to Sira and let his tongue flop out.

"You mangy mutt, just make it quick!"

Mal loped his laps, feeling the adrenaline of running as a wolf, feeling all four feet working in unison.

Completed with the requested effort, he mentally prepared himself for the transition--"Wait, keep your form. Let's work natural combat today."

Sira's tunic flew to the ground revealing scars and a body toned by combat for a flash of a second before a massive Jaguar stood--

Mal's wolf instincts screamed warnings. The jaguar was bigger. Denser muscle, claws that caught the sun. Sira moved like water—low, economical—and Mal was still thinking about the physics when her shoulder drove into his ribs.

He rolled with it, used the momentum, snapped at the space she'd occupied a millisecond too late. She was already circling. A feint left, then she came right, raking. Mal threw himself aside, felt the burn of claws against fur. Not deep. She was holding back.

Sira pivoted and bit his shoulder. Mal twisted trying to throw her, but ended up on his side with legs in the air. Sira let him try to rise, fail, and still. Then she released and stepped back, panting in that way cats do, muscles rippling beneath spotted fur.

Mal's heart hammered against his ribs. His wolf wanted to lunge again. He forced the animal down, grabbed hold of the human reasoning underneath it all—

"Enough." Sira's voice cut across the courtyard as she already shifted back, pulling her tunic over her head before she was fully human again. "You've got work to do. You're overthinking."

"I think about it the right amount," Mal said, shifting back, still breathing hard.

"Then you'd be faster."

The words stung more than the claws had. "I'm not—"

"Lyss!" Sira called across the sparring ground, spotting someone near the archway. "Come settle a dispute!"

Lyss approached. Mal had an opportunity to get primary evidence from one of Thaylra's "previous cases". The woman had undergone a routine dedication ceremony and failed to transform cleanly—a dedication issue, according to rumor. But Mal had heard the whispers in the barracks. Not dedication. Faith. And that was supposedly the foundation of the whole thing, wasn't it? The bond between a shifter and their animal form. Without it, the body wouldn't remember. Would get confused. Would fail.

He needed to talk to her. Alone.

But Sira had already linked her arm through Lyss's, already was saying something about brewing tea in her quarters, already was gesturing for Mal to grab his tunic and come along.

Sira led them back to her quarters, still talking about all the ways Mal was overthinking fighting. Tea arrived with hard crackers—military rations, probably—which Sira attacked with enthusiasm. Lyss picked at hers

Sira sat sprawled in her chair like she owned it, which, in her quarters, she did. Lyss perched on the edge of a stool, cradling her cup in both hands.

"I haven't seen you in the training grounds since- well, it's been a while?"

Lyss's eyes darted to the open window, "I was planning on trying again today, but it's..."

"Overwhelming?" Mal interjected.

"Yes. I keep feeling like I'm going to fail in front of everyone."

Mal watched her sip. Her movements were precise, controlled. The mark of someone who'd learned to be careful with her body. She grimaced.

"Something wrong with your Tea?" Sira asked, "You flinched."

Lyss hesitated—barely a flicker—before answering. "Cleric Hestin gave me a special blend weeks ago. Said it might help with... concentration. Discipline."

Mal exchanged a glance with Sira, who was suddenly very focused on the Chiroptran.

"Was this before or after your...Ceremony?" Mal questioned slowly. He looked at Lyss directly now. Her jaw tightened.

"Before, I was having some trouble getting my time down." she said, but her voice was small.

"Would you mind terribly if I asked you to share?" Mal pressed, his scientist's mind already spiraling through implications. Special blends. Transformation issues.

Sira set her cup down with a sharp clink. "What are you implying, Mal?"

"I'm not implying anything yet," Mal said quietly. "I'm just interested in tea blends, especially medicinal ones."

"It's not like you need help" Lyss cut in, eyes flashing.

"Ha!" Sira's exclamation loud in the small room. "That's where you are wrong! He needs all the help he can get if he's going to get an iota closer to landing a hit on me."

"I never said I even wanted that!"

"Well you should, how else are you going to survive here? One duel over honor, and your guts will be on the floor."

Lyss' cup made the loudest noise in the room. "Scholar Aerath, I'll have some of the blend sent over. It's been nice catching up Lady Falen."

"Lyss, find me the next time you want to train. I'll help without the entire court watching."

Lyss looked into Sira's eyes, "Thank you." she said while giving a slight bow and backing out.

Sira leapt from her chair and began pacing. "What was that about Mal?"

"She's one of the Tribunats who suffered transformation failures in the last 6 months."

"So? Transformation failures happen."

"Yes, but they often have a reason. And now I have a hypothesis to test." Mal brushed his hands on his pants as he strode to the door. "Thanks for the lesson, and the tea." Mal left Sira pacing already planning the next step of the investigation.

Next: Morning Routines

Ceremony

The Hall of Pledges was built for spectacle. It was all stone and light, designed to make everyone hold their breath.

Mal stood with the natural philosophy scholars, finding a clear sightline. The hall was too loud. Petran waited on the dais in formal robes, jaw set, hands tight at his sides. His family sat in the front row—stiff smiles, white-knuckled grips on the railing.

"We are gathered here to witness the birth of a Man, in whole and holy harmony with the divine sanctity of our gifts." Hestin disrobed Petran of his ceremonial overcoat.

"The engine of the world herself grants us the ability to hunt swiftly, hear sharply. To control our urges and guide us to nature's bounty. Through purity, diligence, and sacrifice you have ventured here to be proven worthy of the gifts bestowed upon you."

Petran stood braced, quivering with the effort of perfect posture.

“We bear witness,” Hestin said, and the hall went still.

Petran closed his eyes and let the change take him. Bones flowed. Muscles rewove. Human lines collapsed into the quick geometry of a red fox. Clean. Fluid. No hesitation.

He held the form, steady. Then back—human again, pale and sweating, a grin he couldn’t quite control as applause broke like surf around the dais.

Mal clapped with everyone else. But there—on reversion—too much heat for a transformation that simple. Half a breath of unsteady stance. Small tells, loud to anyone who trained themselves to hear them.

Reversion tremor. His balance is off. That's not nerves.

Across the hall, Administrator Thalyra Renaris watched him rather than the dais. No applause. No expression he could read.

Prayers. Blessings. The crowd closed around Petran, all relief and congratulations. Mal’s unease didn’t move.

Maybe it was just nerves, he told himself.

But it looked like the first crack.

Next: A Death in the Hall

A_Death_in_the_Hall

Three days after Petran’s coming-of-age ceremony, Mal was in the archives comparing historical transformation incident reports when someone cleared their throat behind him.

He turned to find a Chiropteran woman he didn’t recognize. She was pale and lean, with the distinctive hollow-boned delicacy of her kind, but she moved with a military precision that made the scholars around her look sloppy.

“Scholar Aerath. I’m Vaerin Talenis.” She spoke quietly, but with absolute authority. “Administrator Thalyra needs you. Now.”

Mal gathered his materials. “What’s happened?”

“She’ll explain.” Vaerin was already moving.

They went up—past the dormitory levels, into the administrative wing where Mal had never been. The air here was cooler, smelling of beeswax and silence. The corridors were better maintained, the brass fixtures polished to a mirror shine. This was where the Hall’s actual business happened.

Vaerin stopped at a heavy door, knocked once, and entered without waiting for acknowledgment.

The office beyond was sized for Dracan use—large desk, reinforced furniture, ceiling that rose into shadow. Administrator Thalyra Renaris stood at the window, back to the door, rigid with barely controlled tension.

“Administrator,” Vaerin said. “I brought him.”

Thalyra turned. Her expression was carved from stone. “Petran of House Velthar is dead.”

Mal’s stomach dropped. “When?”

“Sometime in the night. His roommate found him this morning.” Thalyra’s hands were clasped behind her back, knuckles white. “He went to bed after evening prayers, apparently healthy. This morning, he wouldn’t wake. The attending physician declared it a tragedy. Natural causes. Possibly heart failure.”

“But you don’t believe that,” Mal said.

“Petran was seventeen. Healthy. He’d just completed a successful coming-of-age ceremony three days ago.” Thalyra’s voice was flat. “Heart failure is possible. But given the pattern of incidents at this Hall—”

“You think it’s connected to the transformation disruptions.”

“I think it’s suspicious. And I think the attending physician is either incompetent or being deliberately obtuse.” Thalyra finally moved, walking to her desk with that careful Dracan precision. “Which is why I’m asking you to examine the body. Quietly. Before it’s prepared for return to his family.”

Mal’s pulse quickened. “An autopsy?”

“I want you to tell me what killed him. The physician has already signed the death certificate. If you find nothing unusual, that’s the end of it. But if you find something—anything—that suggests this wasn’t natural causes…” Thalyra met his eyes. “I need a cause of death that stands up to scrutiny. If I'm going to accuse the clergy of negligence—or worse—I can't do it with a guess.”

“And if I find proof of foul play?”

“Then we’ll deal with it. But first, I need to know.” Thalyra glanced at Vaerin. “Vaerin will accompany you. She has medical training and will assist with the examination. She’ll also ensure you’re not interrupted.”

“If Hestin finds out I'm touching that body...”

“Then he'll be angry,” Thalyra said. “But he won't be able to un-find what you discover. As far as anyone is concerned, you’re examining the body as a courtesy to House Velthar. Educational opportunity for a natural philosophy scholar. No one questions those things here.”

Vaerin stepped forward. “We should go now. The body’s in the preparation rooms. Once the mortuary staff arrive, we won’t have access.”

Mal looked between them—Thalyra with her controlled fury, Vaerin with her tactical assessment. This was more than a suspicious death. This was an investigation that had to stay secret.

“What are you not telling me?” Mal asked.

Thalyra’s smile was thin. “Many things, Scholar Aerath. But right now, the only thing that matters is this: if someone is killing tributaries at the Hall of Pledges, I need to know. And I need proof that will hold up under scrutiny.”

“Why me?”

“Because you see things others miss. Because you proved Kat’s injury was environmental, not spiritual. Because you ask the right questions.” Thalyra paused. “And because you’re not part of the clerical hierarchy or the political structure here. Your conclusions won’t be dismissed as factional.”

“They’ll be dismissed as inexperienced.”

“Only if you’re wrong. Don’t be wrong.” Thalyra turned back to the window. “Vaerin. Take him. And Mal? Be thorough. This matters more than you know.”

Next: The Autopsy

The_Autopsy

The preparation rooms were in the Hall’s lower levels—cool, stone-walled chambers that smelled of preservative herbs and something else. Something organic and final.

Petran lay on a stone table, covered with a white cloth. He looked smaller than Mal remembered—young, peaceful, like he was sleeping.

Vaerin Talenis closed the door behind them, threw the bolt. “We have maybe two hours before the mortuary staff arrive. Possibly less if someone notices we’re here.”

Mal set down his field kit, pulled out his notebook. “Have you done this before? Examined a body?”

“Field medicine, yes. Full autopsy, no.” Vaerin moved to the opposite side of the table. “But I know anatomy. I can assist.”

Mal took a breath, steadying himself. This was Petran. The nervous boy from breakfast who’d been excited about his ceremony. Now he was just a problem to be solved.

Focus, he told himself. Don't think about the boy. Think about the biology.

He pulled back the cloth.

Petran looked… normal. No obvious trauma. No visible signs of violence. Just a dead boy who should have been alive.

“I’m going to examine him systematically,” Mal said, more to organize his own thoughts than for Vaerin’s benefit. “External first, then internal if necessary. You watch for anything unusual. Things I might miss.”

“Understood.”

Mal started with the obvious—checking for injuries, marks, signs of struggle. Nothing. Petran’s skin was unmarked except for the ceremonial oils still faintly visible on his forehead from the ritual.

Eyes next. Mal pulled back the eyelids carefully, checking the sclera, the pupils. Normal. No hemorrhaging, no discoloration.

“His lips,” Vaerin said quietly. “Look at his lips.”

Mal looked. There—subtle, but present—a faint blue tinge. Cyanosis.

“Respiratory failure,” Vaerin said, leaning closer. “Or circulatory. He wasn't getting enough oxygen.”

Mal checked Petran’s fingernails. Same faint blue tinge.

“Could be heart failure,” Vaerin said. “That would cause this.”

“But he was healthy. Young. No history of heart problems.” Mal pulled out his calipers, began taking measurements. Chest circumference, lung capacity estimation, throat examination.

He paused at Petran’s throat. “Help me position him. I want to check his airway.”

Together they adjusted Petran’s head. Mal examined the throat carefully, then frowned. “There’s slight inflammation. Edema in the airway tissues. Not severe, but present.” He pulled out his hand-lens, looked closer. “And his tongue—see the discoloration? Slightly darker than normal.”

“Asphyxiation?”

“Possibly. But from what?” Mal sat back, thinking. “The ceremony was three days ago. If something damaged his airways then, he would have shown symptoms immediately. Difficulty breathing, distress. But his roommate said he seemed fine until last night.”

“Delayed reaction to something?”

“Maybe.” Mal began checking the rest of Petran’s body systematically. Abdomen—slightly distended. Liver region—when he pressed gently, the tissue felt wrong. Swollen.

“I need to open him up,” Mal said quietly. “Internal examination. There’s something wrong with his organs.”

Vaerin nodded and helped him prepare.

The incision was clean, professional. Mal had done this hundreds of times on animal subjects. But his hands still shook slightly as he exposed Petran’s internal organs.

The liver was enlarged. Discolored. When Mal cut a small sample, the tissue practically fell apart.

“Acute hepatic failure,” he said, his voice tight. “Massive. This is what killed him—his liver stopped processing toxins, everything backed up into his system, caused respiratory shutdown.” He examined the tissue more closely. “But a healthy seventeen-year-old liver doesn't just dissolve like this.”

Vaerin leaned over his shoulder. “Poison?”

“Possibly. But the pattern is strange.” Mal pulled out more samples, examining each carefully. The kidneys showed similar damage. The spleen was swollen. “This is systemic toxicity. Something that his body couldn’t process. Something that accumulated until it reached critical levels.”

He stopped, stylus hovering over his notebook.

“Wait. The ceremony was three days ago. He transformed to fox form for the first time in a formal context.” Mal’s mind was racing. “What if he consumed something beforehand—something that was harmless in human form, but toxic when he shifted?”

Vaerin’s eyes widened. “Species-specific toxicity.”

“Exactly. Some things are harmless to humans and lethal to canids—theobromine is the obvious one.” Mal’s stylus moved. “Found in cacao. If he ate any of it before the ceremony and then shifted, vulpine metabolism would try to process what it simply can’t. The toxins would stack in liver and kidneys.”

“But he shifted back to human form immediately after the ceremony.”

“It doesn’t matter. The damage was already done. His organs were compromised in fox form, and that damage persisted when he returned to human.” Mal gestured to the discolored liver. “For three days, his body tried to compensate. Tried to process the toxins, repair the damage. But the injury was too severe. Last night, his liver finally failed completely. Toxins flooded his system. He went to sleep and never woke up.”

Vaerin was quiet for a moment. “The clerical protocols explicitly forbid consuming certain foods before transformation ceremonies. For exactly this reason.”

“I know. Every shifter culture has those taboos.” Mal looked at Petran’s young face, peaceful in death. “The question is—did Petran break protocol accidentally? Or did someone give him something forbidden, knowing what would happen when he transformed?”

“You think someone poisoned him deliberately.”

“I think someone gave him something sweet and safe to a human and deadly to a fox. A gift. Comfort. A nudge.” Mal’s jaw tightened. “They knew he’d transform the next day. Knew he wouldn't be able to metabolize the theobromine once he shifted.”

“Can you prove it?” Vaerin asked. “That it was deliberate?”

“I can prove he consumed something toxic to vulpine metabolism. I can prove it killed him.” Mal gestured to the liver samples. “What I can’t prove is whether someone gave it to him intentionally, or whether he broke protocol himself and was just… unlucky.”

“But you suspect deliberate.”

Mal thought about the breakfast three days ago. Petran, nervous and excited, surrounded by well-wishers. So many people offering congratulations, treats, good wishes for his ceremony.

“The clerical protocols exist for a reason,” Mal said quietly. “They’re drilled into every young shifter from childhood. You don’t eat forbidden foods before transformation. Ever. It’s not just religious observance—it’s survival.” He looked at Vaerin. “Petran would have known better. Unless someone convinced him it was safe. Or unless he didn’t know what he was eating.”

“So either negligent homicide or premeditated murder.”

“Either way, someone is responsible for his death.” Mal took tissue samples, sealing them carefully. “I’ll test for the usual canid toxics. Whatever killed him will still be in the tissue. That’s proof.”

“And then what?”

“Then we find out who gave it to him.” Mal looked at Petran’s body, at the evidence of slow, painful organ failure. “And we make sure they can’t do it again.”

Next: The Investigation Begins

The_Investigation_Begins

Petran's quarters were small, neat, and heartbreakingly ordinary.

The room had already been partially cleared—his roommate had moved to different accommodations, unable to sleep where someone had died. But Petran's belongings remained, waiting for his family's representative to collect them.

Mal stood in the doorway, Vaerin Talenis beside him, both silent.

"Where do we start?" Vaerin asked quietly.

"With what he ate." Mal stepped inside, pulled out his notebook. "Any food he kept here, any gifts he received, anything that might have contained the toxin."

The desk held the usual scholar's clutter—tablets for note-taking, ink and stylus, a half-finished letter home. Mal read it carefully, looking for mentions of meals, gifts, social contacts.

Mother, the ceremony is tomorrow. I'm terrified but also excited. Everyone has been so kind—Tribute Senna gave me a good-luck charm, and Scholar Mas brought sweets to share. The clergy say I'm ready. I hope they're right.

"Sweets," Mal said, pointing to the line. "Scholar Mas brought sweets. Who is that?"

Vaerin pulled out a small tablet, consulted something. "Mas of House Thereni. Ursine, twenty-three, senior natural philosophy scholar. No disciplinary notes, well-regarded."

"We need to talk to him." Mal continued searching. The wardrobe held formal robes for the ceremony, everyday clothes, nothing unusual. Under the bed—books, a collection of smooth river stones, a small wooden box.

Mal pulled out the box, opened it carefully.

Inside: A few copper coins. A letter from Petran's mother, worn from repeated reading. A pressed flower. And at the bottom, a small cloth bag tied with string.

Mal opened the bag and immediately smelled it—rich, sweet, unmistakable.

Chocolate.

His hands went cold.

"Vaerin," he said quietly. "Look at this."

She leaned over his shoulder. "Is that—"

"Chocolate. Small pieces, expensive quality." Mal counted them. "Six pieces total. He ate some but not all of it."

"Before the ceremony?"

"Probably the night before, or that morning. Enough to be lethal when his metabolism shifted to vulpine." Mal carefully sealed the remaining chocolate in a vial from his kit. "This is our evidence. Theobromine poisoning. But we still need to know where it came from."

Vaerin checked the cloth bag, turned it over. "No marking. Just plain fabric. Could have come from anywhere."

"But someone gave it to him. Petran wouldn't have bought chocolate himself—not right before a ceremony. Too risky." Mal stood, pacing the small room. "Someone brought him this. As a gift, probably. Something to calm his nerves or celebrate. They watched him accept it, maybe even encouraged him to eat it. And they said nothing when he transformed the next day."

"That's murder."

"That's murder," Mal agreed. "But proving who gave it to him..." He looked at the half-finished letter. Scholar Mas brought sweets to share.

"We start with Mas," Mal said. "Find out what sweets he brought, whether they contained chocolate. Even if it wasn't him directly, he might have seen who else brought gifts."

"And if Mas was the one who poisoned him?"

"Then we need to be very, very careful how we approach this conversation." Mal gathered the chocolate, the letter, his notes. "Let's find him."

Scholar Mas was in the practice grounds, working through transformation drills. Even from a distance, Mal could see the massive size difference—Mas in human form was easily six-eight, heavily built, with the kind of solid muscle that came from bearing significant mass in both forms.

He was also clearly skilled. The transition from human to bear was smooth, controlled, the kind of practiced ease that came from years of work. The bear form was enormous—easily eight hundred pounds of muscle and power. Then back to human, just as smoothly.

Mal waited until Mas finished the sequence before approaching. Vaerin stayed a few steps behind, positioned to intervene if necessary.

"Scholar Mas?" Mal called. "May I speak with you?"

Mas turned, breathing heavily from exertion but not distressed. Up close, his features were strong, broad—the kind of face that looked naturally friendly. "Of course. You're the new Aerath scholar, yes? Mal?"

"That's right. I'm—" Mal paused, choosing words carefully. "I'm conducting a study on transformation-related health incidents. Administrator Thalyra Renaris asked me to gather information about Petran of House Velthar's death."

Mas's expression crumbled. "That was a tragedy. Poor boy. I heard it was heart failure?"

"The attending physician listed natural causes, yes. But I'm trying to understand the circumstances better." Mal pulled out his notebook, kept his tone academic, curious rather than accusatory. "I understand you visited Petran before his ceremony. Brought him sweets?"

"I did, yes. Several of us did—it's tradition to bring small gifts before someone's coming-of-age. Good luck charms, treats, that sort of thing." Mas wiped sweat from his forehead. "I brought him honey cakes from the kitchen. Nothing fancy. Just something to help calm his nerves."

"Honey cakes. Not chocolate?"

"No—why would I bring chocolate?" Mas looked genuinely confused. "Everyone knows you don't give canine shifters chocolate before a transformation. That's basic safety."

Mal made a note. "Did you see anyone else bring him gifts? Particularly food?"

Mas thought for a moment. "A few people stopped by that evening. I was only there for a few minutes. Tribute Kat brought him a good-luck charm, I think. Scholar Verin—Vulpine, junior clerk—stopped by briefly. And Cleric Hestin was there when I arrived, finishing some kind of blessing or pre-ceremony counseling."

Mal's stylus paused. "Cleric Hestin was there?"

"Yes. He often counsels tributaries before major ceremonies. Helps them prepare spiritually." Mas's expression was open, unconcerned. "Is something wrong?"

"No, just gathering information. One more question—did Petran eat any of the honey cakes while you were there?"

"He did, yes. Said they were delicious. Asked me to thank the kitchen staff." Mas's smile was sad. "He was so nervous. So excited. I told him he'd do wonderfully. And he did—the ceremony was perfect. I just—I can't believe he's gone."

"Thank you for your time," Mal said. "This is very helpful."

As they walked away, Vaerin leaned close. "Hestin was there."

"Hestin was there," Mal confirmed. "The same cleric who was giving Saren contaminated tea. Who leads evening prayers condemning 'foreign methods.' Who has been hostile to me since I saved Kat."

"That's not proof."

"No. But it's a pattern." Mal flipped through his notes. "We need to find out who else visited Petran that evening. Build a timeline. See who had opportunity to give him the chocolate."

"And if it was Hestin?"

"Then we need ironclad proof before we accuse a senior cleric of murder." Mal's jaw tightened. "But we're going to find out. One way or another."

The next three days were a blur of interviews.

Mal spoke to everyone who had visited Petran before his ceremony. Kat confirmed she'd brought a small carved stone for luck—nothing edible. Scholar Verin had stopped by briefly with a formal blessing from his house, also nothing edible. Several other tributaries had visited, bringing various small gifts, none of them food.

But the timeline had gaps. Periods where Petran was alone in his quarters, or where people had visited briefly and might have been forgotten in the rush of pre-ceremony excitement.

The chocolate could have come from anyone.

What Mal did establish was that Cleric Hestin had been there for nearly an hour, conducting what he called "spiritual preparation." Long enough to offer a gift. Long enough to watch Petran eat it. Long enough to ensure the boy understood it was safe, was encouraged, was blessed.

But proving it required more than timeline and opportunity.

"I've tested the chocolate," Mal told Thalyra and Vaerin on the third evening, spreading his analysis across the desk. "High-quality, expensive. The kind you'd give as a gift to someone important. Theobromine content is exactly what I'd expect from pure chocolate. Three pieces would have been enough to cause significant toxicity in a vulpine metabolism."

"Can you trace where it came from?" Thalyra asked.

"That's harder. Chocolate is imported from the southern provinces. It's available in the capital, in wealthy households, in—" Mal paused. "In the Hall's own supply stores. For ceremonial use, formal dinners, gifts to visiting dignitaries."

"So anyone with access to the stores could have taken it."

"Anyone with the right authority, yes." Mal met her eyes. "That includes senior clergy."

Thalyra was quiet for a long moment. "That's still not proof. Access and opportunity aren't the same as evidence."

"I know." Mal's frustration bled through. "Without a witness, without someone who saw Hestin give Petran the chocolate, all I have is circumstantial evidence. He was there. He had access. He had motive—Petran was from House Velthar, a family loyal to the Imperatrix. But none of that proves he did it."

"Then we need to catch him in the act," Vaerin said quietly.

Both Mal and Thalyra turned to look at her.

"If this is a pattern," Vaerin continued, "if Hestin or someone else is systematically targeting loyal families, they'll do it again. Another public rite. Another vulnerable moment. Another opportunity to offer poisoned gifts disguised as hospitality."

"You want to use someone as bait," Mal said, voice flat.

"I want to stop this before there's another body." Vaerin's expression was hard. "We know the method now. We know the timing. In two weeks, Lady Sira of House Falen has her readiness rite-a public transformation demonstration tied to her guardian commission. Falen is loyalist. The moment is visible."

Thalyra leaned back in her chair, the wood creaking under her weight. "You're suggesting we protect Sira. Document who approaches her, what she's given, whether she's offered forbidden substances."

"And if someone tries to poison her, we catch them in the act." Vaerin looked at Mal. "Can you identify contaminated food before it's consumed?"

"If I can examine it, yes. Chocolate is obvious-the smell alone would give it away for canine shifters. Other compounds might require testing, but-" Mal stopped. "You want me to test everything Sira is given before her rite."

"I want you to keep her alive," Vaerin said. "And gather evidence that will hold up when we accuse whoever's responsible."

Mal thought about Petran. Young, excited, trusting. Dead because someone had given him a gift that looked like kindness.

"Alright," he said. "But I'll need Sira's cooperation. She needs to know what we're doing, why we're doing it, and that she's potentially in danger."

"I'll speak with her," Thalyra said. "Her family will want answers about Petran's death anyway. This gives us a chance to provide them-and prevent another tragedy."

She stood, that careful Dracan precision. "Two weeks, Mal. We have two weeks to prepare, to watch, to catch whoever's doing this. Don't waste it."

Mal gathered his materials, his notes, his evidence that proved everything and nothing.

Two weeks.

Either they'd catch a murderer, or they'd watch helplessly as someone else died.

He intended to make sure it was the former.

In his private notes that night:

Petran investigation: Chocolate confirmed as cause of death. Source unknown but likely from Hall supply stores. Primary suspect: Cleric Hestin (opportunity, access, motive). No direct evidence.

Pattern established: Victims from families loyal to the Imperatrix. Methods using transformation-related vulnerabilities. Timing designed to look like accidents or protocol violations.

Next potential target: Lady Sira of House Falen. Readiness rite in two weeks. Felan (Oncan) shifter (canine-specific toxins won't apply—need to identify feline-specific hazards).

Preparation needed:

Personal note: This is no longer academic research. This is active investigation into serial murder. I'm not trained for this. I'm not prepared for this. But Petran is dead, and I will not let Sira become the next target.

Mother always said: "Once you pick up the knife, you're part of the fight."

I'm part of the fight now.

I just hope I'm capable of winning it.

Mal closed his notebook and tried to sleep.

But all he could see was Petran's face, peaceful in death, trusting even at the end.

Someone had exploited that trust.

And Mal was going to make sure they never got the chance to do it again.

Next: An Alliance is Forged

An_Alliance_is_Forged

Mal was in his quarters, working through tissue analysis from Petran's autopsy, when someone knocked. Not the authoritative rap of Thalyra or Vaerin. Something lighter. More hesitant.

He opened the door to find Kat and Sira standing in the corridor, both dressed casually but their expressions serious.

"We need to talk," Kat said. "May we come in?"

Mal stepped aside, suddenly aware of how small his room was. How cluttered. Books and notebooks everywhere, his field kit spread across the desk, vials of samples carefully arranged on the windowsill. He hadn't been expecting visitors.

Sira closed the door behind them, threw the bolt. That simple gesture made Mal's stomach tighten.

"This is about Petran," he said. Not a question.

"This is about why you've been investigating Petran's death for three days without sleeping," Kat corrected, settling onto his bed without invitation. "And why Vaerin has been shadowing you."

"I'm conducting research into transformation-related health incidents," Mal said carefully. "Petran's death falls under that scope."

"Mal." Sira's voice was flat. "We're not idiots. And we're not uninvolved. Petran was from House Velthar. My family has marriage ties to House Velthar. Kat's family has political alliances with them. When a tribute from a loyal house dies mysteriously, we pay attention."

Mal looked between them. Kat's expression was concerned but determined. Sira's was harder—the kind of assessment that came from military training and political calculation.

"What do you think is happening?" Mal asked.

"I think someone murdered Petran," Kat said quietly. "I think you proved it. And I think Thalyra is using you to investigate because you're outside the clerical hierarchy and the political structures that might be compromised." She paused. "Am I wrong?"

Mal's hands tightened on his notebook. His mentor's voice: Trust is earned. Silence is safer.

But Kat had trusted him when she was trapped between forms. Sira had protected him from suspicion after. And they were right—they were involved whether he acknowledged it or not.

"You're not wrong," Mal said finally. "But I can't—I shouldn't involve you in this. It's dangerous."

"It's already dangerous," Sira said. "Petran was poisoned. With something tranformation related?" Her eyes were hard. "I'm Felan-Oncan, Mal. My House lives in these rites. If someone is targeting loyalist families through our forms, we're all at risk when our ceremonies come due."

"It's not just canine shifters," Mal admitted. "Or—I don't know yet. Petran's death fits a pattern, but I don't understand the full scope."

"Then explain it to us." Kat patted the bed beside her. "Sit. Talk. We're already involved. You might as well let us help."

Mal hesitated, then sat. Not on the bed—that felt too intimate—but in his desk chair, turned to face them.

"Petran consumed chocolate before his coming-of-age ceremony," Mal said. "Theobromine—toxic to canine metabolism. When he transformed to fox form, his body tried to process it and couldn't. The toxins accumulated in his liver and kidneys. When he shifted back to human, the organ damage persisted. He died three days later from liver failure."

Kat's face went pale. "Someone gave him chocolate. Knowing he was about to transform."

"I believe so, yes. But I can't prove who." Mal pulled out his notebook, showed them his timeline. "Multiple people visited him before the ceremony. Any of them could have given it to him. The leading suspect is Cleric Hestin, but—"

"Hestin." Sira's voice was sharp. "The one who was giving contaminated tea to that Chiropteran novice. The one who leads evening prayers about spiritual inadequacy."

"The same. He was with Petran for nearly an hour the night before the ceremony. Long enough to offer a gift. Long enough to ensure Petran consumed it." Mal traced the timeline. "But without a witness or direct evidence, it's just circumstantial. Access and opportunity aren't the same as proof."

"What about the other incidents?" Kat asked. "You mentioned a pattern."

Mal flipped back through his notes. "Your wolf's bane exposure. Three other cases before that—all partial transformation lock-ups, all dismissed as spiritual failure. And now Petran. The common thread is that all the victims are from families loyal to the Imperatrix."

The silence that followed was heavy.

"Someone is targeting loyalist families," Sira said finally. "Using transformation-related methods that look like accidents or protocol violations. Making it seem like the victims brought it on themselves."

"That's the hypothesis, yes. But again—proving it requires more than pattern recognition." Mal looked at them both. "Which is why I can't involve you. If someone is systematically murdering tributaries, and they realize you're helping me investigate—"

"Then they'll what? Try to kill us too?" Kat's laugh was sharp. "Mal, I'm from House Therisan. My mother is one of the Imperatrix's closest advisors. Sira's family has supplied military commanders for three generations. We're not helpless."

"That's not—" Mal stopped, frustrated. "I don't think you're helpless. I think you're targets. If someone is attacking loyalist families, you're exactly the kind of people they'd want to eliminate."

"Which is why we need to help you stop them," Sira said. "Before they try."

Mal wanted to argue. Wanted to protect them from this. But Sira's logic was sound, and Kat's expression said she wasn't going to accept dismissal.

"What are you proposing?" he asked carefully.

"Information sharing," Kat said. "We know things you don't. Court politics. Family alliances. Who resents whom. You're brilliant at the biological side, but you're—forgive me—naive about the political reality."

"I'm aware I'm naive," Mal said dryly.

"Good. Self-awareness is helpful." Kat leaned forward. "The Hall is full of competing interests. Loyalist families who support the Imperatrix. Progressive factions who think the Velestran Empire should be less centralized. Conservative clergy who resent dragon authority. Foreign scholars who have their own agendas. If someone is killing loyalists, we need to understand why from a political perspective, not just how from a biological one."

"And Sira knows tactics," Mal added. "Security protocols. How to investigate without alerting suspects. Things I don't have training in."

"Exactly." Sira's smile was thin. "You're good at understanding mechanisms. We're good at understanding people. Combined, we might actually solve this before anyone else dies."

Mal looked at his notes. At Petran's timeline. At the vials of tissue samples that proved murder but couldn't identify the murderer.

"Thalyra won't like this," he said.

"Thalyra is one person trying to investigate a conspiracy from within the administrative structure," Kat said. "She has authority, but she's constrained by protocols and political considerations. We're not. We can ask questions she can't. Go places she can't. And if something goes wrong, our families have resources to protect us."

"And to protect you," Sira added. "If you're investigating this alone, you're vulnerable. If you're working with us, you have allies. Witnesses. People who can verify your findings and back your conclusions."

It made sense. Terrible, dangerous sense.

"There's a next potential target," Mal said slowly. "Sira of House Falen. Felan-Oncan. Her readiness rite is in less than two weeks. If the pattern holds, someone will try to poison her too."

"Then we protect him," Kat said immediately. "Watch him. Document who approaches him. Test anything he's given before he consumes it."

"I'm already planning to do that. With Vaerin's help."

"Good. Now you'll have our help too." Kat's smile was determined. "I can stay close to Sira. No one will question me helping her prepare for her rite. I can monitor who visits, what she's given."

"And I can handle security," Sira said. "Watch his quarters. Track who has access. Make sure no one gets to him without being observed."

"This isn't—" Mal stopped, trying to find words. "This isn't your responsibility."

"It became our responsibility the moment someone decided to murder tributaries," Sira said flatly. "Petran could have been me. Or my younger brother, who's coming here next year. Or any of the Vulpine wards currently at this Hall." Her jaw tightened. "I'm not going to stand by while someone hunts my people and disguises it as divine judgment."

Kat reached over, took Mal's hand. He startled at the contact—warm, solid, grounding.

"You saved my life," she said quietly. "You didn't have to. You'd just arrived, you didn't know me, you had no obligation. But you saw someone in pain and you helped. That matters, Mal. And now we're going to help you. Because you shouldn't have to do this alone."

Mal looked at their joined hands, then at Sira's determined expression, then back to his notes.

Trust is earned, his mentor had said. Silence is safer.

But silence hadn't saved Petran. And working alone meant working blind to half the information he needed.

"Alright," he said. "But we do this carefully. No heroics. No unnecessary risks. If this turns dangerous, we pull back and let Thalyra handle it officially."

"Agreed," Kat said.

"Agreed," Sira echoed.

Mal pulled out a fresh sheet of paper. "Then we need to coordinate. I'll continue the biological analysis. Track toxic compounds, identify vulnerabilities by species. Kat, you work the social angle—stay with Sira, monitor her contacts, document gift-giving patterns. Sira, you handle security and tactical observation."

"And we share information daily," Kat added. "No one works in isolation. If any of us sees something suspicious, we tell the others immediately."

"And we keep Thalyra informed," Mal said firmly. "She's the one with official authority. If we find evidence, it goes to her first."

"Fair enough." Sira stood, began pacing the small room with that distinctive military assessment. "My quarters are in the western wing. I'll map the access points, figure out who has routine access. Servants, clergy, other scholars. And I'll submit to the monitoring protocols-you get to test anything handed to me."

"I'll introduce myself to him tomorrow," Kat said. "Offer to help him prepare for the ceremony. That's normal social behavior, nothing suspicious."

"And I'll finalize my testing protocols," Mal said. "I need to be able to identify feline-specific toxins quickly. Lily pollen, certain essential oils, anything that could be weaponized."

They worked for another hour, building a framework for the investigation. Kat contributed insights about Hall social dynamics that Mal had completely missed. Sira identified security vulnerabilities he hadn't considered. Together, they created something more comprehensive than Mal could have managed alone.

When they finally left, well past midnight, Mal felt simultaneously more prepared and more terrified.

He wasn't working alone anymore.

That meant he was responsible for keeping Kat and Sira safe, too.

In his private notes that night:

Kat (Lady Katerina of House Therisan) and Sira (Lady Sira of House Falen) now involved in investigation. Voluntary participation. Both have relevant skills and political connections. Both understand risks.

Kat's observation: "You're brilliant at biology but naive about politics." Accurate. Need to leverage their expertise.

Sira's concern: Could have been her family. Personal stake in stopping this. Makes her dangerous ally—motivated but potentially reckless.

Revised investigation structure: Collaborative. Each handling different aspects. Daily information sharing. Thalyra maintains official oversight.

Risk assessment: Higher. More people involved means more potential exposure. But also more comprehensive coverage. Can't protect Sira alone. Need allies.

Personal note: Kat held my hand. Said I shouldn't have to do this alone. Don't know what to do with that information. File under "process later when not hunting murderer."

Focus: Sira. Protection protocols. Twelve days until rite. Need to be ready.

Mal closed his notebook and tried to sleep.

But he kept thinking about Kat's words: You shouldn't have to do this alone.

Maybe he didn't.

Maybe that was the point.

He'd spent so long trying to be invisible, trying not to need help, trying to handle everything himself.

But Petran was dead because Mal had worked alone, had missed the pattern, had arrived too late.

If working with allies meant arriving in time to save Sira...

Then maybe trust wasn't just earned.

Maybe it was necessary.

Mal closed his eyes and hoped he was making the right choice.

Next: The Scholar’s Error

The_Scholars_Error

Mal knew he shouldn't be here.

The restricted archives of the Church Anatomica occupied the Hall's oldest wing—stone corridors that predated the current building, lit by sparse glowglobes that cast more shadow than light. Access required clerical authorization. Permission from senior administrators. A legitimate research purpose.

Mal had none of those things.

What he had was a lockpick borrowed from Vaerin Talenis's toolkit (she'd left it unattended for exactly fifteen seconds, surely by accident), a list of historical precedents he needed to verify, and the growing certainty that someone had tried this before.

The pattern was too precise. Too systematic. Hestin wasn't inventing a new method—he was repeating one.

Which meant there were records. Somewhere.

The lock yielded after three attempts. Mal slipped inside, closed the door softly behind him.

Rows of shelves. Centuries of ceremonial documentation. Deaths, transformations, disciplinary records, theological debates preserved in careful calligraphy and increasingly standardized typeface.

He pulled out his notebook, consulted the timeline he'd constructed. Thirty years ago, there had been a similar cluster of deaths. Tributaries. Loyalist families. All ruled natural causes.

Find those records. Compare the patterns. Prove this wasn't unprecedented.

The filing system made sense once he decoded it—chronological within categorical subdivisions, cross-referenced by house and ceremony type. He found the section for incidents, narrowed it to the relevant decade, began pulling volumes.

Too loud. The thump of each tome settling onto the reading desk echoed.

Mal worked faster, hands trembling slightly. Document what you need. Get out. No one will notice.

The first volume held mostly standard reports. Successful ceremonies. Minor complications resolved without incident. Nothing suspicious.

The second volume was more promising. Three deaths within a six-month period. All tributaries. All loyalist families.

He opened his notebook, began transcribing—

"Scholar Aerath."

Mal's blood froze.

He turned slowly.

Cleric Hestin stood in the doorway. Not blocking it, but close enough. Too close.

"You're working late," Hestin observed. His voice was mild. Pleasant. "And in restricted archives. Without authorization."

Mal's mind raced. Lie. Apologize. Deflect.

"Research," he managed. "Historical transformation protocols. Administrator Renaris asked me to—"

"Did she authorize access to this specific archive?"

Silence.

"I thought not." Hestin stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The click of the latch was very soft. "These records are restricted for good reason, Scholar. They contain sensitive information. Private details about noble families. Theological matters not suitable for secular review."

"I didn't mean any disrespect—"

"I'm sure you didn't." Hestin moved closer, studied the volumes Mal had pulled. "Historical death records. How morbid. Though I suppose that makes sense, given your recent... interests."

The way he said interests sent ice down Mal's spine.

"I'm cataloging patterns in transformation outcomes," Mal said carefully. "Looking for correlations that might improve safety protocols."

"Noble work." Hestin's hand rested on one of the volumes—possessive, proprietary. "Tell me, Scholar. What patterns have you noticed?"

This is a test. He's testing whether you've figured anything out.

"Nothing conclusive yet," Mal said. "Just collecting data."

"Mmm." Hestin flipped open the volume Mal had been reading, scanned the entries. "Three deaths. Same year. Terrible tragedy. Though the Church investigated thoroughly at the time and found no evidence of malfeasance."

"I'm sure you did."

"We did." Hestin closed the volume, set it aside. "But sometimes, Scholar, thorough investigations uncover uncomfortable truths. Details that complicate simple narratives. Would you want to discover something like that? Something that might upset powerful people?"

Mal's heart hammered. "I'm interested in truth, not politics."

"How refreshing. How naive." Hestin smiled—not unkind, but not safe either. "Let me offer you some advice, one scholar to another. The past is complicated. Reopening old wounds rarely helps anyone. Those families have moved on. The Church has moved on. Digging into deaths from three decades ago won't bring anyone back. It will only raise questions that have no good answers."

"Unless the answers prevent future deaths."

Hestin's expression shifted. Something colder now. "Is that what you think you're doing? Preventing deaths?"

"I think I'm trying to understand why tributaries keep dying in ways that look natural but aren't."

The words were out before Mal could stop them.

The silence that followed was crystalline. Fragile.

"That's quite an accusation," Hestin said quietly.

"It's an observation. Not an accusation." Mal forced himself to meet Hestin's eyes. "If you investigated thoroughly thirty years ago and found no malfeasance, then there's nothing to worry about. The records will support that conclusion."

"They do support it." Hestin's hand moved to the next volume. "But you won't find them reassuring, Scholar. Because you're looking for a pattern where none exists. Seeing conspiracy where there's only tragedy." He paused. "And if you persist, you'll only hurt people. Families who've finally found peace. A Church that's worked hard to improve its protocols. An empire that doesn't need more religious conflict."

"I'm not trying to cause conflict—"

"But you are causing it. Whether you intend to or not." Hestin stepped back, gestured to the door. "I think you should leave now. Return to your regular duties. Let the past stay buried."

"And if I don't?"

Hestin's smile vanished entirely. "Then I'll be forced to report your unauthorized access to the High Clerist. Who will, in turn, inform your mother that her son has been caught breaking Church security protocols. How do you think Lady Aerath will respond to that news?"

Mal's stomach dropped.

"Your brother Taren is being considered for an important posting," Hestin continued, voice still mild, still pleasant, still threatening. "It would be unfortunate if family complications—questions about reliability, discretion, respect for institutional authority—affected his prospects. Don't you think?"

The calculation was instant and brutal. Mal could fight this. Call Hestin's bluff. Demand Thalyra's intervention.

But doing so would expose the investigation. Compromise operational security. Potentially endanger Kat and Sira.

And Hestin was right about Taren. Their mother would be furious. Would blame Mal for causing problems, for not being careful enough, for risking the family's standing.

"I understand," Mal said quietly.

"Good." Hestin moved to the door, opened it. "I'll escort you back to the residential wing. Just to make sure you don't get lost again."

They walked in silence. Hestin half a step behind. Close enough to intervene if Mal tried anything. Far enough to maintain plausible deniability.

The residential wing was busier this time of night—clerics heading to evening prayer, administrators finishing late shifts. Witnesses. All of them watching Mal being escorted like a wayward child.

The humiliation burned hotter than the fear.

At Mal's door, Hestin stopped. "Remember what I said, Scholar. The past is dangerous territory. For everyone involved." He smiled again—that same not-unkind, not-safe expression. "Sleep well."

Mal entered his quarters, closed the door, and leaned against it.

Stupid. Careless. You walked into a trap.

His hands were shaking now. Not from fear—from fury. At himself. At Hestin. At the situation.

He'd compromised everything. Revealed his suspicions. Let Hestin know he was investigating.

And now Hestin was alert. Would destroy evidence. Would prepare defenses.

Mal had single-handedly sabotaged the entire operation.

He sank to the floor, pulled out his notebook, began documenting everything Hestin had said. Every threat. Every implication.

Pattern confirmed. Hestin knows about the historical deaths. Referenced them defensively. Threatened my family to secure silence.

Conclusion: He's been doing this for years. Possibly decades. And he's protected by institutional authority.

Secondary conclusion: I fucked up. Badly.

There was a knock at his door. Mal considered not answering, then realized that would only make things worse.

He opened it.

Vaerin stood there. Expression unreadable.

"Restricted archives," she said flatly. "Really?"

"I needed—"

"Get your coat."

"Where—"

"Thalyra wants to see you. Now." Vaerin's eyes were cold. "And Scholar? You'd better have a very good explanation for why I just spent the last hour preventing Hestin from filing an official complaint against you."

Mal grabbed his coat and followed.

This was going to be worse than the archives.

Much worse.

Thalyra's office felt smaller than usual. Or maybe Mal just felt smaller. Crushed under the weight of his own stupidity.

Thalyra didn't yell. That would have been easier.

Instead, she stood at her window—the one overlooking the Hall's courtyard—and was silent for a full minute before speaking.

"Explain," she said finally.

Mal did. All of it. The historical pattern he'd identified. The certainty that this had happened before. His decision to verify the records without waiting for authorization.

"I thought—" He stopped. "I thought I could get in and out without anyone noticing."

"You thought wrong." Thalyra turned. Her face was carved from granite. "Do you understand what you've done?"

"I exposed the investigation—"

"You exposed yourself." Thalyra crossed the distance between them in three strides, loomed over him. "Hestin now knows you're suspicious. Knows you're digging into historical deaths. Knows you're working with incomplete information that makes you reckless. He owns you now, Mal. One word from him and your brother's career is compromised. Your family's reputation suffers. Your usefulness to this investigation ends."

"I'm sorry—"

"Sorry doesn't fix this." Thalyra's hands curled into fists. "I specifically told you not to investigate alone. Specifically said operational security was critical. And you ignored me because you thought you knew better."

The accusation stung because it was accurate.

"I was trying to help—"

"You were trying to prove something." Thalyra's voice dropped to something quieter and more dangerous. "Prove you're smart enough, useful enough, brave enough to justify your presence here. But bravery without discipline gets people killed, Mal. Including you."

Vaerin spoke from the corner. "Hestin's already filed a warning with the High Clerist. Claimed he found you in restricted archives conducting unauthorized research. Recommended limiting your access pending administrative review."

"Which means your freedom of movement is now compromised," Thalyra said. "Your credibility is questioned. And if Hestin pushes, you could be expelled from the Hall entirely—which removes you from the investigation and eliminates any potential testimony you might provide later."

Mal felt sick. "I didn't think—"

"No. You didn't." Thalyra sat down heavily. "And that's the problem. You're brilliant at analysis, Mal. At observation, documentation, logical deduction. But you have no training in operational security. No experience with adversarial investigation. No understanding of how to work when the people you're investigating can fight back."

"Then teach me," Mal said. "Please. I know I fucked up. I know I was reckless. But I can learn. I want to learn."

"It's not about wanting—"

"It's about discipline. About following protocols. About trusting that the people with more experience know what they're doing." Mal's voice cracked. "I get it. I do. And I'm sorry I didn't get it before I walked into that archive."

Thalyra studied him. The anger in her expression slowly giving way to something more complicated.

"You could have been hurt," she said finally, voice rough. "If Hestin had decided you were a threat instead of an annoyance. If he'd had time to prepare something. You could have died tonight, Mal, and I wouldn't have known until someone found your body."

The admission hit like a physical blow.

"I didn't mean to scare you—"

"Too late." Thalyra's hand found his shoulder, gripped hard. "Listen to me. Really listen. This work—intelligence work, investigative work, fighting corruption—it requires patience. Discipline. The ability to wait for the right moment instead of rushing in when you're curious. You have most of the skills you need. But not those. And without them, you're a liability."

"So what happens now?"

Thalyra and Vaerin exchanged a look.

"Now we adapt," Vaerin said. "Hestin knows you're suspicious, so we use that. Make him think you've been warned off. Let him believe the threat to your family worked. Meanwhile, we keep investigating through channels he's not watching."

"You mean Kat and Sira."

"And other resources." Thalyra's hand tightened on his shoulder. "But Mal—you're benched. Temporarily. Until we repair the damage and neutralize Hestin's leverage over you. You don't investigate alone. You don't take initiative without clearance. You document what you observe in your regular duties and nothing more. Clear?"

The word benched burned like acid.

"For how long?"

"Until we catch him or confirm you're not in immediate danger." Thalyra's voice softened slightly. "This isn't punishment, Mal. It's protection. Hestin threatened you tonight. That threat is real. I need you safe while we work out how to handle it."

"I don't need protection—"

"Everyone needs protection sometimes." Thalyra's hand moved from his shoulder to his jaw—surprisingly gentle, tilting his face up to meet her eyes. "Even brilliant scholars who think they can solve everything alone. Especially them."

Mal's throat was tight. "I really am sorry."

"I know." She released him, stepped back. "Now go. Sleep. And Mal? From this moment until I say otherwise, you are a substitute scholar and nothing more. You attend your classes. You perform your duties. You do not investigate. You do not ask questions. You do not speak to Lessa or anyone else outside the Hall. Is that clear?"

The finality of it hit him like a physical weight.

"Yes, Administrator."

"Good." She turned back to the window. "Vaerin will escort you back. Do not leave your quarters tonight."

Mal nodded, though she wasn't looking at him.

Vaerin opened the door, gestured. "Come on."

They walked in silence. The corridors felt longer than usual. Emptier.

At his door, Vaerin stopped. She didn't offer comfort. Didn't say Thalyra cared. She just looked at him with that cool, tactical assessment.

"Stay inside, Scholar," she said. "Don't give Hestin another reason to look at you."

Then she was gone.

Mal entered his quarters, sank onto his bed, and stared at the ceiling.

He'd wanted to be part of the fight. Wanted to prove he wasn't just Taren's shadow.

Instead, he'd proven exactly why he was the second son. The spare. The one who wasn't ready.

He pulled out his notebook. Opened it to the page where he'd outlined the investigation plan with Kat and Sira.

Collaborative structure. Daily information sharing.

He picked up his stylus. Crossed it all out with a single, heavy line.

Status: Benched. Investigation suspended.

He closed the book. The sound was loud in the small, empty room.

He was safe. He was protected.

And he had never felt more useless in his life.

Next: The Long Wait

A_Working_Dinner

The summons came on the fourth day, delivered by a servant Mal didn't recognize.

Administrator Thalyra Renaris requests your presence for dinner. Her private office. Bring your latest findings.

Mal stared at the note. Latest findings? He didn't have any. He'd been following orders. Sitting in his room. Reading standard texts. Being invisible.

Was this a test? Or a trap?

He gathered his notebooks—the old ones, the ones he hadn't touched in days—washed hastily, and tried to make himself presentable. Wrinkled shirt. Stubborn hair. He looked like someone who had been staring at the same four walls for ninety-six hours.

Taren would have looked perfect, Mal thought grimly. Taren always looked perfect.

Too late now.

Thalyra's private office was different from her formal workspace. Smaller, warmer. A fire burned in the hearth despite the mild evening—Dracan preference, probably. They ran hot, needed ways to vent excess heat. The furniture was still reinforced but arranged more casually. Books lined the walls. A low table had been set for two, with covered dishes and good wine.

Thalyra stood at the window, silhouetted against the sunset. She'd changed from her formal administrator robes into something simpler—still well-made, still appropriate, but less armor-like.

"Mal. Thank you for coming." She didn't turn around immediately. "Sit."

Mal sat, uncomfortably aware of the silence. This wasn't the warm welcome he'd expected from the setting. The air felt heavy.

Thalyra finally turned. She looked tired. The lines around her eyes were deeper than he remembered.

"We have a problem," she said without preamble. "And against my better judgment, I think you're the only one who can solve it."

Mal blinked. "Administrator?"

"I've had Vaerin reviewing procurement records for three days. Kat has been monitoring social interactions. Sira has been running security sweeps." Thalyra sat down opposite him, but she didn't uncover the dishes. "We have mountains of data. Lists of visitors. Logs of supplies. Timelines of every movement Hestin has made in the last month."

She pushed a stack of papers across the table.

"And we have absolutely no idea what any of it means."

Mal looked at the papers. Then at Thalyra.

"You're bringing me back?"

"I'm reinstating you. Provisionally." Thalyra poured wine into both their cups, her hand steady but her expression grim. "Because Hestin is planning something. I can feel it. The Hall feels... wrong. Tense. Like the air before a storm. And if I keep you on the bench because I'm worried about your safety, I'm going to lose Sira."

She took a drink, then met his eyes.

"I can protect you, Mal. Or I can stop a murder. I'm starting to realize I can't do both."

Mal felt a strange, cold clarity settle over him. The shame of the last few days—the feeling of uselessness—evaporated.

He reached for the papers.

"Tell me what you've found."

Mal pulled out his notebook, flipped to his latest entries. "I've identified three compounds that are toxic to feline metabolism in sufficient doses. Lilies—specifically the pollen and leaves. Permethrin—it's a pesticide, sometimes used in fabric treatments. And essential oils from citrus or tea tree. All would cause symptoms ranging from kidney failure to neurological damage, depending on dosage."

"And all are available at the Hall?"

"Lilies grow in the ornamental gardens. Permethrin is used by the groundskeepers for pest control. Essential oils are in the apothecary stores—used for cleaning, for ceremonies, for medicinal purposes." Mal traced the notes with one finger. "Any of them could be weaponized against a feline shifter. The question is which one someone would choose."

"What would you choose?" Thalyra asked. "If you were trying to kill Sira."

Mal looked up, startled by the directness.

"I'm not asking you to plan a murder," Thalyra said dryly. "I'm asking you to think like someone who is. You understand the mechanisms. You know what's available. How would you do it?"

Mal set down his fork, thinking. "Lily pollen. It's the most elegant. You could contaminate something Sira would handle directly—her ceremonial garb, her blessing oils, anything she'd touch before transforming. The pollen would transfer to her hands, and when she shifted to feline form, she'd groom instinctively. Ingest the toxin. By the time symptoms appeared, it would be too late to trace the source."

"Because feline shifters groom compulsively in cat form."

"Exactly. It's instinct. You can't stop yourself." Mal made a note. "I need to examine everything Sira will wear or touch during the rite. Before the rite. Check for contamination."

"That's a lot of items to test."

"Then I'll need help." Mal looked up. "Vaerin can assist, but I'll also need access to the ceremonial preparation rooms. Alone, preferably. Without the clergy knowing what I'm looking for."

Thalyra was quiet for a moment, then smiled slightly. "You're getting bolder. When you first arrived, you wouldn't have demanded anything."

"I'm not demanding. I'm—" Mal stopped. "I'm stating requirements for a successful investigation. That's different."

"Is it?" Thalyra's smile widened. "You're arguing with a senior administrator about access and authority. That's bold, Mal. Own it."

Mal felt heat rise in his face again. He took a drink of wine to cover his discomfort and immediately regretted it—too fast, too much. He coughed.

Thalyra's laugh was unexpected—warm, genuine, not the controlled amusement she showed in formal settings. "Careful. That wine is stronger than it tastes."

"I'm fine," Mal managed, eyes watering.

"You're a terrible liar." Thalyra refilled his cup with water instead. "Here. Drink this. I need you functional, not drunk."

Mal obeyed, grateful. When he could breathe again, he found Thalyra watching him with an expression he couldn't quite read.

"You're not what I expected," she said.

"I'm not what anyone expected. I'm supposed to be Taren."

"No. I mean—" Thalyra paused, choosing words carefully. "I've dealt with many scholars over the years. Most of them are either brilliant and arrogant, or competent and cautious to the point of uselessness. You're brilliant and cautious, which is rarer. But you're also willing to act when it matters. To take risks when someone's life depends on it. That's not common."

"I just—" Mal struggled for words. "I see a problem, and I solve it. That's all."

"That's not all. You see a pattern where others see random incidents. You ask questions that others don't think to ask. You challenge authority when you have evidence to back it up." Thalyra leaned forward slightly. "Do you know why I asked you to investigate Petran's death?"

"Because I understand transformation mechanics?"

"Because I've been watching you since you saved Kat. The way you think. The way you approach problems." Thalyra's expression was intense now, focused. "Most people see symptoms and treat them. You see mechanisms. You want to understand why something happens, not just what happens. That's valuable, Mal. Especially right now."

Mal felt uncomfortably pinned by her attention. "I'm just doing what anyone with proper training would do."

"No. You're doing what someone with intelligence, curiosity, and integrity would do. That's different." Thalyra sat back. "And it's rare enough that I'm grateful you're here, even if you weren't supposed to be."

The silence stretched. Mal didn't know how to respond to that. Compliments from his mentor had always come wrapped in corrections—Good observation, but you should have noticed this other detail. Praise from his mother had been even rarer, always contingent on not embarrassing the family.

This was just... praise. Straightforward. Sincere.

It made him deeply uncomfortable.

"I'm going to say something awkward now," Thalyra said, "and you're going to tolerate it because I'm your superior and I'm feeding you."

Mal tensed. "Alright."

"You eat like you're afraid the food will disappear. You hunch over your notebook like you're protecting it from thieves. And you apologize constantly—for asking questions, for stating facts, for existing in spaces you have every right to occupy." Thalyra's voice was gentle but firm. "Whatever you learned growing up, whatever made you think you need to be invisible—you can stop now. You're good at this work. You deserve to be here. And you're allowed to take up space."

Mal stared at his plate. "I'm just... not Taren. People expected Taren. He's better at—everything."

"Better at politics, maybe. Better at presentation. But Taren wouldn't have saved Kat. He wouldn't have identified what killed Petran. He wouldn't have figured out the lily pollen theory in the time it took to eat dinner." Thalyra's smile was wry. "I've read his letters to your family. He's competent. But you're brilliant, Mal. You just don't realize it yet."

"I—" Mal's voice caught. "That's not—I mean—"

"And you're terrible at accepting compliments. We'll work on that." Thalyra refilled her own wine cup, took a deliberate drink. "Now. Tell me about your research methods. When you're investigating something, where do you start?"

Grateful for the return to safer ground, Mal pulled his notebook closer. "Observation first. I document everything, even details that seem irrelevant. Patterns emerge from data, not assumptions."

"Show me."

Mal flipped through pages—sketches of the south gardens, measurements of wolf's bane placement, timelines of Petran's last days. His handwriting was cramped, margins filled with additional notes and calculations.

"You write small," Thalyra observed.

"Paper is expensive. I learned to fit as much information as possible on each page." Mal traced a particularly dense section. "My mentor used to say I could fit an entire library into a single notebook if I tried hard enough."

"Your mentor taught you well. Though I'm buying you larger notebooks. This is going to ruin your eyes."

"I'm fine—"

"Mal. Accept the help." Thalyra's tone was amused but firm. "Part of being good at investigation is having proper tools. Larger notebooks, better ink, decent lighting. All of which I can provide."

"That's not necessary—"

"It's efficient. Stop arguing." Thalyra turned a page, studying his wolf's bane analysis. "This is remarkably detailed. Have you always been this thorough?"

"I—yes? I don't know how else to work." Mal felt defensive now. "If you don't document properly, you lose information. Memories fade. Details get confused. The only way to be certain is to write everything down."

"Most people would call that obsessive."

"My mentor called it necessary." Mal met her eyes. "The world is complicated. Transformation mechanics are complicated. If I don't understand the details, I miss things. People get hurt because I miss things."

"Like Petran."

The words hit harder than Thalyra probably intended. Mal looked away. "If I'd been faster. If I'd investigated the pattern sooner. If I'd thought to warn the Hall about species-specific toxins after Kat's case—"

"Mal." Thalyra's voice was sharp enough to cut through his spiral. "Petran's death is not your fault. You didn't poison him. You didn't fail to prevent something you had no way of knowing would happen."

"But if I'd been smarter—"

"Then you still wouldn't have known about Petran until he was already dead. Because no one told you to investigate until after the fact." Thalyra leaned forward, her presence suddenly filling the space between them. "You're brilliant, Mal. But you're not omniscient. Stop holding yourself to that standard."

Mal's throat was tight. "I just—I don't want anyone else to die."

"I know. Neither do I. Which is why we're going to stop whoever's doing this." Thalyra's expression softened. "But you can't prevent every death, solve every problem, save every person. Sometimes, you just do your best and hope it's enough."

"What if it's not?"

"Then you keep working. You learn from what went wrong. You try again." Thalyra reached across the table, tapped his notebook with one finger. "But you don't collapse under guilt for things you couldn't control. That's not useful to anyone."

Mal nodded, not trusting his voice.

They ate in silence for a while. The fire crackled. Outside, evening prayers echoed faintly from the great hall—Teshin's voice carrying across the courtyards.

"I hate those prayers," Thalyra said quietly. "The way they frame transformation as moral accomplishment. As if biology cares about virtue."

Mal looked up, surprised. "I thought—I mean, you're an administrator. Don't you have to support the clerical structure?"

"I have to work within it. That's different from agreeing with it." Thalyra's smile was thin. "The clergy serve a purpose. They maintain traditions, provide spiritual guidance, help people find meaning in their abilities. But when they start claiming that transformation failures are divine punishment? When they dismiss real medical problems as moral inadequacy? That's when they become dangerous."

"Dangerous enough to kill people?"

"That's what we're trying to find out." Thalyra finished her wine. "But yes. I think someone at this Hall is using religious authority to cover up murder. And I think they're doing it because they believe they're right. Which makes them even more dangerous."

Mal thought about Teshin. About Hestin with his contaminated tea and his perfect timing. About the way the clergy had prayed over Kat instead of helping her.

"If it is Hestin," Mal said slowly, "or someone else in the clergy—how do we prove it without starting a war between the administrators and the religious authority?"

"Carefully. With ironclad evidence. And with political backing that makes it impossible for them to retaliate." Thalyra met his eyes. "Which is why I need you to be absolutely certain before we move. This isn't just about justice for Petran. It's about the stability of the Hall itself."

The weight of that settled on Mal's shoulders. Not just an investigation. Not just solving a murder. Political consequences. Institutional conflict.

He must have looked as overwhelmed as he felt, because Thalyra's expression gentled.

"One step at a time," she said. "First, we protect Sira. Then we catch whoever tries to harm her. Then we deal with the aftermath." She stood, began clearing dishes with the same economical movements. "For now, finish eating. Get some sleep. Tomorrow, we start preparing for Sira's rite."

Mal helped her clear—unsure if that was appropriate protocol but unable to just sit while she worked. They moved around each other in the small space, and Mal was hyperaware of the size difference. Thalyra was careful, always aware of where she was, how much space she occupied. But even so, her presence was enormous. Literally and figuratively.

"Thank you," Mal said as they finished. "For dinner. For the—everything."

"You're welcome. And Mal?" Thalyra walked him to the door. "Next time we meet, I expect you to argue with me at least once. You're too deferential. It's boring."

Mal laughed despite himself. "I'll work on that."

"Good." She opened the door, then paused. "One more thing. Your mentor—Dr. Ashvin. She wrote that you tend to skip meals when you're focused. That you work yourself past exhaustion. That you need someone to remind you that you're mortal."

"She wrote that in her letters?"

"She cares about you. And she's right." Thalyra's smile was warm now, almost fond. "So I'm telling you, as your administrator and as someone who needs you functional: eat regularly. Sleep occasionally. And stop apologizing for being brilliant."

She closed the door before Mal could respond.

He stood in the corridor for a moment, notebook clutched to his chest, feeling strange and off-balance.

He'd just had dinner with a senior administrator. She'd praised his work. Told him to take up space. Said he was brilliant.

And somehow, impossibly, he thought she might have meant it.

Mal made his way back to his quarters, mind still churning. But for the first time since arriving at the Hall, the churning felt less like anxiety and more like... possibility.

Maybe he wasn't just the substitute who wasn't Taren.

Maybe he was someone who could actually do this.

He opened his notebook to a fresh page and began planning how to save Sira's life.

One step at a time.

Just like Thalyra said.

Next: Opsec

Opsec

The summons came at dawn, delivered by a servant with an unusually tense expression.

Administrator Thalyra Renaris requires your immediate presence. Her private office. Come alone.

Mal's stomach sank.

He gathered his investigation notes—all of them, including the collaborative work with Kat and Sira—and made his way to the administrative wing with growing dread.

The door to Thalyra's office was already open. Inside, Thalyra stood at her desk, rigid with barely controlled tension. Vaerin Talenis leaned against the wall, arms folded, her usual stillness replaced with something sharper.

"Close the door," Thalyra said.

Mal obeyed. The click of the latch felt very loud.

"Sit."

He sat.

Thalyra didn't. She paced—three steps one direction, three steps back, the careful movements of someone trying not to break furniture. "When did you involve Lady Katerina and Lady Sira in this investigation?"

Mal's throat went dry. "Six days ago. They approached me—"

"I didn't ask how they became involved. I asked when." Thalyra's voice was flat. "And more importantly—why didn't you tell me?"

"I—" Mal stopped. "I was going to. I just—"

"Just what? Decided to recruit civilians into an active murder investigation without consulting the person who authorized said investigation?" Thalyra turned, and her expression was colder than Mal had ever seen it. "Do you understand what you've done?"

"They wanted to help. They have skills I don't—"

"They have political connections that make them targets," Thalyra interrupted. "Lady Katerina is from House Therisan, one of the most prominent loyalist families in Velestra. Lady Sira is from House Falen, which supplies half our military command structure. If something happens to either of them while they're playing investigator—"

"They're not playing," Mal said, heat rising despite his fear. "Kat has been documenting who approaches Sira with gifts better than I could. Sira identified three security vulnerabilities in the west wing that no one else noticed. They're helping."

"They're exposed," Vaerin said from the wall. Her voice was quiet but sharp. "And you made them that way without understanding the risks."

"I understand the risks perfectly," Mal shot back. "Someone is murdering tributaries from loyalist families. Kat and Sira are tributaries from loyalist families. They were already at risk. At least now they're informed risks."

"That's not your calculation to make!" Thalyra's palm hit the desk—not hard enough to damage it, but hard enough to rattle the inkwells. "You're a scholar, Mal. A brilliant one. But you don't understand how these things work. The political ramifications. The operational complications. The—"

She stopped abruptly, jaw tightening.

Mal watched her carefully. "The operational complications of what, exactly?"

Silence.

"You're not just investigating transformation incidents," Mal said slowly. "This is bigger than that. Bigger than Petran. Bigger than preventing the next murder." He looked between Thalyra and Vaerin. "What aren't you telling me?"

"That's not relevant—" Thalyra started.

"It's absolutely relevant if you want me to stop 'complicating your operation.'" Mal stood, facing her directly despite the size difference. "You asked me to investigate. I'm investigating. But you're treating this like I'm interfering with something I don't understand. So explain it to me."

Thalyra and Vaerin exchanged a glance—some unspoken communication.

"We can't," Vaerin said finally. "There are things you're not cleared to know."

"Then clear me." Mal's frustration was bleeding through now. "Because I can't work effectively if I don't know what I'm working around. And I can't un-involve Kat and Sira, so you either work with that reality or shut down the investigation entirely."

"Don't threaten me—"

"I'm not threatening. I'm stating facts." Mal pulled out his notebook, set it on the desk. "Everything I know is in here. Everything Kat and Sira have documented is filed with my notes. If you want me to stop, I'll stop. Hand it all over to you, walk away, go back to being a scholar who doesn't ask inconvenient questions." He met Thalyra's eyes. "But you'll lose three investigators who are currently the only ones making progress on this case. Your choice."

The silence stretched.

Thalyra sat down heavily, her chair protesting the weight. She looked tired suddenly. Older.

"You're right," she said quietly. "You are making progress. More than I expected. Better than I could have managed alone." She rubbed her face. "Which is exactly why I'm concerned about Lady Katerina and Lady Sira's involvement."

"Because if something happens to them, their families will demand answers," Mal said.

"Because if something happens to them, their families will demand blood." Thalyra's expression was grim. "House Therisan and House Falen are not minor nobility, Mal. They're power structures unto themselves. If their daughters die in what looks like another 'transformation accident,' they won't accept clerical explanations. They'll investigate. Loudly. Publicly. With political and military resources that will tear this Hall apart looking for answers."

"Which would expose whoever's responsible," Mal pointed out.

"It would expose everything," Vaerin said. "Including things that need to stay hidden for operational reasons."

"What things?"

"Things we can't tell you," Thalyra said. "Not because we don't trust you. But because knowing them would put you in more danger than you already are."

Mal looked between them again. Something was wrong with that logic. "You're not administrators, are you? Not really."

The silence that followed confirmed it.

"Who are you?" Mal asked quietly.

"We're exactly who we've said we are," Thalyra said carefully. "I oversee medical and scholarly affairs at the Hall. Vaerin handles security and information management. Everything we've told you is true."

"But incomplete."

"Strategically incomplete, yes." Thalyra leaned forward. "Mal. I need you to trust that we have reasons for the things we can't explain. Good reasons. Reasons that protect people, including you."

"I do trust you," Mal said. "But trust works both ways. If you want me to operate effectively, I need to understand the boundaries. What I can do. What I can't. What risks are acceptable and what risks are catastrophic."

Vaerin pushed off from the wall, moved closer. "The risk we're trying to avoid is making this public before we understand the full scope. Petran's death looks like a tragic accident to most people. If we announce it was murder, whoever's responsible will know we're investigating. They'll destroy evidence. Disappear. We'll lose any chance of catching them."

"I understand that—"

"Do you?" Vaerin's eyes were hard. "Because involving Lady Katerina and Lady Sira means involving their families. Those families have resources, connections, intelligence networks. They're going to notice their daughters are investigating a murder. They're going to ask questions. And when they do, operational security collapses."

"Unless we read them in," Mal said.

Both Thalyra and Vaerin stared at him.

"You want to involve more people?" Thalyra said slowly.

"I want to involve the right people." Mal pulled out his notes on Kat and Sira's family connections. "House Therisan and House Falen are loyalist. They're invested in protecting Velestra's stability. If someone is systematically murdering loyalist tributaries, they need to know. Not after we've solved everything—now. While we can still prevent more deaths."

"That's—" Thalyra stopped.

"Tactically sound," Vaerin finished, grudging respect in her voice. "If their families are already going to notice something's wrong, better to control the information flow than let them investigate independently."

"But it requires telling them there's an active threat," Thalyra said. "Which means trusting them to keep it quiet. To not cause panic."

"Do you think they'd cause panic?" Mal asked. "Or do you think they'd quietly mobilize resources to protect their people while we finish the investigation?"

Thalyra was quiet for a long moment. "The latter. Probably." She looked at Vaerin. "Your assessment?"

"House Falen has three military commanders currently serving. House Therisan has direct access to the Imperatrix's advisory council." Vaerin's tone was carefully neutral. "If we brief them properly, they become assets rather than complications. But if we brief them wrong, we expose operational details we're not authorized to share."

"Then we brief them carefully," Mal said. "Tell them what they need to know to keep their daughters safe. Nothing more. Use it to strengthen the investigation rather than compromise it."

"You're thinking like an intelligence officer," Vaerin observed.

"I'm thinking like someone who doesn't want Kat or Sira to die because we were too concerned about operational security to use available resources." Mal met her eyes. "What's more important—keeping secrets or stopping murders?"

"Both," Thalyra said flatly. "Because the secrets are related to stopping murders in ways you don't understand." She stood, began pacing again. "But you're not wrong. We can't un-involve them. And their families are going to notice eventually." She stopped. "Alright. We'll brief House Therisan and House Falen. Limited information. Controlled disclosure. Vaerin will handle the communication."

"Why Vaerin?" Mal asked.

"Because I'm better at this kind of thing," Vaerin said simply. "Information management is part of my actual job."

"Your actual job as what?"

Vaerin smiled thinly. "An administrator who handles security and information management. Like I said."

Mal looked at Thalyra. "You know I'm not going to stop asking questions just because you give me non-answers."

"I know." Thalyra's expression softened slightly. "And honestly, I respect that. But Mal—some things you're better off not knowing. Not because they're shameful. Because knowing them makes you a target in ways you can't protect against."

"I'm already a target. I'm investigating a murderer."

"You're investigating a murder," Thalyra corrected. "That's different from understanding why the murder happened, who benefits from it, and what larger structures are at play." She sat down again, looked at him directly. "When this is over—when we've caught whoever's responsible and ensured the Hall is safe—I'll tell you everything. But right now, I need you to trust that we're on the same side and working toward the same goal."

Mal thought about that. About Thalyra's careful avoidance of certain topics. About Vaerin's military precision that didn't quite match her role as an administrator. About the way they both moved like people with training that went far beyond bureaucratic oversight.

"You're here because of the murders," he said slowly. "Not in spite of them. You came to the Hall specifically because you suspected something was wrong."

Thalyra's expression didn't change. "That's an interesting theory."

"It's not a theory. It's an observation." Mal kept his voice level. "You've been investigating these incidents longer than I have. You knew about the pattern before Petran died. That's why you were so quick to authorize my work—you needed someone who could prove what you already suspected."

"Mal—"

"I'm not asking you to confirm or deny," Mal interrupted. "I'm just saying—I understand there are things I don't know. But I'm not going to compromise your operation by asking questions I shouldn't. I just need you to trust that I can work around gaps in my knowledge without accidentally destroying whatever you're actually here to do."

Vaerin and Thalyra exchanged another look. This one lasted longer.

"He's smart," Vaerin said finally.

"Too smart," Thalyra muttered. Then, to Mal: "Alright. Here's what I can tell you. Yes, we're investigating more than just transformation incidents. Yes, there are political and operational considerations you're not cleared for. And yes, we came to the Hall because we suspected systematic problems that standard administrative oversight wasn't catching." She paused. "What I can't tell you is who sent us, what authority we're operating under, or what happens after we finish this investigation. Clear?"

"Clear enough."

"Good." Thalyra pulled out a document, began writing. "I'm authorizing you to continue working with Lady Katerina and Lady Sira. But they operate under the same information restrictions you do. They document what they observe, they protect Sira, they report to you or Vaerin. They don't investigate independently, they don't share information outside the core group, and they don't take action without clearance. Understood?"

"Understood."

"And Mal?" Thalyra looked up. "If something happens—if this turns violent, if you're in danger, if operational security actually collapses—you get Kat and Sira out immediately. Their safety is more important than the investigation. Your safety is more important than the investigation. Evidence can be rebuilt. People can't."

"I understand."

"I hope so." Thalyra signed the document, handed it to him. "Now get out of here. I have a very awkward conversation to have with two noble houses about why their daughters are hunting murderers."

Mal took the document, started toward the door, then stopped. "Thank you. For trusting me with this much, even if you can't trust me with all of it."

"Thank you for not being stupid enough to get yourself killed," Thalyra replied. "Yet."

"I'll try to maintain that standard."

"Please do."

Mal left, document in hand, mind churning.

Thalyra and Vaerin weren't just administrators. They were here on some kind of covert operation. Investigating something bigger than a series of murders, something political enough that exposure would be catastrophic.

And Mal was right in the middle of it, whether he understood it fully or not.

In the corridor outside, he pulled out his notebook and made a single entry:

Thalyra and Vaerin: Not administrators. Something else. Military? Intelligence? Unknown. Here specifically to investigate Hall corruption. Broader mandate than they've disclosed.

Decision: Continue investigation within stated parameters. Don't ask questions that compromise their operation. Focus on immediate goal: protect Sira, catch murderer, gather evidence.

Secondary decision: Watch Thalyra and Vaerin more carefully. Not because I distrust them. Because understanding who they actually are might be critical when things go wrong.

And things always go wrong eventually.

He closed the notebook and went to brief Kat and Sira on their new official status as "authorized civilian consultants."

This was going to be an interesting conversation.

Next: Night Watch

Night_Watch

Kat was bored.

She'd been sitting in the alcove across from Sira's quarters for three hours, watching absolutely nothing happen. Sira had finally turned in after evening drills. The corridor was silent except for the occasional distant footstep of night staff.

Sira was supposed to be handling tonight's watch, but her family had summoned her back home—some crisis with a border garrison that required immediate attention. Which left Kat doing surveillance work she was distinctly unqualified for.

She'd brought a book. She was on page forty-three and couldn't remember a single word she'd read.

The sound of footsteps made her look up—light, nearly silent, the distinctive near-weightlessness of a Chiropteran. Kat tensed, hand moving to the small knife Sira had insisted she carry.

A figure emerged from the shadows—pale, lean, moving with predatory precision. Not a novice. Not a clerk.

Vaerin Talenis.

She spotted Kat immediately, changed trajectory, and approached with the kind of economical movement that suggested someone who never wasted energy.

"Lady Katerina," Vaerin said quietly. "What are you doing here?"

"Watching Sira's door." Kat kept her voice equally quiet. "What are you doing here?"

"The same thing." Vaerin's eyes—dark, sharp, unnervingly observant—scanned the corridor. "Thalyra asked me to do a sweep. She's concerned about the west wing security."

"Well, you can report that it's boring. Intensely, thoroughly boring."

A ghost of a smile crossed Vaerin's face. "Welcome to surveillance work. It's mostly boredom punctuated by brief moments of terror."

"How comforting." Kat gestured to the space beside her. "You're welcome to be bored with me, if you'd like. I have a book I'm not reading and an excellent view of absolutely nothing."

Vaerin hesitated, then settled into the alcove with that characteristic Chiropteran lightness—barely displaced the bench at all. Up close, Kat could see details she'd missed before. The knife at Vaerin's belt was well-used, the handle worn smooth from handling. Her hands had scars—small ones, the kind that came from years of work. And her eyes, when they flicked toward Kat, were calculating but not unkind.

"That's a romance novel," Vaerin observed, nodding at Kat's book.

Kat felt her face heat. "It's a perfectly respectable historical—"

"With a half-naked woman on the cover and a title like The Duchess's Secret Desire." Vaerin's smile widened slightly. "No judgment. Just observation."

"I like romance novels," Kat said, defensive now. "They're optimistic. And well-structured. And the characters actually talk to each other about their feelings instead of brooding dramatically for three hundred pages."

"Fair enough." Vaerin pulled out her own reading material—a small, leather-bound journal. "I prefer technical manuals myself. More useful."

"More boring, you mean."

"Depends on the manual." Vaerin flipped to a page covered in dense handwriting. "This one's about poison detection methods. Fascinating stuff."

Kat blinked. "You read about poisons for fun?"

"I read about poisons for work. But yes, I find it interesting. The ingenuity of it. How to kill someone without anyone noticing. How to make it look natural." Vaerin glanced up. "Relevant to current circumstances."

"I suppose it is." Kat tried to see what was written in the journal, but Vaerin's handwriting was cramped and partially coded. "Are you always this prepared for everything?"

"Generally, yes. It's my job." Vaerin closed the journal, tucked it away. "You're doing well, by the way. The social intelligence work. Mal mentioned you've identified three people who approached Sira with gifts."

"Four now. A Vulpine clerk brought her blessed candles this afternoon. I documented it." Kat paused. "Though I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do if someone actually tries to poison her while I'm watching. Sira's the one with combat training."

"You're not supposed to fight them. You're supposed to observe and report." Vaerin's tone was matter-of-fact. "If something happens, you find me or Thalyra immediately. Don't engage."

"That feels cowardly."

"That's tactical. There's a difference." Vaerin leaned back slightly, eyes never leaving the corridor. "You're not trained for confrontation. Trying to be heroic just gets you killed and eliminates a valuable witness. Better to stay alive and testify."

"Spoken like someone who's seen people die trying to be heroic."

"I have." Vaerin's voice went flat. "Field work. Military operations. People think bravery means charging in. Usually it just means dying stupidly." She glanced at Kat. "You're more useful alive. Remember that."

Kat studied her—the military precision, the scars, the way she held herself like violence was always an option. "How long have you worked with Thalyra?"

"Long enough." Vaerin's smile was thin. "We grew up together. Same military academy, same training cohort. When she got her current posting, she asked me to come with her."

"You're very loyal."

"She's earned it." Vaerin's expression softened slightly. "Thalyra is—she's brilliant. Strategic. Sees ten moves ahead. But she also cares, which is rare in people with that much intelligence and authority. She wants to fix things, not just manage them."

"You admire her."

"I'd die for her." Said simply, like stating a fact. "But hopefully it won't come to that."

They sat in comfortable silence for a while. Kat returned to her book—or pretended to—while Vaerin watched the corridor with that unnerving stillness.

"Can I ask you something?" Kat said finally.

"You can ask. I might not answer."

"Why did you help Mal? That first night, when he was collecting samples from the gardens. You didn't have to. You could have reported him, gotten him expelled."

Vaerin was quiet for a moment. "Because he was doing the right thing. Badly, and with no tactical awareness, but still—the right thing. And because Thalyra believed he was important." She paused. "Also, watching him work was interesting. Most scholars theorize. He measures. That's valuable."

"He's very brilliant and very oblivious," Kat said fondly. "I had to tell him three times that I'm not interested in men before he stopped being nervous around me."

Vaerin's laugh was quiet but genuine. "I noticed. He relaxes around you now. That's good. He needs allies who aren't constantly evaluating him."

"Like you evaluate everyone?"

"Occupational hazard." Vaerin's smile was wry. "I can't help it. You walk into a room, I'm assessing threats, exits, tactical advantages. It's exhausting but necessary."

"So what's your assessment of me?" Kat asked, more curious than offended.

Vaerin turned, studied her with those sharp eyes. The attention was intense—clinical but not cold. Kat found herself sitting straighter under the scrutiny.

"Intelligent," Vaerin said finally. "Socially adept. Good at reading people and making them comfortable. You use charm as a tool, which is smart. Not trained for violence but not helpless—you have decent instincts, you just lack application." She paused. "You're also stubborn. Protective of people you care about. Willing to take risks if you think it's worth it. Which makes you either very brave or very reckless, depending on the situation."

Kat's mouth was dry. "That's... thorough."

"I'm thorough." Vaerin's smile widened slightly. "Your turn. What's your assessment of me?"

"Terrifying," Kat said immediately. "But in an attractive way. If that makes sense."

The words were out before she could stop them. Heat flooded her face.

Vaerin's expression shifted—surprise, then something else. Amusement? Interest?

"That makes sense," Vaerin said quietly. "And for what it's worth—you're not remotely helpless. You're holding watch on a potential murder target at midnight because your friend needed help. That takes a specific kind of courage."

"Or stupidity. You said there was a fine line."

"There is. But you're on the right side of it." Vaerin's gaze held hers for a moment too long to be casual.

Kat's heart was racing. This was—she didn't know what this was. But she knew she should probably say something, do something, not just sit here staring like an idiot.

A sound from down the corridor—footsteps, heavy, purposeful.

Vaerin moved instantly, hand on her knife, positioning herself between Kat and the approaching threat.

A figure emerged from the darkness. Dracan-heavy. Familiar silhouette.

Thalyra.

She spotted them, altered course, approached with that careful precision. "Vaerin. Lady Katerina. Status?"

"Quiet," Vaerin reported, relaxing slightly but not removing her hand from the knife. "No unusual activity around Sira's quarters."

"Good." Thalyra glanced between them, and Kat had the uncomfortable sense that she'd noticed something. "Lady Katerina, you're relieved. Vaerin and I will finish the watch tonight."

"I'm fine to continue—" Kat started.

"You've been here for four hours. Get some sleep." Thalyra's tone left no room for argument. "We need you sharp for tomorrow's social observation."

Kat stood, gathering her book. She caught Vaerin's eye—a brief glance, nothing more—and saw something there she couldn't quite name.

"Thank you for the company," Kat said. "It was... educational."

"Anytime," Vaerin replied, and her smile was different now. Warmer. More personal.

Kat left before she could say something else embarrassing, heart still racing, face still hot.

Behind her, she heard Thalyra's quiet voice: "Well. That was interesting."

"Shut up," Vaerin muttered.

"I didn't say anything."

"You were thinking it very loudly."

Kat smiled despite herself and made her way back to her quarters, mind churning.

Terrifying but attractive.

She'd actually said that. Out loud. To a woman who could probably kill her six different ways without breaking a sweat.

And Vaerin had smiled.

Kat fell into bed, book forgotten, and tried very hard not to analyze what had just happened.

Failed completely.

But for once, failure felt like progress.

The next morning, Kat found Mal in the archives, surrounded by tissue samples and looking like he hadn't slept.

"Learn anything interesting last night?" he asked without looking up.

"Several things," Kat said carefully. "Sira's quarters remain secure. No suspicious activity. Four gifts documented, all accounted for."

"Good. Sira's tactical protocols are working."

"Yes. Though I had help. Vaerin showed up to do a security sweep."

"Ah." Mal made a notation. "She's thorough. Did she find anything concerning?"

"No. We mostly just... talked."

Something in her tone made Mal look up. His eyes—wolf-sharp, observant—studied her face.

"Talked," he repeated.

"Yes."

"About security protocols."

"Among other things."

Mal's expression shifted to something approaching amusement. "Kat. Are you—did something happen?"

"No. Maybe. I don't know." Kat sat down heavily. "I called her 'terrifying but attractive' and she didn't have me thrown out of the Hall for insubordination."

"That's... progress?"

"I don't know what it is!" Kat buried her face in her hands. "She's Thalyra's second. She's an intelligence agent. She reads about poisons for fun. And she looked at me like—" She stopped. "Like I was interesting. Not just useful. Interesting."

Mal was quiet for a moment. Then: "For what it's worth, Vaerin doesn't waste time on people she doesn't respect. If she engaged with you socially, beyond tactical necessity, that means something."

"It means I'm probably going to embarrass myself further."

"Probably," Mal agreed. "But at least you'll do it with someone who appreciates directness. Vaerin doesn't strike me as someone who enjoys games."

"No. She's very... straightforward." Kat looked up. "Is this a terrible idea? Getting distracted by an attractive woman while we're hunting a murderer?"

"Yes," Mal said. "But humans are terrible at not getting distracted by attractive people. You're in good company."

Kat laughed despite herself. "Wise words from someone who nearly set his notes on fire because Thalyra smiled at him during dinner."

"I did not—that was—" Mal's face went red. "She was being professionally encouraging. That's different."

"Sure it is." Kat grinned. "We're both disasters. At least we're disasters together."

"At least." Mal returned to his notes, but he was smiling slightly. "For what it's worth—I think Vaerin is a good person. Dangerous, but good. If you're interested, you could do much worse."

"High praise from the man who trusts approximately three people."

"I trust four now," Mal corrected. "You, Sira, Vaerin, and Thalyra. That's... progress."

"It is." Kat stood, feeling lighter than she had in days. "Alright. I'm going to go sit with Sira and definitely not think about Vaerin at all."

"That will go well," Mal said dryly.

"Terribly," Kat agreed.

But she was smiling as she left.

And when she passed Vaerin in the corridor an hour later, and Vaerin's lips curved in that small, private smile—

Well.

Maybe terrible wasn't the worst thing to be.

Next: Merchant Intelligence

Merchant_Intelligence

The lodging house off East Canal smelled exactly as Lessa of Drel had promised—mules, cheap ale, and the particular funk of men who'd been on the road too long. Mal found her in the courtyard, supervising the unloading of cargo with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd been doing this since childhood.

"Mal Aerath," she said, not looking up from her ledger. "Still alive, I see. And still looking like you haven't eaten a proper meal in weeks."

"Lessa." He felt suddenly awkward, standing in merchant territory with his scholar's clothing and his field kit. "Thank you for the letter. I—I appreciate you taking time."

"Time is money, Nobilis, but old friends are worth the investment." Now she looked up, and her smile was genuine despite the teasing tone. "You look terrible. Sit. I'll have them bring tea."

She led him to a corner table, waved off the merchants who tried to claim her attention, and settled across from him with the same direct assessment she'd always had.

"So," Lessa said. "What toxin are you hunting this time?"

Mal blinked. "How did you—"

"You sent a message through imperial channels asking about merchant routes and toxic substances. I'm a trader, not an idiot." She poured tea—good tea, expensive—and pushed a cup toward him. "Also, you have that look. The one you get when you're trying to save someone and running out of time. So. Tell me."

The relief of being with someone who just understood was overwhelming. "Feline-specific toxins. Something that could be introduced before a transformation ceremony. Subtle enough not to be obvious, lethal enough to cause organ failure over several days."

Lessa's expression went serious. "That's specific. And concerning. Are we talking about the Hall of Pledges specifically?"

"I can't—"

"You don't have to confirm. Word travels." She pulled out her own ledger, flipped to a section marked with colored tabs. "Feline toxins. Let me think. Lilies are obvious—every Felan knows to avoid those. Permethrin in fabric treatments, but that's rare in noble clothing. Essential oils..." She paused, tapping her stylus. "Wait. What morphotype?"

"Oncan. Jaguar analogue."

"Oncan." Lessa's eyes narrowed. "Heavier build than other Felans. More sensitive to certain compounds because of liver structure." She flipped pages, found something. "Tea tree oil. The pure stuff, not the diluted cleaning solutions. It comes from trees that only grow in coastal regions across the southern sea. Rare. Expensive."

"I've heard of tea tree oil. Antiseptic properties?"

"Exactly—but here's what most people don't know." Lessa leaned forward. "The merchants who deal in concentrated tea tree oil won't sell to Felans. Ever. It's an unwritten rule in the trade guilds. My family got flagged when we tried to acquire some for a client three years ago. Had to prove I was Canan, had to provide documentation, had to sign waivers."

"Why would merchants care that much?"

"Because pure tea tree oil is absolutely devastating to feline metabolism." Lessa's voice dropped. "A Felan handling even diluted oil can absorb enough through skin contact to cause liver damage. Concentrated? It's lethal. Causes organ failure over days, symptoms that look exactly like transformation complications." She met his eyes. "If someone got pure tea tree oil into the Hall, they went through significant effort. It's not something you can just pick up. It has to be imported, the paperwork is extensive, and any legitimate purchaser would know exactly how dangerous it is to Felans."

Mal was writing rapidly. "How would someone acquire it without drawing attention?"

"That's the question." Lessa flipped through her ledger. "My family handles southern imports, but we haven't shipped tea tree oil to the capital in over a year. Let me check—" She ran her finger down columns of entries. "Last order was fourteen months ago. Small quantity, shipped to a physician's collective for wound treatment research. Signed for by..." She paused. "Signed for by a member of the Church Anatomica medical order."

Mal's stylus stopped moving.

"Someone with Church authority requisitioned toxic oil," he said slowly. "Oil that requires special permits and documentation. Oil that merchants specifically won't sell to Felans."

"And if they claimed it was for medical research, no one would question it." Lessa's expression was grim. "Mal. If someone's using tea tree oil at the Hall, they planned this months in advance. This isn't opportunistic. This is premeditated, sophisticated targeting."

"I know." His hand was shaking slightly. "That's why I need to identify the source. Where it's coming from, who's acquiring it, how they're introducing it."

"My family's caravans supply the Hall. We have contracts for ceremonial goods, cleaning supplies, medicinal stocks." Lessa's voice went hard. "If someone's using our shipments to murder people, I want to know. That's not just bad business—that's a violation of our merchant oaths."

"Can you check your manifests? See if anyone's been ordering unusually high quantities of tea tree oil? Or requesting it in forms that wouldn't make sense for standard use?"

"Already planning to." She pulled out a fresh sheet of paper, began making notes. "I'll cross-reference our Hall shipments with standard consumption rates. Anything anomalous will stand out." She paused. "But Mal—if this is what I think it is, checking manifests might not be enough. The Hall has its own supply stores. Someone with authority could requisition what they need from existing stock without going through external merchants."

"Which means internal procurement records."

"Which you probably can't access without alerting whoever's responsible." Lessa's expression was calculating now. "Unless you have someone on the inside who can pull those records quietly."

Mal thought of Thalyra. Of Vaerin. "I might."

"Good. Because if tea tree oil is being weaponized, the procurement trail will lead you to whoever ordered it." She slid her notes across the table. "This is everything I know about tea tree oil uses, concentration levels, and symptoms. Also—and this is important—it has a distinctive smell. Sharp, medicinal, slightly camphoraceous. If someone's been handling concentrated Melaleuca, they'll smell like it. Faintly, but detectably."

"So I need to get close enough to potential suspects to smell them."

"Or check their quarters for contaminated materials." Lessa's smile was sharp. "You're investigating a murder, Mal. Social niceties are optional."

They worked for another hour, Lessa pulling information from her merchant networks about southern trade routes and import regulations, Mal cross-referencing with his biological knowledge. By the time he left, he had a comprehensive profile of tea tree oil toxicity and acquisition methods—and a growing certainty that acquiring rare, regulated toxic oil from across the sea required someone with significant authority and long-term planning.

And Cleric Hestin, who led ceremonial preparations and had unlimited access to Church medical stores, was exactly the kind of person who could requisition dangerous substances without question.

"Mal," Lessa said as he was leaving. "Be careful. Whoever's doing this—they're smart, they're positioned, and they're willing to kill to protect whatever they're trying to accomplish. Don't become their next target."

"I'm trying not to."

"Try harder." She gripped his arm briefly. "You're terrible at politics and worse at self-preservation. But you're one of the good ones. Stay alive long enough to fix this."

Mal nodded, throat tight. "I will. And Lessa—thank you. Truly."

"Thank me by stopping a murderer." She smiled, but her eyes were serious. "And visit more often when you're not hunting killers. I miss arguing with you about transformation theory."

"I miss that too."

He left the lodging house with more information than he'd arrived with, and a cold certainty that the next few days would determine whether anyone else died.

Sira's ceremony was in eight days.

Eight days to prove what he suspected.

Eight days to stop it from happening again.

Back at the Hall, Mal went directly to Thalyra's office. She was there, working late as usual, Vaerin at her side reviewing security protocols.

"I know how they're doing it," Mal said without preamble. "Melaleuca. Tea tree oil. Concentrated, applied topically or introduced through ceremonial preparations. Causes feline-specific liver toxicity that mimics transformation complications."

Thalyra set down her stylus. "Explain."

He did—quickly, thoroughly, showing them Lessa's notes and his own analysis. "If someone contaminated Sira's ceremonial oils or blessing preparations with concentrated Melaleuca oil, she'd absorb it through skin contact. When she shifts to jaguar form, her metabolism would try to process it and fail. Liver damage, kidney failure, neurological symptoms. Death within days, looking like natural causes."

"Can you test for it?" Vaerin asked.

"Yes. Melaleuca has a distinctive chemical signature. If I can examine the ceremonial preparations before Sira's rite—"

"You'll find contamination if it's there," Thalyra finished. "And if you find contamination, we can trace who had access to those preparations."

"Hestin leads ceremonial preparations," Mal said. "He has unlimited access to supply stores. He was with Petran the night before his ceremony. He's been hostile to oversight since I arrived." He met Thalyra's eyes. "It's him. I know it's him. I just need proof."

"Then we get proof." Thalyra stood, her full height making the room feel smaller. "Vaerin, pull internal procurement records for tea tree oil. Look for requisitions from ceremonial supplies in the last six months. Mal, prepare your testing protocols. I want you ready to examine every item Sira touches during her ceremony."

"And if we find contamination?" Mal asked.

"Then we stop the ceremony, secure Hestin, and tear apart his quarters until we find evidence linking him to Petran's death." Thalyra's expression was iron. "No more tributaries die at this Hall. Not while I'm here."

"What about operational security?" Vaerin asked. "If we arrest Hestin publicly—"

"Then whoever sent him will know we're investigating." Thalyra's jaw tightened. "But that's a secondary concern. Primary concern is keeping Sira alive."

Mal felt something settle in his chest. Whatever else Thalyra was, whatever hidden agenda she served—she meant that. People first. Mission second.

"Eight days," he said. "We have eight days."

"Then we use them well." Thalyra looked at him, and for a moment her expression softened. "You did good work today, Mal. Lessa is clearly a valuable contact."

"She's an old friend. And a brilliant merchant." Mal hesitated. "She said to be careful. That whoever's doing this is smart and positioned."

"She's right." Thalyra's hand settled briefly on his shoulder—warm, grounding, gone almost immediately. "Which is why we're going to be smarter. And better positioned."

Mal nodded and left to prepare his testing protocols.

Eight days.

He'd saved Kat with less time than that.

He'd figure out how to save Sira too.

He had to.

Next: Contamination Found

Contamination_Found

The ceremonial preparation rooms were in the Hall's eastern wing—stone chambers that smelled of incense, oils, and centuries of ritual. Mal stood at the entrance with Vaerin Talenis, waiting for the attending cleric to finish his evening rounds.

"He'll be gone in five minutes," Vaerin said quietly. "Then we have until morning prayers to examine everything."

"That's not much time."

"It's enough. You're fast when you're focused."

The cleric finally left, his footsteps echoing down the corridor. Vaerin moved immediately, producing a key that shouldn't have been in her possession.

"Don't ask," she said, unlocking the door.

Inside, the preparation room was organized with obsessive precision. Ceremonial robes hung on wooden frames, arranged by rank and occasion. Shelves lined the walls, holding bottles of blessed oils, containers of ritual incense, carved blessing stones, and woven prayer cords. Everything labeled, everything in its place.

"Sira's ceremony is in six days," Mal said, pulling out his field kit. "Her materials should be prepared already. Stored separately, blessed and sanctified."

Vaerin moved to a locked cabinet, produced another inappropriate key, and opened it. Inside were three sets of ceremonial materials, each tagged with a name and date.

Lady Sira of House Falen. Readiness Rite. Sixth day, ninth month.

"That's it," Mal breathed.

He lifted the container carefully—a wooden box, beautifully carved, containing everything Sira would wear and touch during her ceremony. Robes. Blessing oils. Prayer cords. A small vial of what looked like anointing oil.

Mal opened the vial, sniffed carefully.

The sharp, medicinal scent hit him immediately. Pine mixed with mint, distinctive, wrong.

"Tea tree oil," he said, voice tight. "This is contaminated. Heavily."

Vaerin moved closer, her expression going cold. "Can you test it? Prove it's not supposed to be there?"

"I don't need to test it. It's not supposed to be in ceremonial preparations at all. Tea tree oil has no religious significance, no traditional use in rites. This was added deliberately." He pulled out a clean vial, transferred a sample carefully. "But yes, I'll test it anyway, there are methods to isolate it and determine the types of oils included."

He moved through the rest. Robes: clean. Prayer cords: untouched. The second vial—labeled as purification oil—reeked of the same contamination.

"Two sources," Mal said grimly. "They wanted to be sure. Sira would have handled both during the ceremony. Absorbed enough through skin contact to cause liver damage within hours of shifting to jaguar form."

"Would it have killed her immediately?"

"No. That's the elegant part." Mal forced the analysis through clenched teeth. "She'd complete the ceremony. Feel fine for a day, maybe two. Then organ failure. By the time symptoms appeared, the cause would be gone. Another tragedy everyone shrugs at." His hands shook. "Petran all over again—unless we stop it."

"Can you replace these?" Vaerin asked. "Prepare clean alternatives so Sira can complete her ceremony safely?"

"Yes. If I have access to the proper oils and authority to complete the blessing protocols."

"Thalyra can authorize you. She will get the requisite authorization." Vaerin was already making notes. "We'll prepare clean materials, swap them the night before the ceremony. No one will know until it's too late to sabotage them again."

"And then what? We just let whoever did this try again?"

"No." Vaerin's smile was sharp and cold. "Then we catch them in the act. Set up surveillance on this room, see who comes to check whether their contamination worked. Document their access, their behavior, everything."

Mal stared at the contaminated oils, the neat labels, the casual calculation that called this devotion.

"I wouldn't want to speak conjecture out loud," he said. "but Hestin is looking very guilty."

"Knowing and proving are different things." Vaerin began documenting the materials with a small notebook in some sort of code. "We need him to incriminate himself. Coming here to check his work, accessing materials he shouldn't have authority over, something that ties him directly to the contamination."

"What if he doesn't come back? What if he just waits for the ceremony?"

"Then we have physical evidence of attempted murder. The contaminated oils, your analysis, procurement records showing he requisitioned amlecu." Vaerin finished photographing, locked the cabinet again. "It's not as clean as catching him actively sabotaging, but it's enough to arrest him and search his quarters."

"Where we'll hopefully find evidence connecting him to Petran's death."

"Exactly." Vaerin moved toward the door, checking the corridor. "Come on. We need to report this to Thalyra and prepare the replacement materials."

Mal took one last look at the contaminated oils—at the evidence of someone's willingness to murder a young woman for political gain—and felt something harden in his chest.

No more.

No more dead tributaries.

No more poisoned gifts disguised as blessings.

This ended now.

Thalyra's office blazed with light despite the late hour. She stood at her desk; Kat and Sira waited beside her, both tight with contained fury.

"Show me," Thalyra said the moment they entered.

Mal set out his samples, his notes, the photographs Vaerin had taken. "Melaleuca oil. Both the anointing oil and the purification oil. Concentration high enough to cause acute liver toxicity in feline metabolism. If Sira had used these during her ceremony—"

"I'd be dead within three days," Sira finished, her voice flat. "Just like Petran."

"We're replacing everything," Vaerin said. "Clean preparations, properly blessed. Mal handles the compounds tonight; Thalyra oversees the rites. We swap them tomorrow."

"And surveillance on the preparation rooms," Thalyra added. "See if anyone comes to check their work."

"It's Hestin," Kat said. "It has to be Hestin. He leads ceremonial preparations. He had access to Petran. He's been hostile to reformists since—"

"Since before I arrived," Thalyra interrupted quietly. "Yes. I know."

Something in her tone made everyone stop.

"You suspected him already," Mal said slowly. "Before this investigation. Before any of us started looking."

Thalyra didn't answer immediately. She walked to the window, her back to them, that familiar tension in her shoulders.

"Hestin has been flagged for months," she said finally. "Irregularities in procurement. Connections to conservative houses that oppose imperial reform. Rhetoric about spiritual purity that edges into dangerous territory." She turned. "But suspicion isn't evidence. I needed proof. I needed someone outside the power structure to investigate independently, document objectively, build a case that couldn't be dismissed as political persecution."

"That's why you asked for a scholar," Mal said. "That's why I was placed here. You needed an outside observer."

"I needed someone brilliant and naive enough not to realize they were being used." Thalyra's expression was rueful. "Though you figured it out faster than expected. And did better work than I hoped."

"So what now?" Sira asked. "We have evidence. Hestin tried to kill me. We arrest him."

"We can arrest him for contaminating ceremonial materials," Vaerin corrected. "We can search his quarters, confiscate his papers, interrogate him about procurement irregularities. But connecting him to Petran's death requires more. Requires finding the chocolate, or correspondence with co-conspirators, or confession."

"Then we get that." Kat's voice was steel. "We get everything. We make sure he can't hurt anyone else ever again."

Thalyra studied her for a moment. "Lady Katerina. This is the point where most nobles would step back. Let imperial authorities handle the dangerous work. Protect themselves from potential retaliation."

"I'm not most nobles," Kat said. "And I'm not stepping back when someone tried to murder my friend."

"Neither am I," Sira added.

Thalyra looked at Mal. "Scholar Aerath?"

"I started this investigation to prevent deaths," Mal said steadily. "I'm finishing it for the same reason. Whatever it takes."

"Then we move carefully." Thalyra returned to her desk, quill scratching fast. "Mal, prepare the replacements. I'll handle the blessing protocols. Vaerin, wire the preparation rooms. Kat, Sira—act like nothing changed. Ceremony proceeds as scheduled."

"And when it succeeds?" Mal asked. "When Sira completes her rite without incident?"

"Then Hestin will know something went wrong. He'll either try to fix it, or he'll panic and make mistakes." Thalyra's smile was cold. "Either way, we'll be watching. And when he moves, we take him."

She signed the orders, handed them to Vaerin. "Six days. We protect Sira, we catch Hestin, and we end this."

Everyone nodded.

But Mal couldn't shake the feeling that they were missing something. Some piece of the puzzle that hadn't clicked into place yet.

Hestin was guilty—he was certain of that.

But was he working alone?

Or was someone else pulling strings, someone higher in the hierarchy, someone who would move against them the moment Hestin was arrested?

He pushed the thought aside.

First, keep Sira alive.

Then worry about larger conspiracies.

One step at a time.

Just like Thalyra taught him.

Next: The Ceremony Interrupted

The_Ceremony_Interrupted

The Great Hall was filled to capacity. Sira's readiness rite had drawn nobles from across the region—House Falen was important enough that attendance was practically mandatory. Mal stood with the natural philosophy scholars, trying to look calm while his heart hammered against his ribs.

The ceremonial materials had been swapped. He'd tested them himself three times. Clean. Safe. Sira would survive this.

But Hestin didn't know that yet.

The cleric stood at the dais, leading prayers in that resonant voice that had condemned "foreign methods" and "spiritual inadequacy" for months. Mal watched him carefully, looking for signs of tension, awareness, guilt.

Hestin looked serene. Confident. Like a man performing a familiar ritual with nothing to fear.

Sira stood in the center of the hall, wearing the blessed robes, anointed with oils that should have killed her. She looked calm, professional, every inch the House Falen warrior they'd trained her to be.

Kat stood in the front row with other prominent nobles, her expression carefully neutral. But Mal could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands were clenched at her sides.

Vaerin Talenis was somewhere in the upper galleries, watching, recording, ready to move if anything went wrong.

And Thalyra—

Mal's eyes found Thalyra Renaris at the edge of the dais, standing with other administrators. But something was wrong. She was too still, her breathing too carefully controlled.

Then he understood.

She hadn't shifted. Everyone else in the Hall had responded to the ceremonial incense that preceded major rites—a mild sedative that helped shifters maintain human form during emotionally charged moments. But it only worked on shifters. If you stayed human, you stayed conscious.

Thalyra had chosen to remain human. To witness everything with full awareness.

Which meant she expected something to go wrong.

"And now," Hestin declared, "Lady Sira of House Falen will demonstrate her readiness before the assembled witnesses. May her transformation honor her House and serve Velestra."

Sira took a breath, closed her eyes, and began.

The transformation was flawless. Smooth, controlled, professional. Her human form gave way to the powerful, compact shape of an Oncan jaguar—spotted coat gleaming in the light, muscles coiled with barely contained strength.

She held the form for the prescribed interval. The crowd murmured approval. House Falen nobles looked satisfied.

Then Sira shifted back to human, landing the transition with practiced ease.

Perfect.

Alive.

Completely unharmed.

Mal watched Hestin's face. For just a moment—barely a heartbeat—something flickered in his expression. Surprise. Confusion.

Then it was gone, replaced by the serene blessing-giver again.

"Well done, Lady Sira. Your House should be proud."

But his eyes were calculating now, scanning the Hall, looking for something.

The ceremony continued with formal blessings and pronouncements. Mal forced himself to stay still, to not draw attention. This was the dangerous part. Hestin knew something was wrong. The question was what he'd do about it.

The ceremony finally concluded. The assembled nobles began to disperse, moving toward the reception halls where food and drink awaited. Mal tried to follow the crowd, to blend in, but Kat materialized beside him.

"Did you see his face?" she whispered.

"I saw it."

"He knows. He knows it didn't work."

"I know. We need to—"

A hand on Mal's shoulder. He turned to find a junior clerk—Vulpan, young, nervous.

"Scholar Aerath? Cleric Hestin requests your presence in the ceremonial preparation rooms. He has questions about... proper cleaning protocols for blessed materials."

Every instinct Mal had screamed danger.

"Now?" he asked carefully.

"If you please, Scholar. He seemed quite urgent."

Mal looked at Kat. Her eyes were wide, frightened.

"I'll come with you," she said immediately.

"Lady Katerina, the Cleric specifically requested Scholar Aerath alone." The clerk's nervousness had edges now. Fear, maybe. Or maybe he was just a messenger who didn't know what he was carrying.

"Tell him I'll be there in a moment," Mal said. "I need to retrieve my testing equipment."

The clerk nodded and hurried away.

Mal turned to Kat. "Find Vaerin. Now. Tell her Hestin just summoned me to the preparation rooms alone."

"Mal, you can't—"

"I have to. If I don't go, he'll know we're onto him. But I'm not going without backup." He pressed his notebook into her hands. "Take this. If something happens to me, everything's documented. Give it to Thalyra."

"Nothing is going to happen to you because I'm getting Vaerin right now." Kat was already moving. "Stall him. Don't go in alone."

She disappeared into the crowd.

Mal made his way toward the eastern wing, heart racing, mind working through scenarios.

Hestin knew the contamination had failed. He'd want to know how. Want to know if someone had discovered his attempt. Want to know if he was compromised.

Which meant this was either a confrontation or a test.

Either way, Mal needed to be very, very careful.

The preparation rooms were empty when he arrived. No Hestin. No junior clerk. Just the stone chambers with their carefully arranged ceremonial materials.

Mal waited in the doorway, not entering. Every survival instinct his mentor had drilled into him screamed not to walk into an enclosed space where he could be trapped.

Footsteps behind him.

Mal turned to find Hestin approaching, alone, his expression no longer serene. Now it was assessing. Dangerous.

"Scholar Aerath. Thank you for coming."

"You had questions about cleaning protocols?"

"Among other things." Hestin moved closer, his eyes scanning the room, then settling on Mal. "Lady Sira's ceremony was remarkable. No complications whatsoever. Which is strange, given what I found in your quarters."

Mal frowned. "My quarters?"

"Indeed." Hestin reached into his robes. "I was concerned about security, so I took the liberty of inspecting the scholars' dormitory. And I found this."

He pulled out a small, sealed vial. Even from here, Mal could see the viscosity of the liquid inside.

"Concentrated tea tree oil," Hestin said softly. "Enough to kill a feline shifter three times over. Hidden in your desk."

"That's not mine," Mal said, his voice steady despite the sudden cold in his stomach. "I've never seen that before."

"Haven't you?" Hestin took another step forward. "It's tragic, really. A jealous scholar, resentful of the nobility, tries to sabotage a readiness rite. He gets caught, of course. And in his desperation..."

Hestin lunged.

It wasn't an attack to kill. It was an attack to plant. He grabbed Mal's wrist, forcing the vial into his hand, his other hand gripping Mal's shoulder to hold him in place.

"He attacks a high cleric," Hestin hissed, his face inches from Mal's. "Giving the cleric no choice but to defend himself with lethal force."

Mal struggled, trying to drop the vial, but Hestin's grip was iron. The cleric's other hand was already reaching for the heavy ceremonial mace at his belt.

"Let go!" Mal shouted, kicking out.

"Don't fight it, Scholar. You're already dead. Your suicide will serve the—"

The door burst open.

"DROP IT!"

Hestin froze.

Thalyra stood in the doorway, Vaerin at her side, a heavy repeater crossbow leveled directly at Hestin's chest. Behind them, two Hall guards had their weapons drawn.

"Step away from him," Thalyra ordered, her voice like a whip crack. "Now."

Hestin slowly released Mal, his hands raising in a gesture of peace. The vial fell from Mal's hand, shattering on the stone floor. The sharp, medicinal scent of tea tree oil filled the air.

"Administrator," Hestin said smoothly, stepping back. "Thank the Light you're here. This madman attacked me. He tried to force this poison on me—"

"Save it," Vaerin said, her crossbow not wavering. "We've been watching the room for ten minutes. We saw you pull it from your own robes."

Hestin's composure faltered. "Watching? There are no observation ports in—"

"There are when you drill them," Thalyra said, moving into the room. She didn't look at Mal, her focus entirely on the cleric. "We knew you'd try to cover your tracks. We just didn't know you'd be foolish enough to do it yourself."

"You have no authority here," Hestin snarled, the mask slipping completely now. "I am a High Cleric of the Order. You cannot—"

"I am the Administrator of this Hall," Thalyra cut him off. "And you just attempted to frame a Hall scholar for your own failed assassination attempt. Guards, take him."

The guards moved forward. Hestin looked between them, calculating odds, then sneered.

"You think this saves you?" He spat on the floor near Mal's feet. "You think this changes anything? The rot is deep, Administrator. Cutting off one head won't stop it."

"Maybe not," Thalyra said calmly. "But it's a start."

They bound his hands. Hestin didn't resist, but his eyes burned with a fanatic's light.

"History will vindicate me," he said as they dragged him toward the door. "And it will judge you, Thalyra Renaris. It will judge you all."

Then he was gone.

Mal found he was shaking.

"You're alright," Thalyra said quietly, her hand settling on his shoulder. "He can't hurt you now."

"He tried to kill Sira. He killed Petran. And he's not sorry. He genuinely believes he was doing the right thing." Mal looked up at her. "How do you fight that? How do you stop someone who thinks murder is righteous?"

"With evidence. With law. With the slow, boring work of institutional change." Thalyra's expression was gentle now. "You did that work, Mal. You built the case. You saved Sira. You stopped him."

"But he said there are others. People who think like him. Who'll keep trying."

"Probably." Thalyra didn't sugarcoat it. "But that's a problem for tomorrow. Today, you prevented a murder. That's enough."

Kat appeared at the end of the corridor, Sira beside her, both looking shaken.

"Is it over?" Kat asked.

"The immediate threat is over," Vaerin said. "The larger investigation continues. But Lady Sira is safe. The Hall is secure. And Hestin will face justice."

Sira looked at Mal, her expression complicated. "You saved my life."

"I just did chemistry," Mal said awkwardly.

"You did more than that." She moved forward, gripped his arm briefly. "House Falen remembers its debts, Scholar Aerath. If you ever need anything, you ask. We'll answer."

"I—thank you. But I was just—"

"Stop underselling yourself," Kat interrupted, wrapping her arms around him in a fierce hug. "You're brilliant, you're brave, and you saved my best friend. Own it."

Mal hugged her back, still shaking, still processing.

He'd done it.

He'd actually done it.

No one else had died.

"Come on," Thalyra said gently. "All of you. We have reports to file, statements to give, and approximately six noble houses who will want to know why their ceremonial preparations were compromised. But first—" She looked at Mal. "First, you're going to eat something, drink something strong, and sit down before you collapse."

"I'm fine—"

"Mal. Don't make me carry you."

Given that she absolutely could, Mal decided not to argue.

They made their way back to Thalyra's quarters—all of them, Kat and Sira included. Vaerin poured something amber and strong into cups. Thalyra produced food from somewhere.

And for the first time in weeks, Mal felt like he could breathe.

It wasn't over. Hestin's arrest would have consequences. The Church would demand investigations. Political factions would mobilize.

But tonight, everyone he cared about was alive.

And sometimes, that was enough.

Next: After the Storm

After_The_Storm

Mal woke in unfamiliar surroundings—soft bed, warm blankets, morning light streaming through windows positioned higher than his quarters. It took him a moment to orient.

Thalyra Renaris's rooms. He'd fallen asleep in her sitting area while they'd been filing reports.

Someone had moved him. Covered him. Let him sleep.

He sat up carefully, found his boots placed neatly beside the bed, his notebook on the side table.

Voices in the other room—Thalyra and Vaerin Talenis, speaking quietly.

"—can't keep him in the dark much longer," Vaerin was saying. "He's too smart. And after yesterday, he's earned disclosure."

"I know." Thalyra's voice was tired. "But the timing—"

"The timing is never right. It's either too early or too late. Right now, it's just now."

Mal stood, straightened his clothing as best he could, and knocked on the doorframe.

Both women turned. Thalyra's expression shifted through several emotions before settling on rueful acceptance.

"You're awake. Good. There's tea." She gestured to the table. "And we need to talk."

Mal sat, accepted the cup Vaerin poured, and waited.

Thalyra stood at the window—her familiar position when she was gathering courage to say something difficult.

"Hestin has confessed," she said finally. "To contaminating Sira's materials. To supplying the chocolate that killed Petran. To three other attempts on loyalist tributaries over the past year."

"And his co-conspirators?" Mal asked.

"He claims to have acted alone. I don't believe him, but proving otherwise requires evidence we don't have yet." Thalyra turned to face him. "He's been remanded to Church custody pending formal trial. House Falen is demanding death. House Velthar is demanding the same. The Church is demanding we prove our case beyond any possible doubt."

"Can we?"

"Yes. Your evidence is ironclad. His confession is recorded. Procurement records are clear." Thalyra's jaw tightened. "But the political fallout is just beginning. Conservative houses are claiming religious persecution. Reformist houses are demanding Church accountability. And the Imperatrix—"

She stopped.

Mal watched her carefully. "The Imperatrix what?"

Thalyra and Vaerin exchanged a long look.

"Mal," Thalyra said quietly. "What we're about to tell you is classified. Beyond classified. If you repeat it to anyone outside this room, the consequences would be severe. For you, for us, for people you care about. Do you understand?"

His mouth went dry. "I understand."

"Do you consent to hearing it anyway?"

He thought about that. About the careful way she'd phrased it as a choice, not a command.

"Yes."

Thalyra took a breath. "I'm not just an administrator. I was sent here by imperial authority to investigate systematic corruption within the Church Anatomica's oversight of transformation ceremonies. Hestin's murders were part of a broader pattern we've been tracking for over a year."

"I know," Mal said.

Both women stared at him.

"I figured that out weeks ago," Mal continued. "You're too competent to be just an administrator. Vaerin's too skilled to be just a clerk. You both move like intelligence operatives. You had authorization channels I couldn't trace. And you were investigating before I arrived." He met Thalyra's eyes. "I didn't know the specifics. But I knew you were here for something bigger than medical oversight."

"And you said nothing," Vaerin observed.

"You asked me to investigate murders. I investigated murders. The rest wasn't relevant to keeping people alive." Mal paused. "Though I am curious who sent you. The Imperatrix's private office? Military intelligence? Some other branch I don't know about?"

Thalyra moved to the table, sat across from him. "The Imperatrix herself. Directly. We report to no one else."

The weight of that settled on Mal's shoulders.

"Why you specifically?"

"Because I have the rank to command respect, the knowledge to identify problems, and the political immunity to act when others can't." Thalyra's expression was complicated now. "And because the Imperatrix trusts me to do what's necessary without overreach."

"Political immunity from what, exactly?"

Another long silence.

"Mal," Thalyra said carefully. "I can't tell you everything. But I can tell you this: there are factions within Velestra who believe reform is heresy. Who think the empire should be structured around blood and tradition, not merit and function. Hestin was one of them. He wasn't killing randomly. He was eliminating future leaders who might support imperial changes he found intolerable."

"So this was political assassination disguised as religious judgment."

"Exactly." Vaerin leaned forward. "And the people backing Hestin—the ones who gave him resources, protection, ideological support—they're still out there. Still working against reform. Still dangerous."

"Which means you're not done," Mal said. "Arresting Hestin was just the first step."

"The first step in a very long investigation, yes." Thalyra's hand settled over his—warm, solid, grounding. "But you're done, if you want to be. You accomplished what I asked. You prevented deaths. You gathered evidence that will stand up in any court. No one would fault you for returning to pure scholarship now."

Mal looked at their joined hands, then at Thalyra's face.

"What if I don't want to be done?"

"Then we'd need to have a much longer conversation about operational security, institutional politics, and the personal risks of working against entrenched power structures." Thalyra's thumb traced his knuckles absently. "But that conversation doesn't have to happen today."

"When does it have to happen?"

"When you've had time to process everything that's happened. When you've decided whether this is the work you want to do, or whether you'd rather focus on transformation research without the murder investigations." She smiled slightly. "There's no wrong answer, Mal. You've already done more than anyone had the right to ask."

"I want to help," Mal said. "If there are more people like Hestin out there, if they're targeting innocents for political gain—I want to stop them."

"Even if it means becoming a permanent target yourself?"

"I'm already a target. Hestin said so." Mal's jaw tightened. "The question is whether I'm a target who does something useful or a target who just waits to be eliminated."

Vaerin laughed quietly. "He sounds like you, Thalyra."

"I know. It's terrifying." But Thalyra was smiling now, genuine warmth in her expression. "Alright. If you're sure—and I mean truly sure, not just reacting to yesterday's adrenaline—then we bring you deeper into the operation. Clear you for more information. Train you properly so you don't get killed doing something heroically stupid."

"I rarely do things heroically," Mal protested.

"You charged into a courtyard to save someone you didn't know on your first day. You confronted Hestin alone yesterday. You absolutely do things heroically." Thalyra squeezed his hand. "We just need to teach you to do them with better backup."

A knock at the door interrupted them. Vaerin answered, exchanged quiet words with someone, then returned with a sealed letter.

"From the Imperatrix," she said, handing it to Thalyra.

Thalyra opened it, read quickly, her expression carefully neutral.

"She's pleased," Thalyra said finally. "Hestin's arrest has already had political effects. Several conservative houses are reconsidering their opposition to Church reforms. House Falen and House Velthar are pushing for systematic investigations of ceremonial protocols. And—" She paused. "She wants to meet you."

Mal's heart stopped. "The Imperatrix wants to meet me."

"You exposed a conspiracy, prevented deaths, and built a case that will reshape Church-imperial relations for the next decade. Of course she wants to meet you." Thalyra looked up from the letter. "Though she's also giving you the option to decline. If you'd prefer to remain anonymous, to go back to scholarship without the political visibility—"

"When?" Mal interrupted.

"When what?"

"When does she want to meet me?"

Thalyra's smile widened. "Next month. At court. Formal introduction, acknowledgment of service, probably some kind of official commendation." She set down the letter. "It means leaving the Hall. Coming to the capital. Becoming visible in ways you've never been before."

"And working directly for imperial intelligence instead of just accidentally contributing to it," Vaerin added.

Mal thought about his mother's expectations. About being the second son, the substitute, the one who wasn't Taren.

About finding work that mattered, that saved people, that used his mind for something real.

"I'll go," he said. "I'll meet her. And I'll work for her, if that's what's being offered."

"It's what's being offered," Thalyra confirmed. "Though Mal—this life, this work. It's not easy. It's dangerous, politically complicated, and often thankless. You'll make enemies. Powerful ones. Are you sure—"

"I'm sure." He met her eyes steadily. "I'm tired of being invisible. I'm tired of doing work that doesn't matter. And I'm tired of watching people die when I could have prevented it." He paused. "Also, someone needs to keep you from carrying me places when I'm perfectly capable of walking."

Thalyra laughed—real, unguarded, the sound filling the room. "Fair point. Then welcome to imperial intelligence, Scholar Aerath. Congratulations and condolences in equal measure."

"Mostly condolences," Vaerin muttered. "But at least the work is interesting."

There was more discussions, logistics, timelines, what Mal would need to study, how the transition would work. But underneath it all, Mal felt something he hadn't felt in years.

Purpose.

Not trying to be Taren. Not trying to be invisible.

Just being Mal. Doing work that mattered.

Using his mind to save lives.

Later, when Vaerin left to handle some security matter and Mal was preparing to return to his quarters, Thalyra stopped him.

"One more thing," she said quietly. "I want to thank you. Properly. For everything you've done."

"You don't have to—"

"Let me finish." Her hand settled on his shoulder, warm and grounding. "You were placed here without full disclosure. You were used without your full consent. You did brilliant work under impossible circumstances, and you never complained, never demanded explanations you were entitled to. That matters to me, Mal. You matter to me."

The words hit harder than expected. Mal found his throat tight.

"You matter to me too," he managed. "You and Vaerin both. You trusted me when you had no reason to. You protected me when I was vulnerable. You—" He stopped, struggling for words. "You made me feel like I was worth something. Not just useful. Worth something."

"You are worth something." Thalyra's voice was fierce now. "Brilliant, brave, stubborn, endlessly curious. You're exactly what Velestra needs. Exactly what I—"

She stopped abruptly.

They stood there, too close, the air between them charged with something Mal didn't have words for.

"This is inappropriate," Thalyra said quietly. "I'm your superior. You're under my command. The power differential—"

"Will still exist next month when I'm working for imperial intelligence instead of the Hall," Mal finished. "So if there's something you want to say, you might as well say it now."

Thalyra's laugh was shaky. "You're too perceptive for your own good."

"It's been mentioned."

She looked at him for a long moment—golden eyes warm, conflicted, wanting.

Then she leaned down and kissed his forehead. Gentle. Brief. Gone before he could process it.

"That's all I can offer right now," she said, stepping back. "The rest—if there's a rest—has to wait until this is over. Until the power balance shifts. Until I'm not responsible for your safety."

"I can wait," Mal said, heart hammering. "If there's something worth waiting for."

"There is." Thalyra's smile was small but genuine. "I promise you that. But first—work. Justice. Fixing the system that let Hestin murder children." She moved to the door, opened it. "Go rest, Mal. Tomorrow, we start preparing you for court. It's going to be exhausting."

"Looking forward to it."

"Liar."

He laughed and left, mind spinning, heart full.

One month until court.

One month to prepare.

One month until everything changed.

He intended to be ready.

In his quarters that night, Mal opened his notebook to a fresh page.

Investigation conclusion: Cleric Hestin arrested for murder of Petran of House Velthar, attempted murder of Lady Sira of House Falen, and systematic targeting of loyalist tributaries. Evidence ironclad. Confession obtained. Justice in progress.

Personal conclusions: Thalyra and Vaerin are imperial intelligence operatives. Working directly for the Imperatrix. Investigating Church corruption as part of broader reform effort. I've been recruited. Officially.

Next steps: Prepare for court presentation. Study political protocols. Learn proper intelligence methodology. Try not to embarrass myself in front of the Imperatrix.

Also: Figure out what Thalyra meant by "worth waiting for."

He crossed out the last line, then wrote it again.

Some things were worth documenting, even if they made him uncomfortable.

Especially if they made him hopeful.

He closed the notebook and tried to sleep.

Tomorrow, a new life began.

Tonight, he'd allow himself to feel proud of the work he'd done.

And maybe, just maybe, excited about what came next.

Next: Political Fallout

Political_Fallout

The summons arrived three days after Hestin's arrest.

Not to Thalyra Renaris's office. Not to a quiet meeting room where investigations could be discussed in private.

To the Hall's formal assembly chamber, where visiting dignitaries and senior clergy gathered for matters of institutional importance.

Mal stood at the back with Vaerin Talenis, watching nobles file in. House crests on formal traveling cloaks. Ceremonial weapons that somehow managed to look both decorative and threatening. Expressions ranging from concerned to furious.

"How many?" Mal murmured.

"Twelve houses represented," Vaerin replied, voice low. "Seven with tributaries currently in residence. Three who lost children in the past five years to 'natural causes' that now look suspicious. Two who are demanding Hestin's execution before trial."

"Can they do that?"

"No. But they can make enough noise that the Church might consider it politically expedient." Vaerin's eyes tracked the room methodically. "This is what happens when investigations go public before you've neutralized the political consequences."

Mal thought about Hestin's confession. About the confession becoming known. About word spreading through noble networks faster than official channels could manage.

"How did they find out so fast?"

"Because House Falen and House Therisan have intelligence networks that rival ours. And because someone"—Vaerin's gaze flicked to a cluster of conservative clerics—"leaked Hestin's arrest to force a public response."

The High Clerist entered, flanked by senior administrators. Thalyra among them, looking composed in a way that suggested significant effort.

The chamber quieted.

"Noble families of Velestra," the High Clerist began. "Thank you for attending on short notice. We are here to address recent allegations regarding transformation protocols and to reassure you of the Church's commitment to safety and accountability."

"Reassurance?" A woman in House Falen colors stood. Mal recognized her from political briefings—Commander Falen, Sira's mother. "My daughter nearly died three days ago because one of your clerics contaminated her ceremonial materials with a substance that would have killed her. You'll forgive me if reassurance feels inadequate."

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the assembled nobles.

"Cleric Hestin has been arrested and will face full ecclesiastical trial," the High Clerist said. "We take these accusations with the utmost seriousness—"

"Do you?" A man in House Velthar colors rose. Petran's father. His voice was controlled but sharp. "Because my son did die. Under your supervision. In what you claimed was a tragic but natural complication. And now we learn it was murder. How many others were 'natural complications'? How many families were lied to?"

The High Clerist's expression tightened. "We are conducting a thorough review—"

"Under whose authority?" Commander Falen demanded. "Church authority? The same authority that employed Hestin for fifteen years without noticing he was murdering children?"

"The investigation was conducted under imperial mandate," Thalyra said, voice cutting through the rising noise. "With direct authorization from the Imperatrix's office. I have documentation if you require verification."

Every eye turned to her.

"Administrator Renaris." The High Clerist's tone was carefully neutral. "Perhaps you'd like to brief the assembled families on the scope of your findings?"

It wasn't a request.

Thalyra moved forward, unfazed by the scrutiny. "Over the past fourteen months, we identified a pattern of suspicious deaths among loyalist tributaries undergoing transformation ceremonies. Scholar Aerath"—she gestured to Mal—"documented toxicological evidence that several deaths previously attributed to physiological complications were in fact induced through species-specific poisons."

Mal tried not to flinch as every noble in the room studied him.

"We arrested Cleric Hestin three days ago with physical evidence, confession, and procurement records linking him to four confirmed murders and three additional attempts. He is currently in custody pending trial."

"Four confirmed murders," Lord Velthar repeated. His voice was hollow. "My son. Who else?"

Thalyra rattled off three names. Mal watched families flinch in recognition. Watched grief transform into fury.

"Were there others?" Commander Falen asked. "Other suspicious deaths you haven't confirmed yet?"

"Possibly." Thalyra's honesty was brutal. "Historical records show similar patterns dating back thirty years. We're investigating."

The chamber erupted.

Accusations about Church negligence. Demands for ecclesiastical reform. Questions about who else might have been involved, who else might have known, who else was complicit through inaction or willful blindness.

Mal watched Thalyra weather it with remarkable composure. Answering what she could. Refusing to speculate about what she couldn't. Redirecting anger toward productive channels—oversight reforms, independent review boards, imperial audits.

But underneath the professional performance, he could see the strain. The weight of families demanding answers she didn't have yet.

A woman in House Therisan colors stood. Kat's mother. Mal recognized the resemblance—same sharp features, same carefully controlled posture.

"Administrator Renaris," she said quietly. "My daughter tells me your investigation prevented her death. Is that accurate?"

Thalyra inclined her head. "Lady Katherina's survival was the result of coordinated effort by multiple people, yes."

"Including my daughter's participation in the investigation itself?"

The question was delicate. Dangerous.

"Lady Katherina provided valuable intelligence about gift-giving patterns and potential contamination vectors," Thalyra said carefully. "Her observations were instrumental in protecting Lady Sira."

"I see." Lady Therisan's expression was unreadable. "And you authorized civilian involvement in a murder investigation because...?"

"Because your daughter identified risks no one else noticed. Because she cared more about protecting her fellow tributaries than about protocol. And because sometimes, the people closest to danger are best positioned to prevent it."

It wasn't quite an apology. But it was acknowledgment.

Lady Therisan studied Thalyra for a long moment. "My daughter speaks highly of you. Says you listen when others dismiss. That matters, Administrator. Especially now."

She sat down. The implied support was subtle but unmistakable.

A man in conservative clerical robes stood. "These are serious allegations against a respected member of our order. While we take the safety of our charges seriously, we must also consider the possibility of error. Zealous investigation sometimes finds patterns where none exist—"

"Are you suggesting Scholar Aerath fabricated his evidence?" Commander Falen interrupted, voice dangerous. "That Administrator Renaris invented a conspiracy?"

"I'm suggesting caution before we destroy reputations and institutional credibility based on incomplete understanding—"

"My son is dead." Lord Velthar's voice cut through the diplomatic language like a blade. "That is not incomplete understanding. That is not zealous investigation. That is fact. And if your order's credibility suffers because you failed to protect children under your care, then perhaps your credibility deserves to suffer."

The conservative cleric sat down abruptly.

The High Clerist raised her hands for silence. "We understand your grief and your anger. We share it. Cleric Hestin's actions—if confirmed—represent a fundamental betrayal of everything the Church Anatomica stands for. We will cooperate fully with imperial investigation. We will implement whatever reforms are necessary. And we will ensure no family suffers this way again."

"Words," someone muttered.

"Actions," the High Clerist corrected, steel entering her voice. "Immediate suspension of all solo ceremonial oversight. Mandatory dual-cleric attendance for every rite. Independent audit of materials procurement. And external review of every suspicious death in the past decade." She looked at Thalyra. "Working with imperial investigators to ensure transparency and accountability."

Thalyra nodded. "That's acceptable."

"What about justice?" Lord Velthar demanded. "What about Hestin?"

"Hestin will face trial within the month," the High Clerist said. "Full ecclesiastical court with imperial observers. If convicted, the Church will not shield him from consequences."

"He confessed," Mal said before he could stop himself.

Everyone turned to stare.

"Scholar Aerath?" The High Clerist's tone was encouraging but wary. "You have something to add?"

Mal swallowed. Felt Vaerin's warning hand on his arm but pressed forward anyway.

"Hestin confessed. To me. While attempting to poison Lady Sira during her ceremony. He detailed his methods, his motivations, his previous victims." Mal pulled out his notebook. "I documented everything. His confession alone is sufficient for conviction. The physical evidence and procurement records are supplementary."

"The scholar is correct," Thalyra said. "We have overwhelming proof. The trial is a formality to ensure procedural correctness. But make no mistake—Hestin will be found guilty. The only question is sentencing."

"Death," Commander Falen said flatly.

Several nobles voiced agreement.

The High Clerist looked pained. "That is not a decision I can make unilaterally—"

"Then make it multilaterally." Lord Velthar stood. "Petition the Imperatrix. Present the evidence. Let her decide whether a cleric who murders children deserves mercy."

The words hung in the air.

"I will convey your request," the High Clerist said finally. "But I must stress—we are committed to justice, not vengeance. Our response must be measured, principled, and consistent with both Church doctrine and imperial law."

"Convenient," someone muttered.

The meeting continued—procedural details, security protocols, oversight mechanisms. But Mal could feel the shift in the room. The anger hadn't dissipated. It had crystallized into something more dangerous: distrust.

These families no longer believed the Church could protect their children. Some no longer believed the Church should be allowed to try.

That was going to have consequences far beyond Hestin's trial.

Afterward, in the corridor outside, Vaerin pulled Mal aside.

"That was spectacularly stupid," she said conversationally.

"Speaking up?"

"Volunteering testimony without consulting me or Thalyra first." Vaerin's eyes were hard. "You're a witness now. Officially. Which makes you a target for anyone who wants to discredit the investigation or intimidate future cooperation."

"I'm already a target. Hestin threatened my family."

"And now conservative houses know your name and face. Know you're the one who documented the evidence. Know removing you complicates the trial." Vaerin's jaw tightened. "Do you understand what you've just painted on your back?"

The ice in Mal's stomach said he was beginning to.

"I had to speak up," he said. "Lord Velthar needed to know justice was possible. That his son's death wasn't going to be dismissed as political theater."

"Noble. Stupid. Both can be true." Vaerin glanced down the corridor. "Come on. Thalyra will want to debrief. And probably yell at you for volunteering information without clearance."

"She's been yelling at me a lot lately."

"Because you keep giving her reasons." Vaerin's expression softened fractionally. "But for what it's worth—you were right to speak. Sometimes principles matter more than tactics."

"You're not going to include that in your report, are you?"

"Absolutely not. I have a reputation to maintain."

Thalyra's temporary office in the administrative wing was smaller than her usual space but more secure. She gestured Mal and Vaerin inside, closed the door, and collapsed into her chair.

"That went about as badly as I expected," she said.

"Could have been worse," Vaerin offered. "No one challenged imperial authority directly. House Therisan signaled support. The High Clerist committed to reforms."

"And twelve noble families now believe the Church is either incompetent or corrupt. Possibly both." Thalyra rubbed her temples. "Do you know what happens when loyalist houses lose faith in religious institutions? When military families start questioning Church oversight of something as fundamental as transformation?"

"Political pressure for reform," Mal said.

"Political pressure for abolition." Thalyra looked up. "There are conservative factions who would love to strip the Church Anatomica of ceremonial authority entirely. Hand it to imperial magistrates or military command. This kind of scandal gives them ammunition."

"Would that be bad?" Mal asked. "If ceremonial oversight transferred to institutions with better accountability?"

"It would be complicated." Thalyra stood, began pacing. "The Church has administered transformation rites for three centuries. They have expertise, infrastructure, theological frameworks that keep ceremonies stable. Replacing that overnight risks chaos. Dangerous chaos."

"But keeping it risks more murders."

"I know." Thalyra's voice was sharp with frustration. "Which is why this investigation needed to be controlled. Timed carefully. Evidence presented through proper channels with political groundwork laid first." She turned to Mal. "Not exploded into public consciousness because a cleric got caught mid-murder and confessed loudly enough for multiple witnesses to hear."

Mal flinched. "I prevented Sira's death—"

"I know you did. I'm not criticizing your intervention. I'm explaining why the aftermath is now exponentially more complicated than it needed to be." Thalyra's hands curled into fists. "We were building toward this. Gathering allies. Preparing reforms. Creating space for change without institutional collapse. Now we're in crisis management mode because the timeline compressed faster than we could control."

"So what happens now?" Vaerin asked.

Thalyra pulled out a letter—sealed with the Imperatrix's personal crest. "Now we accelerate. The Imperial Office has ordered an Envoy's elevation ceremony to be held here, at the Hall, in two weeks instead of two months. The Imperatrix wants this resolved before her representative formally assumes her full titles."

The bottom dropped out of Mal's stomach. "An Imperial Envoy. Here. Where someone just tried to murder a tributary."

"Exactly." Thalyra's smile was grim. "And if anything happens to her—if conservatives see this as an opportunity to eliminate a high-ranking imperial official while blaming the Church's incompetence—the political consequences will make Hestin's crimes look trivial by comparison."

"Then cancel the ceremony," Mal said. "Postpone until security can be guaranteed—"

"We can't. Postponing signals fear. Signals the Church can't be trusted. Signals imperial authority bowing to terrorist threats." Thalyra met his eyes. "We have two weeks to identify everyone involved in this conspiracy, neutralize the threat, and ensure the Envoy survives her transformation. No room for error. No time for careful investigation."

Mal felt the weight of it settle on his shoulders. "That's why you didn't tell me everything. About the imperial mandate. About what was really at stake."

"I didn't tell you because knowing made you a target. Because I wanted you to investigate the immediate threat—Hestin, the murders, the proximate cause—without worrying about the full scope." Thalyra's voice gentled. "But that's not an option anymore. Now you know. And now you're in this, whether I want to protect you or not."

"I want to help."

"I know you do." She pulled out another document—authorization forms, clearance levels, protocol assignments. "Which is why you're being reassigned. Effective immediately. You work for me directly. Imperial investigative authority. Your job is to keep the Envoy alive."

Mal took the papers with shaking hands. "How am I supposed to do that?"

"By doing what you do best. Observation. Analysis. Identifying patterns no one else sees." Thalyra's hand landed on his shoulder. "Hestin was one person. But he had resources. Procurement access. Protection from institutional oversight. Someone enabled him. Someone funded him. We need to know who before the Envoy arrives."

"Two weeks," Mal repeated.

"Two weeks," Thalyra confirmed. "Welcome to imperial intelligence, Scholar Aerath. I hope you're ready."

Mal looked at the authorization forms. At the clearance levels. At the weight of responsibility encoded in bureaucratic language.

"I'm not," he admitted. "Ready, I mean. But I'll figure it out."

"That's the spirit," Vaerin said dryly.

Thalyra smiled—genuine warmth breaking through the exhaustion. "You'll have help. Kat and Sira are cleared for expanded roles. Vaerin will coordinate security. And I'll handle political interference while you focus on evidence." She squeezed his shoulder. "We can do this. We've caught one murderer. We can catch his accomplices."

"And if we can't?" Mal asked quietly.

"Then a lot of people die. Including us." Thalyra's smile turned sharp. "So let's make sure we can."

That night, Mal sat in his quarters with his notebook open, staring at blank pages.

Two weeks. Find a conspiracy. Protect the Envoy. Prevent imperial catastrophe.

No pressure.

He began writing:

Investigation status: Hestin arrested. Confession documented. Physical evidence secured. Political fallout extreme. Conservative houses using scandal to push for Church abolition. Loyalist houses demanding justice and reform. High Clerist committed to cooperation but institutionally vulnerable.

New objective: Identify Hestin's network. Who provided resources? Who protected him? Who benefits from loyalist tributary deaths?

Timeline: 14 days until the ceremony. Limited margin for error.

Resources: Kat (political intelligence), Sira (security analysis), Vaerin (operational support), Thalyra (command authority). Myself (toxicology, pattern analysis, documentation).

Threat assessment: Unknown number of co-conspirators. Conservative faction with motive and opportunity. Church officials potentially complicit through negligence or active participation. Imperial stakes catastrophic if Envoy targeted.

Personal assessment: Terrified. Completely unqualified. Going to try anyway because people I care about will die if I don't.

Note to self: This is what you wanted. Meaningful work. Real stakes. Stop complaining and start solving.

He closed the notebook and tried to plan.

Two weeks until everything either came together or fell apart.

Time to make sure it was the former.

No matter what it cost.

Next: Acceleration

Acceleration

Hestin's arrest sent ripples through the Hall within hours.

Mal was in the archives, collating his notes on Sira's case—evidence logs, procurement records, chemical analyses—when Kat found him.

"The clergy are in emergency session," she said quietly, closing the door behind her. "Closed chambers. No one allowed in. But the junior clerics are talking. They're saying Hestin was arrested for heresy. For contaminating sacred materials."

Mal looked up from his notes. "That's not wrong."

"But it's also not the whole truth, is it?" Kat sat across from him. "They're framing this as a religious matter. Not a criminal one. Not attempted murder."

"Thalyra said we had to be careful about how we presented it. Church politics." Mal returned to his work, sorting through Lessa's manifest notes. "The formal charges will come later, after they've secured evidence from Hestin's quarters."

"Mal." Kat's voice was sharp enough to make him look up. "The conservative houses are mobilizing. My mother sent word this morning. House Therisan is being pressured to withdraw support for 'imperial overreach into Church autonomy.' Other loyalist houses are receiving similar messages."

"That's politics. Thalyra expected pushback."

"This isn't just pushback. This is coordinated." Kat leaned forward. "Whoever was backing Hestin—whoever gave him resources and protection—they know their network is compromised. They're going to act while they still can."

Mal's hands stilled over his notes. "Act how?"

"I don't know. But something's wrong. The timing feels—" She stopped as Vaerin Talenis appeared in the doorway, moving with unusual urgency.

"There's been a schedule change," Vaerin said without preamble. "The Imperial Envoy's elevation ceremony has been moved up. From next month to three days from now."

Mal and Kat exchanged glances.

"High-ranking imperial appointment. Confirmation of titles." Vaerin's expression was grim. "The ceremony was supposed to be in the capital. Now it's here. At the Hall. With minimal preparation time."

"Who requested the change?" Kat asked.

"Senior clergy. They claim it's to demonstrate that the Hall remains secure despite 'recent troubles.' That the Church's authority is intact." Vaerin's tone made clear what she thought of that explanation. "Thalyra is furious but can't refuse without drawing more attention."

Mal was already flipping through his manifest notes, looking for something. "What's the Envoy's morphotype? Specifically?"

"Dracan. Altadracans—the mountain lineage. Whipcord-built, armored, ceremonially important." Vaerin watched him sort through papers. "Why?"

"Because someone just accelerated their timeline." Mal pulled out the supply manifest, ran his finger down the columns. "After Hestin's arrest, they know we're looking at procurement records. They know we can trace tea tree oil back to Church requisitions. So they're striking fast, before we can identify the next target."

"You think they're going to try to poison the Envoy?" Kat's voice was horrified.

"I think they're going to try to kill the highest-ranking imperial official available, yes." Mal found what he was looking for—a flagged entry in Lessa's notes. "Winterheart. It's listed here in the same shipment from fourteen months ago. Small quantity, specialized use."

Vaerin moved to read over his shoulder. "What is it?"

"I don't know yet. But it's noted as 'restricted—Dracan physiological research only.'" Mal looked up. "Whatever it is, it's specifically dangerous to Dracans. And it came in the same order as the tea tree oil. Same requisition. Same Church signature."

"We need to tell Thalyra," Kat said.

"I'll find her." Vaerin was already moving toward the door. "Mal, keep working. Find out what Winterheart actually is. I want to know what we're looking for before the ceremony."

She disappeared into the corridor.

Mal turned back to his notes, mind racing. Three days. They had three days to identify the toxin, find the contamination, and stop another murder.

Except this time, the target wasn't a tributary. This time, it was someone important enough that killing them would be a political statement.

Kat was watching him with worried eyes. "Can you do it? Figure out what Winterheart is in three days?"

"I have to." Mal pulled out fresh paper, began making notes. "Dracan-specific toxin. Restricted research use. Small quantity but apparently effective enough to be worth importing."

"What affects Dracans specifically?" Kat asked. "They're bigger than us, stronger, better thermal regulation—"

"Better thermal regulation." Mal stopped writing. "That's it. Dracans run hot. They have to—they're massive, they generate enormous amounts of metabolic heat. They rely on surface blood flow to radiate that heat constantly."

"So if something disrupted that flow..."

"They'd cook themselves from the inside." Mal was writing rapidly now. "Winterheart isn't the bark itself. It's a parasitic fungus that grows on it at high altitudes. Ergot. It produces potent vasoconstrictors."

"Vasoconstrictors?"

"It clamps the blood vessels shut," Mal explained, his voice grim. "If you give that to a Dracan mid-shift, when their internal temperature is spiking... it turns off the radiator. Thermal runaway. They'd burn alive inside their own skin."

"But that's... that's horrific."

"It's worse than horrific. It's smart." Mal pulled out his autopsy notes from Petran's case. "It wouldn't look like poison. No frothing, no choking. It would look like the Envoy's body just couldn't handle the power of the transformation. Like a failure of strength. A divine rejection."

Kat paled. "So she dies, and the Church claims it was the will of the gods. Proof that the imperial line is weak."

"Exactly." Mal stood, gathering his materials. "I need to confirm the chemical signature. But if I'm right, they're not just planning a murder. They're planning a piece of political theater."

"Where do you start?"

"The toxicology texts. And if those don't have it—" Mal paused. "I need to talk to someone who studies Dracan physiology specifically. Someone who would know about restricted research compounds."

"Thalyra," Kat said immediately. "She's Dracan. She'd know."

"If Vaerin can find her." Mal was already moving toward the door. "Come on. We have work to do."

Two days passed in a blur of research.

The toxicology texts were less helpful than Mal hoped. Winterheart was mentioned in passing—a plant extract used in experimental treatments for thermal regulation disorders—but the details were vague. Restricted research. Limited documentation. The kind of thing that was deliberately not published for fear of misuse.

Mal tried to reach Thalyra three times. Each time, she was in meetings—emergency sessions with clergy, security briefings, preparation for the Envoy's arrival. Vaerin was similarly unavailable, pulled into protection details and advance logistics.

By the evening before the ceremony, Mal was working on theory and educated guesses.

Winterheart affected thermal regulation. It was plant-based. It required specialized knowledge to use. And it had been acquired fourteen months ago in the same shipment as tea tree oil—by someone who was systematically planning to murder loyalist leaders across multiple species.

The ceremonial preparations would be blessed tonight. Sanctified by senior clergy. Stored in sealed chambers until the ceremony tomorrow.

If Winterheart was going to be introduced, it would happen tonight.

Mal looked at his notes, at his half-formed theories, at the evidence he'd carefully documented.

Then he looked at the door to Thalyra's office, where the guard posted outside had turned away every visitor for the last six hours.

He couldn't wait for authorization.

If he was right, someone would contaminate the Envoy's ceremonial materials tonight.

And if he was wrong—if he raised an alarm based on incomplete research and educated guesses—he'd destroy his credibility and possibly compromise Thalyra's investigation.

Mal gathered his field kit, his notes, his testing equipment.

He'd check the preparation chambers himself. Document everything. If he found contamination, he'd have proof to bring to Thalyra.

And if he didn't find anything, no one would ever know he'd looked.

It was a terrible plan.

But it was the only plan he had.

Next: Discovery

Discovery

The preparation chambers were locked, but Mal had learned a few things from watching Vaerin work.

The window on the eastern side was sized for ventilation, not security. And a Canan wolf was considerably more flexible than a human scholar.

Mal shifted in the shadows of the courtyard, feeling his body restructure—bones flowing, muscles reforming, his senses sharpening as the transformation completed. Wolf-form. Smaller, quieter, better suited for what he was about to do.

He slipped through the window, landed silently on the stone floor, and shifted back to human. His field kit was secured in a waterproof bag he’d learned to carry through transformations. He pulled it out, along with a small light-crystal.

The preparation chamber smelled of sanctified air and burned spice. The Envoy's ceremonial materials were arranged on a central table—robes of deep blue worked with silver, braziers for incense, censers etched with draconic script, ceremonial instruments polished to mirror brightness.

Beautiful. Expensive. Potentially lethal.

Mal approached carefully, examining each item. The robes were clean—he checked seams, hems, anywhere something could be hidden. The ceremonial instruments were unmarked metal, properly sanctified.

Then he noticed the incense.

Three sealed packets, labeled for lineage and purpose: Felan Tranquility, Lupan Vigilance, and Dracan Purification: Moonflame Lineage.

He froze.

He opened the Dracan Purification packet, untying the twine and loosening the seal. The smell hit him at once—not the sweet smoke of sanctification, but something musty, dry, and tight. It smelled like old grain and deep rot.

He tore a small strip from the packet and scraped a sample of the resin into a tray from his kit. He added a drop of reagent—simple iron salts.

The reaction was immediate. The residue didn't dissolve; it curled in on itself, turning a deep, bruised blue.

Ergotamine. A high-concentration fungal alkaloid.

Winterheart.

It wasn't a poison that stopped the heart. It was a vascular clamp. A chemical tourniquet.

Mal's pulse spiked. If the Envoy inhaled this during her shift, her capillaries would snap shut. The massive heat of her transformation would have nowhere to go. She wouldn't suffocate; she would burn. Trapped inside her own skin, cooking in her own waste heat while the crowd watched her fail.

Proof. Evidence that someone had contaminated the Envoy's ceremonial incense—poisoned air that would trigger systemic thermal runaway.

He needed to tell Thalyra. Needed to stop the ceremony. Needed to—

Footsteps in the corridor outside.

Mal froze, light-crystal still glowing in his hand.

The door opened.

A junior cleric entered—Vulpan, young, carrying more incense and folded robes. He stopped when he saw Mal, eyes widening.

“Scholar Aerath? You shouldn’t be in here. These chambers are restricted—”

“The incense is contaminated,” Mal said quickly. “Cherry bark resin—dragonsbane. Toxic to Dracans. You need to alert—”

“You broke into a sealed chamber.” The cleric’s voice rose. “You’re tampering with sacred materials. I have to report this—”

“Listen to me,” Mal said desperately. “Someone is trying to murder the Envoy. The incense, not the oils—it’s—”

But the cleric was already backing toward the door, toward the alarm bell mounted outside.

Mal had seconds to decide.

Let him ring it—and be arrested for sacrilege—or stop him. Now.

Mal shifted—faster than thought, wolf-form in a heartbeat—and lunged toward the door.

Not to attack. Just to block.

The cleric stumbled back, panicked, and struck the bell with his elbow. The alarm rang—shrill, piercing, echoing through the corridors.

Mal bolted.

Through the door, down the corridor, running on four legs because wolf-form was faster and he needed every advantage. Behind him, shouts. Footsteps. Guards mobilizing.

He had to reach Thalyra. Had to make her understand before they arrested him. Had to—

More guards ahead. A full security detail, responding to the alarm.

Mal skidded to a stop, panting, cornered.

One of the guards raised a crossbow.

“Don’t shift,” the guard commanded. “Stay in form. Show your—” He stopped, realizing the absurdity of demanding that from a wolf.

Mal tried to shift back to human, to explain, but another guard stepped forward with a collar—spelled metal, meant to suppress transformation.

If they locked him now, he couldn’t speak. Couldn’t explain.

He bolted sideways, faster than expected, sprinting through corridors he’d memorized during months of research. More shouts behind him. The clatter of pursuit.

The Great Hall was ahead. Preparation for tomorrow’s ceremony already underway—banners hanging, ritual marks traced, incense braziers positioned around the dais.

Incense braziers.

Mal’s stomach twisted. The ceremony relied on controlled smoke to calm shifting bodies. The Envoy would be standing in the middle of a cloud of poison.

He burst into the Great Hall, guards right behind him, and saw Thalyra across the room—deep in conversation with clergy, composed and still.

He barked once—loud, sharp, desperate.

She turned. Her eyes widened, calculating, understanding. And Mal froze. Because she was standing on the dais. In the center. Wearing the robes he'd just seen in the preparation chamber. She was the Envoy.

Then the guards caught up.

They tackled him cleanly. The transformation collar snapped around his neck, sealing the shift. He tried to revert to human, but the spell held him—silent, trapped in fur and panic.

“Scholar Aerath,” Thalyra’s voice cut through the noise. “What exactly were you doing in the ceremonial preparation chambers?”

Mal tried to speak, to explain—incense poisoned dragonsbane ceremony danger—but all that came out was frantic whining.

Thalyra crouched beside him, golden eyes meeting his. A flicker of understanding passed between them.

“Release the collar,” she said.

Vaerin nodded once and vanished through the doorway.

Thalyra turned back to Mal. “You broke into a restricted chamber. You triggered an alarm. You ran from guards.”

“I know,” Mal said. “But the ceremony’s tomorrow. If I’d waited—”

“You could have been killed,” she said quietly. “And I would have had to explain why.”

He met her eyes. “Then I made the right choice.”

She exhaled, almost a laugh, almost a sigh. “You terrified me.”

“I’ll try not to need to.”

“See that you don’t.” She stood. “The ceremony is postponed. New materials will be prepared under supervision. And Scholar Aerath—confined to quarters until I repair the political damage your heroism just caused.”

He managed a faint smile. “Understood.”

“Vaerin will escort you. Try not to make her chase you this time.”

As he left, Mal glanced back once. Thalyra was already issuing orders, calm and commanding. For just a moment, she looked his way and smiled.

He’d saved her life. He just didn’t yet know whose.

Next: Revelation

Revelation

Mal woke in Thalyra Renaris's quarters for the second time in a week.

This time, he remembered nothing of getting there—He must have passed out from the concentrated winterheart incense.

Someone had covered him with a blanket. His boots were placed beside the couch. His field kit sat on the side table, cleaned and organized.

Morning light streamed through the high windows.

Voices in the other room—Thalyra and Vaerin Talenis again, speaking in low tones.

"—can't keep it quiet much longer. Too many people saw him in the Great Hall. The guards who tackled him, the clergy present, half the damn nobility—"

"I know." Thalyra's voice was tired. "But we had to move forward with the ceremony. Canceling would have caused more suspicion than proceeding with clean materials."

"And you?"

"Not my finest moment."

A pause.

"He's remarkable," Vaerin said quietly. "Reckless, but remarkable. He saved your life."

"I know." Something in Thalyra's voice made Mal's chest tighten. "Which is why we need to tell him the truth. Before someone else does."

"Are you cleared for full disclosure?"

"No. But I'm doing it anyway." A sound of movement. "He's earned it. And he's going to figure it out eventually—better he hears it from me than pieces it together from rumors and speculation."

Mal sat up, trying not to make noise. His muscles ached. His head felt fuzzy. And he very much wanted to hear what truth they were discussing.

"He's awake," Vaerin said without turning around. "I can hear his heartbeat changing."

Of course she could.

Mal stood, straightened his clothing as best he could, and knocked on the doorframe. "Permission to stop eavesdropping and just join the conversation?"

Thalyra turned from the window. She looked tired—more tired than he'd ever seen her. Her hair was loose instead of properly arranged, and she wore simple robes rather than her administrator's formal attire.

"Come in," she said. "Sit. We need to talk."

Mal obeyed, settling into a chair that was carefully reinforced for Dracan weight. Vaerin remained standing by the door, positioned like a guard but watching with something closer to concern.

"The ceremony was postponed," Thalyra said. "I think you can understand why. Cleric Venis has been arrested—we found correspondence in her quarters linking her to Hestin and to several conservative houses that oppose imperial reform."

"So the conspiracy is exposed."

"Partially. The immediate threat is contained. But the political fallout..." Thalyra sat across from him, and for the first time since he'd met her, she looked uncertain. "Mal. You interrupted a high-status ceremony. In wolf form. Running from guards. It's already become a story—the scholar who went mad, who attacked sacred spaces, who had to be physically restrained."

"I was trying to prevent a murder."

"I know. And everyone who matters knows that too. But the story that's spreading—" She stopped. "You've made yourself visible in a way that can't be undone. You're no longer the invisible second son. You're the scholar who saved me. Who exposed Church corruption. Who charged into a restricted ceremony and somehow turned out to be right."

"Is that a problem?"

"It's a complication." Thalyra's hands were clasped in her lap, knuckles white. "Because I'm not who you thought I was."

Mal stared at her.

"You're not just an administrator," he said slowly.

"No." She looked at Vaerin, who nodded once. "I'm Nobilis Thalyra Renaris. Third daughter to the Imperatrix. The histories call me the Moonflame Daughter, though I prefer to avoid the title. My formal posting is as Praefecta of the Western Hall—that's real. But I was also sent here to investigate systematic corruption within the Church Anatomica. To identify patterns of targeting loyalist families. To build a case for reform that couldn't be dismissed as political persecution."

"You're nobility. High nobility."

"Imperial family, technically." She paused. "Which is why I've been careful to minimize my visibility. Why I've operated as an administrator rather as an active member of court. I needed to investigate without political interference. And..." She hesitated. "I was the real target during the ceremony today. Hestin and Venis knew who I was. They wanted to eliminate the Imperatrix's daughter who was too close to exposing them."

"The ceremony," she added quietly, "the one the clergy insisted I lead personally—it was a trap. I was required to lead the purification. Winterheart in the incense would have killed me. One strike to remove the Moonflame Daughter and spark panic about imperial vulnerability."

"And it would have looked like weakness," Mal realized. "That's why they used Ergot. It wasn't just about killing you. It was about how you died."

Thalyra looked at him sharply. "Explain."

"If you'd inhaled that smoke, your vessels would have snapped shut. You would have suffered total thermal runaway. You would have cooked inside your own armor within seconds." Mal's voice was quiet. "To the congregation, it wouldn't have looked like poison. It would have looked like you couldn't contain your own power. Like a biological failure. A rejection by the gods."

Mal was processing this. Thalyra wasn't just competent and mysterious. She was a Domina. Third daughter to the Imperatrix herself. Someone with enough authority to command guards, override clergy, and conduct investigations that threatened powerful institutions.

And he'd saved her life.

"The toxin," he said slowly. "Winterheart. It was meant for you."

"Yes." Thalyra's expression was grim. "Hestin and Venis were working with conservative houses who oppose imperial reform. Who think regional authority should supersede central governance, that the Church should operate independently from imperial oversight. Killing an imperial princess during a high-status ceremony—it would have been both murder and political statement. A demonstration that even the Imperatrix's bloodline isn't safe from their reach."

"And you couldn't intervene directly without revealing who you were."

"I was going to attend the ceremony in human form," Thalyra admitted. "Stay conscious while everyone else was sedated by incense. If something went wrong, I'd have evidence. But I couldn't stop the poisoning beforehand without drawing attention." She met his eyes. "And then you crashed in. Covered in guard-scent and desperation. Making a scene that couldn't possibly be ignored."

"I'm sorry—"

"Don't apologize." Her voice was fierce now. "You saved my life. You exposed the contamination before it could be used. You did everything I was positioned to do but couldn't manage on my own." She paused. "You did exactly what needed to be done, and I'm grateful. Even if you terrified me in the process."

Mal was quiet for a moment. "What happens now?"

"Now?" Thalyra smiled slightly. "Now you become extremely visible. The Imperatrix will want to be briefed, though meeting will likely happen through intermediaries for operational security. But my family's gratitude—and mine—that's significant. Your heroically stupid intervention saved an imperial princess's life. That's not something any of us will forget."

"I don't want to be visible."

"Too late." Vaerin's voice was dry. "You're the scholar who exposed Church corruption, prevented two murders, and charged into a high-status ceremony like a hero from a badly written romance. You're going to be famous whether you want to be or not."

"Vaerin's right," Thalyra said. "But Mal—this visibility comes with protection too. My family's gratitude. Imperial authority behind you. The people who wanted you silenced can't touch you now without making themselves targets of the Imperatrix's justice."

"Unless they just kill me quietly."

"Which is why you're not going back to being an independent scholar." Thalyra leaned forward. "I'm offering you a position. Formally. Working directly under my authority as an imperial investigator. Investigating transformation-related incidents, building cases, doing exactly what you've been doing—but with official backing, resources, and protection."

"And if I say no?"

"Then I'll respect your decision. But Mal—" Her expression softened. "You're brilliant. You care about saving people. You're willing to take risks when it matters. That's rare. And it's exactly what we need. Not just for investigating murders, but for changing how transformation is understood and governed. For preventing this from happening again."

Mal looked at his hands. They were still shaking slightly—residual stress from last night's chaos.

"I want to help," he said quietly. "I want to stop people like Hestin and Venis. I want to make sure no more tributaries die because someone decided their lives were politically expendable." He looked up. "But I need to know what I'm getting into. Full disclosure. No more secrets about who you are or what authority you're operating under."

"Agreed." Thalyra held out her hand. "Full disclosure. Complete honesty. No more strategic omissions."

"Mostly complete honesty," Vaerin corrected. "There are still operational details that are classified above your current level."

"Vaerin—"

"I'm being realistic. He doesn't need to know everything immediately. But he deserves to know who he's working for and what risks he's accepting." Vaerin looked at Mal. "You'll be briefed. Properly. Given security clearance. Trained in operational protocols. But that takes time. For now—you're under Domina Thalyra's direct authority. You report to her. And she'll keep you alive while you learn how not to get killed doing heroically stupid things."

Mal looked between them. "This is really happening. I'm actually being recruited into imperial intelligence."

"You were recruited when I first met you," Thalyra said. "Everything since then has been evaluation. Seeing if you were as brilliant as Dr. Ashvin claimed. If you could work under pressure. If you'd make the right choices when it mattered." She smiled. "You passed. Spectacularly and terrifyingly, but you passed."

"Dr. Ashvin knew," Mal said slowly. "She knew you were placing me here. She recommended me deliberately."

"She did. She also told me you'd either solve everything or die trying." Thalyra's expression was fond. "I'm grateful you chose solving over dying."

"I'll try to maintain that preference."

"Please do." Thalyra stood, offered him her hand again. "So. Do you accept? Formal position as an imperial investigator, working under my direct authority, investigating transformation-related incidents and institutional corruption?"

Mal took her hand—warm, solid, grounding.

"I accept."

"Good." Thalyra pulled him to his feet. "Then welcome to imperial intelligence, Scholar Aerath. You start immediately. First task: survive the political chaos you created by saving an imperial princess's life."

"That sounds ominous."

"It is." Vaerin was smiling now. "But at least it won't be boring."

Mal looked at them both—Thalyra, all calculation with the smallest easing at the mouth; Vaerin with her tactical assessment—and felt something settle in his chest.

Purpose. Direction. The sense that he was finally doing work that mattered.

"What happens with my security clearance?" he asked.

"Tomorrow. After you've slept, eaten, and stopped looking like you've been trampled by guards." Thalyra's thumb traced over his knuckles briefly. "We need to establish your operational cover and brief you on classified details."

"No pressure."

"Considerable pressure," Vaerin corrected. "But at least the briefing will be more straightforward than the ceremony was."

"Comparatively," Mal muttered.

But he was smiling.

He'd saved lives. Exposed corruption. Changed the trajectory of his entire existence.

And somehow, impossibly, he'd found people who valued him not for being Taren's substitute, but for being himself.

That was worth a little political chaos.

Even if the chaos was absolutely going to kill him.

Next: Series Outline

The_Long_Wait

Three days.

Three days of silence. Three days of watching Sira's door, documenting visitors, checking gifts. Three days of feeling like she was missing something important.

Kat sat in the library alcove, pretending to read a history of the Second Unification while actually watching the corridor. Sira was in a strategy seminar. Mal was... somewhere.

She hadn't seen him since the night he'd been escorted back to his quarters by Vaerin. He attended classes, ate meals in the common hall (always alone, always reading), and returned to his room immediately after. When she'd tried to approach him yesterday, he'd bowed formally, said "Lady Katerina," and walked away.

It was infuriating.

"You're staring at the wall again," a voice said quietly.

Kat looked up. Vaerin stood there, leaning against a bookshelf. She looked tired. The kind of tired that came from not sleeping for days.

"I'm thinking," Kat said. "There's a difference."

"Thinking about the investigation?"

"Thinking about how we're not getting anywhere." Kat closed her book. "I've logged forty-two visitors to Sira's quarters. I've checked seventeen gifts. I've found absolutely nothing suspicious. And Sira says the security sweeps are clean."

Vaerin nodded, sliding into the seat opposite her. "Same on my end. Procurement records are a dead end. Hestin's requisitions are all standard. If he's getting tea tree oil, he's not doing it through official channels."

"So we're stuck."

"We're stalled." Vaerin corrected. "There's a difference."

"Is there?" Kat lowered her voice. "Because it feels like we're waiting for something to happen. And usually, in my experience, the thing that happens is bad."

Vaerin didn't answer immediately. She pulled out her own notebook—a small, black one—and flipped through it. "Thalyra is... frustrated."

"I can imagine. She benched her best analyst."

"She benched a liability," Vaerin said, but there was no heat in it. "Mal compromised the operation. He walked into a trap Hestin set for him. Thalyra had to pull him out before he got himself killed or expelled."

"He was trying to help."

"I know. That's the problem." Vaerin sighed. "He sees things we don't, Kat. The biological connections. The patterns in the data. I can look at a procurement list and see numbers. He looks at it and sees a murder weapon. Without him..."

"Without him, we're just watching people and hoping we spot the poison before Sira eats it."

"Essentially."

They sat in silence for a moment. The library was quiet, dust motes dancing in the afternoon light. It should have been peaceful. Instead, it felt heavy.

"He looks miserable," Kat said softly. "I saw him at breakfast. He looks like he's trying to disappear."

"He is. That was the order."

"It's a stupid order."

"It's a necessary order." Vaerin met her eyes. "Hestin threatened his family, Kat. Explicitly. If Mal steps out of line again, his brother loses his commission. His mother faces an inquiry. Thalyra isn't just protecting the investigation. She's protecting him."

"I know." Kat picked at the cover of her book. "But we need him. You know we do. Sira's rite is in nine days. If we don't find the source of the poison before then..."

"We will."

"Will we?" Kat challenged. "Because right now, we have a lot of data and no conclusions. And the one person who can turn data into conclusions is sitting in his room staring at the wall."

Vaerin looked away. "Thalyra knows. She's... considering options."

"Considering options sounds like code for 'admitting she was wrong'."

"Thalyra is never wrong," Vaerin said automatically. Then, a ghost of a smile. "But she occasionally revises her strategic assessment based on new information."

"And what new information do we have?"

"None," Vaerin admitted. "That's the problem. We have nothing. And silence is dangerous."

She stood up, tucking the notebook away. "I have to get back. Shift change."

"Vaerin."

The Chiropteran paused.

"Tell her," Kat said. "Tell her we're drowning in data. Tell her we need the analyst back."

Vaerin hesitated, then nodded once. "I'll tell her."

She slipped away, silent as always.

Kat watched her go, then looked back at the empty corridor.

Nine days.

They were running out of time.

And somewhere in this massive, stone fortress, a murderer was waiting for them to make a mistake.

Or for them to simply not be smart enough to stop him.

Next: A Working Dinner