CHAPTER 114: STORMS APPROACHING

I should probably start by admitting that when I turned that corner and saw him — yes, him, my sponsor, the ridiculous peacock of a man in his feathered black robe, blonde ponytail draped down like he was auditioning for the role of "Mysterious Stranger No. 3" in some tragic opera — I wasn’t even surprised.

Not a blink, not a gasp, not even the courtesy of fainting dead away on the carpet, which honestly might have been the more reasonable option.

At this point in my life, I had transcended the ability to be shocked. When the world insists on juggling knives and setting itself on fire every other Tuesday, you eventually stop asking why and just start wondering how long until one of the knives lands in your shoulder.

So I just stood there, arms crossed, tea still faintly burning my tongue, staring at him like he was a stubborn ink blot on a page I’d already crumpled twice.

"Really?" I muttered. "Here? In a library? What’s next, you show up at my bathhouse and critique my scrubbing technique?"

He didn’t miss a beat. He looked up from the steaming cup in his hands and smiled like a fox pretending it was absolutely not in the henhouse.

"Ah, you wound me dear boy. A man can’t enjoy a fine oolong in peace without accusations being thrown about? Tsk, tsk. Hospitality is dead indeed."

I wanted to snap at him, truly I did, but gods help me, my attention snagged on the tea. He swirled it as though weighing the fortunes of kingdoms within. My sponsor. The man supposedly pulling strings on my behalf in this blood-soaked carnival, who had the audacity to look entirely at home slurping tea in a library.

"You know," I said finally, stepping into the row, "if I didn’t know better, I’d swear you weren’t here to guide me through a sadistic death tournament at all. I’d swear you were here just to mock my taste in beverages."

"Mock?" he exclaimed, hand to his chest in mock horror. "Saints forbid. I only praise where praise is due, and what they’ve managed to brew here is actually palatable. Floral hints, a touch of spice. Nothing like the swamp-water stew you’d usually concoct when left unattended."

I scowled, because unfortunately, he was right. I had once attempted to make tea out of something that turned out to be more mulch than leaf. Rodrick had spat it out so violently he nearly cracked a tooth on the mug. Still, a man has his pride.

"We can’t all be alchemists of the kettle," I snapped. "Some of us wrestle with half-burnt leaves, cracked pots, and water that refuses to boil evenly. It’s a miracle I end up with anything drinkable at all."

"Yes, some of us suffer unnecessarily because we confuse stubbornness with refinement," he quipped, sipping again. His lips smacked in a way that suggested he wanted me to notice how much he was enjoying this.

I leaned against the shelf, arms folded, staring at him long enough that my reflection warped in the black feathers draped across his robe. He always looked simultaneously ridiculous and terrifying, like a crow that had stolen a noble’s wardrobe and then learned just enough theater to get away with it.

Finally, I sighed. "Fine. Enough with the commentary. You didn’t drop in just to review the tea. What’s the catch this time?"

That fox-smile of his returned, subtle but sharp, a knife hidden beneath a joke. "Straight to business, then. Very well. The preliminaries are nearly at an end. The final battle approaches."

My throat tightened as I nodded slowly.

He continued. "Soon, another special event will be held. This one involves every registered item remaining."

I froze. "Every registered item remaining?"

He nodded. His blonde ponytail caught the lantern light like spun gold. "All of them. Gathered in one location, free for the taking, if one is bold enough to try. A final push if you will, one last grab for power before the preliminaries close their curtains."

My stomach sank, as if I’d stepped too close to a cliff edge and the ground had tilted beneath me. "No way. That...that’ll be a blood bath." I muttered, my voice rough.

"Of course it will," he said brightly, as though that were the point. "That’s the game. That’s the stage. Every piece moved into one square to see who still stands when the dust clears." He glanced my expression then. "Oh don’t look so dour. You’ve a knack for surviving catastrophes. Consider this one more chance to prove yourself."

I rubbed at my temple, mind spinning. Factions colliding, relics scattering like jewels on a gambler’s table, the city itself likely to crack under the weight of it all. And me — me with my cursed pen, my wit barely enough to keep me from falling on my own sword, and a ragtag band that trusted me more than I trusted myself.

He must have seen the strain on my face, because his tone softened. "Worry not. You’re better positioned than most. You have allies. You have me

."

"Comforting," I said dryly.

He chuckled, long and low, the sound curling in the air like smoke. Then, with sudden finality, he rose, setting aside his cup. "Enough talk. I’ve tarried too long. I have a search to conduct."

Something in the way he said it tugged at me — a weight beneath the words, a thread of urgency I’d never heard from him before. But I swallowed my questions. Better not to pull on threads when you don’t know if they lead to rope or noose.

"Good luck, then," I said instead, managing a crooked grin. "And thanks, I suppose. For the tea review. And the apocalypse preview."

He inclined his head, feathers swaying. "Luck favors the audacious. Remember that." Then he turned and drifted away, swallowed by the stacks, his presence receding like a shadow in fog.

I stood there until Nara’s soft voice pulled me back. "He’s... unnerving."

"You have no idea," I muttered, and together we wandered deeper into the library until we found a narrow nook between two bookcases. A makeshift room, really — a window spilling morning light across the floor, dust motes dancing like tiny stars in the glow.

We sat there, the hush of the stacks pressing in, and for the first time in what felt like days I let myself breathe. Nara sat close, too close, her shoulder brushing mine, her eyes darting to my hand and then away again.

The silence stretched, taut with something unsaid. Sexual tension, if I must be vulgar. It hung between us like an unspoken line of poetry, daring one of us to finish it.

Finally, she broke it, her voice barely a whisper. "Your pen... what does it do?"

I didn’t answer with words, not at first. Instead, I let my fingers trace along the blackened metal, let the hum of its presence seep into the air. Then, quietly, deliberately, I told her what it could do. How it marked. How it transformed

.

Her cheeks flushed crimson, her breath catching audibly. She turned her face away for a moment before blurting, "Mark me."

I nearly dropped the pen right then and there. "What?"

"Mark me," she repeated, firmer this time. "I don’t care if it’s permanent. I don’t care what it changes. I want it."

My chest tightened. "Nara, you don’t understand. It’s not reversible. Once the pen touches your skin, that’s it. You’ll never go back."

Her eyes burned with something fierce, something vulnerable. "I don’t want to go back."

I stared at her, stunned. But something in her tone told me this wasn’t whim or jest. She had her reasons, reasons buried deeper than I dared to pry. So, with one trembling hand, I lifted the pen and then slowly, carefully, I drew the mark.

The air shimmered, bent. She gasped as light etched itself along her skin, her form shifting, reshaping, softening into something more fluid, more androgynous, beauty sharpened and redefined. When the glow faded, she — no, he — stood there, breathless, cheeks still flushed, every line of his body trembling with newness.

"Saints," I whispered, awed despite myself.

He giggled nervously, and gods, the sound was sweeter than I’d ever heard it, like a note plucked from some hidden instrument he didn’t even know he carried.

It was fragile and unguarded, the kind of laugh that slipped past defenses and landed right in the marrow, leaving me breathless at the sheer unfairness of it.

The moment stretched, molten and unbearable, every heartbeat stoking the heat until it felt as though even the lanterns on the shelves leaned closer to watch.

The air grew thick with intent, with the weight of possibilities balanced on a knife’s edge, and I swore the universe itself was holding its breath, waiting to see if I’d dare ruin everything by moving forward.

I leaned in, slow as a thief approaching holy relics, my lips nearly brushing his, the barest whisper of distance between us, a space so thin it could have been split by a sigh—before—

A crash and a scream sounded somewhere in the distance.

We jerked apart, eyes wide.

Without hesitation, we bolted. Down the spiraling stairs, across the balconies, bursting onto the ground floor where chaos reigned. Weapons clattered into hands, orders barked, fear roared.

I snatched a wooden spear from a nearby rack, its weight familiar and grounding. Nara — flushed but fierce — grabbed a dagger, knuckles white around the hilt.

The sanctuary was under siege.

And whatever came next, there would be no breaks for tea.