The girl's hand loosened from Aiden's wrist.
Her eyes softened again.
Her shoulders began to shake for real this time.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, voice cracking this time in a way no training could fake. "They said… they said it wouldn't hurt you. They said it was just to see if you were real."
Aiden managed a soft smile.
Because she wasn't the violent part of this equation.
She was just a child who'd been told to pretend grief for the sake of men who had forgotten what it meant.
"It's okay," he murmured.
It wasn't.
But she was just a little girl.
Liora stayed beside him, a grounding presence. Seris placed herself subtly between Aiden and the men in coats, fingers resting near weapon but not escalating—yet.
The man in the fine coat finished writing.
He didn't even look at the girl.
"Emotional response confirmed," he said pleasantly. "Empathy-based compulsion confirmed. Predictable intervention drive established. Excellent."
He snapped his notebook shut.
"That concludes our test. Thank you for your cooperation."
Seris took a single step forward.
"You walk out of this room believing this ended well," she said coldly, "and I promise you, you are gravely mistaken."
The man smiled.
"Inspector. Be reasonable. No crime was committed here."
"False emergency call. Emotional manipulation of a minor. Interference in civil—"
"Paperwork," he interrupted lightly. "You understand bureaucracy. Someone will sign something. Someone will lose something minor. Someone else will gain something else. That is how cities work."
Aiden didn't speak.
He just breathed.
Very quietly.
Very carefully.
Because this had been the point.
They hadn't wanted to hurt him.
They had wanted to measure him.
And they had.
The second man tucked away his pen.
"Useful to know you move swiftly for children," he said. "We will remember that."
Seris went very still.
Liora's jaw flexed.
That…
was not a vague implication.
That was a note.
Aiden finally whispered:
"…don't."
He didn't shout.
Didn't flare power.
Didn't invoke cosmic weight.
Just a tired plea.
The man inclined his head politely.
"No promises."
He turned.
Walked.
Unhurried.
Like he truly believed he was safe.
Like he truly believed there would be no consequence.
He made it three steps.
Then the room shifted.
Not violently.
Not magically.
Not loudly.
Just—
the temperature changed.
Something old looked up.
Ardent was still smiling.
But now he was smiling in a way that remembered storms.
He hadn't moved closer.
He hadn't raised his voice.
If anything, he sounded delighted.
"My, my," he mused lightly, "look at you. So proud of yourselves. So convinced you've discovered something clever. It is… adorable."
The men froze.
Not physically.
Socially.
The way prey freezes when it realizes it has, in fact, walked into the wrong forest.
The lead one attempted a diplomatic tone.
"You must be the Fae. The instructor. We're aware of—"
"Of course you are," Ardent said pleasantly. "You wouldn't have dared play this game without assuming you knew what you were doing."
He tilted his head.
Gold flecks drifted lazily in his gaze.
Not magic.
Something worse.
Attention.
"You see," he continued thoughtfully, "you were told I am a trickster. That I bend words. That I test. That I… dance. And yes, all of that is true."
He smiled wider.
"Which is why I so rarely promise anything."
Silence coiled.
"But," he went on softly, "I do believe I shall make one now."
The air tasted like rain that might not fall.
"You have touched my student," he said warmly. "You have poked him. Measured him. Decided which parts of him are convenient and which are exploitable. How responsible of you. How strategic. How… human."
He clasped his hands behind his back like a professor giving a lecture.
"So here is your gift."
He leaned forward just slightly.
Every light in the room dimmed as if the world backed away instinctively.
"If you ever—
ever—
use a child against him again…"
The smile never left.
But it stopped being kind.
"…you will learn to wish you had instead chosen to cross demons."
The man tried to scoff.
Tried.
It came out brittle.
"Threats are childish."
"Oh no," Ardent chuckled gently. "Threats are what lesser men make when they lack imagination. This is simply… hospitality."
He winked.
"We Fae take extraordinary care of guests who forget their manners. We never… ever… let them leave unchanged."
The lead man swallowed.
For the first time, something cold flickered in his confidence.
Something animal inside him believed every word.
Ardent straightened, cheerful again.
"Go, then," he said brightly. "Run along. Write your reports. Pretend you understand the game you've just sat at. And remember—"
His voice softened to velvet.
"—you are not the only ones who know how to play with people."
They left faster this time.
Polite.
Stiff.
Not panicking.
But no longer certain.
The child burst into tears and clung to her mother. The mother held her, sobbing for shame now instead of acting for money.
Seris exhaled tension without relaxing fully.
Liora finally spoke.
"…I thought Fae weren't supposed to lie."
Ardent gave her a gentle, dangerous look.
"My dear," he said lightly, "I didn't lie."
Aiden sat there.
Quiet.
Cup trembling faintly in his hands.
Not feeling like a hero.
Not wanting to be.
Just…
a little more scared of the world
and a little more aware
that it had now decided to play with him deliberately.
Outside,
the city breathed.
Inside,
a promise hung in the air.
Soft.
Smiling.
And meant.
The test was over.
The warning?
Had just begun.