Game on

The room still smelled like old tea and muted tension.

Kael didn't bother with niceties—he never did—but he also didn't immediately volunteer anything else. He let the silence stretch just long enough to make it awkward. A specialty.

"So," he said, twirling a teaspoon between his fingers. "You lot walk like diplomats, ask questions like spies, and hide your trails like amateurs. What exactly am I dealing with here? Revolution? Research committee? Elite book club with boundary issues?"

Orin exhaled through his nose. "We prefer the term 'strategic restoration initiative.'"

Kael blinked. "That... is worse."

"It's been a long week," Orin muttered.

"Longer for some," Kael said, gesturing toward the general slum district around them. "Out there, a kid learned to fake a guild stamp just to buy bread. Another one's been passing illusions as license seals for months. And last I checked, a local snake charmer shut down a noble's patrol route by weaponizing sewer fumes and three enchanted ferrets."

He leaned back.

"Point being—your royal operations are impressive and all, but the local snakes down here can strangle dragons before breakfast. You want to move in these alleys? Don't be bigger. Be quieter."

Davor let out a low sound that might've been a growl.

"We know how to be discreet," Orin said quickly.

Kael raised an eyebrow. "Do you? Because from where I'm sitting, you've got the right ideas dressed in the wrong boots."

Orin opened his mouth to retort, then closed it again. "Fine. We're... working on it."

"Good," Kael replied, then gestured to the teapot. "You want to survive in this part of the city, start by not using Academy-grade illusion cloaks during surveillance. They reflect heat like lanterns and your aura trail smells like mint anxiety."

Davor finally slammed his palm on the table.

The teaspoon Kael had been spinning clattered to the floor.

"Enough," Davor said. His voice wasn't raised, but it carried weight. "No more metaphors. No more analogies. We're not here to play the insult game with poetic criminals. We're here to get names, locations, and facts. So either pour the information or pour the tea, but don't waste our time doing both."

Kael blinked once. Then—slowly—grinned.

"There he is," Kael said, nudging the teacup toward Davor. "The royal guard growl. I was starting to worry you'd been replaced with a decorative scarf."

Davor didn't respond.

Kael reached into his coat and produced a small folded packet. "Alright, then. You want facts? I'll give you a starting list. Four names. All off-registry. All talented. All slipped—or were pushed—through the cracks."

He slid the packet across the table. "You find these people, and you'll understand why someone's been trying so hard to keep them invisible."

Orin picked it up with care, as if it might explode.

"Any strings?" he asked.

Kael shrugged. "Just don't get them killed. And if you're smart, you'll stop trying to fix everything like it's a puzzle. Sometimes, it's a wound."

He stood up, pushed the chair back with his boot, and gave them both a lazy salute.

"See you in the next dramatic turn of events."

Then he was gone.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Davor stared at the folder.

"Think he's always like that?"

Orin shook his head. "No. I think that was him being polite."

Davor replied, "He's too amused for a man who traffics in damage."

Kael didn't leave immediately.

From a shadowed corner balcony just above the tea room, he watched Davor and Orin fade into the crowd below. Efficient. Alert. And still utterly unaware that a street performer down the block was already selling a song parodying their stiff posture.

But Kael wasn't watching them anymore.

He was thinking about the little guy behind them.

Not physically little—though shorter, maybe—but quiet. Methodical. Dangerous in the way only well-mannered minds can be. Alex.

The list Kael handed over was a gift. Also a test. And definitely a problem.

He'll look at those names and want to help them. All of them. Even the broken ones. Especially the broken ones.

One of the names? Wrapped up in a scandal that destroyed three girls' reputations. One accusation real. The rest planted. Carefully. Coldly. With no hesitation. All buried now—but Kael knew where the rot still lived.

The others? Survivors of different ruins. Talented, yes. But cracked in places that don't heal with time. Valuable pieces, but sharp enough to cut anyone who tried to fit them in.

Helping them meant more than outreach and opportunity. It meant resources. Training. Protection. Hours and coin and political shielding from a system that enjoyed grinding hope into compost.

And that—Kael thought—was the real test.

Is he going to throw good gold after damaged souls... when he could invest in the polished ones and get the same results?

Kael let out a slow breath.

He'd seen people justify worse, for less.

"Let's see what kind of prince you are, little heir," he murmured, and melted back into the city fog.

Alex stared at the small package now sitting on the center of his bed.

He hadn't heard anyone enter. No wards triggered. No alerts pinged. No shadows shifted. But there it was—mocking him in its silence. Crisp parchment, black twine, and a seal that looked vaguely official if you didn't know better.

Alex did.

He sighed and sat down slowly, cracking the seal with a practiced flick. The packet unfolded like it had been waiting its whole life to ruin his night.

First came the basics—names, locations, whispers. The same list Kael had handed off, now bundled with fresh annotations. But then the layers began to stack. Official data next to black market gossip. Academic scores crossed with discipline records and, disturbingly, side-by-side comparisons of mana imprints and emotional degradation curves.

Some entries came with warning tags—students with histories of violence, or breakdowns, or sudden absences tied to mysteriously closed investigations.

Alex's eyes narrowed.

Near the end of the packet, it got worse: summaries of the tasks his team had taken on—each objective neatly listed, each challenge accompanied by potential fallout. Not guesses. Not rumors. Detailed assessments. His team was being tracked.

And finally, a section marked only: Internal Liabilities.

It wasn't long. Just a few bullet points. But each one was a dagger.

1. "One team member showing signs of frayed stability."

2. "Security breach near supply cache delta—unexplained."

3. "Mermaid protests growing bolder. Civil inquiry likely."

4. "Increased probability of internal split within 90 days."

Alex folded the parchment back together and stared at the ceiling for a long moment.

The list was useful. The method was intolerable.

But the message was clear:

Someone was watching. And they weren't just looking for enemies. They were taking inventory of the cracks.

Alex leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

"Alright," he muttered. "Game on."