Jett stared at the wax seal of the Council's missive, the one currently threatening to broadcast his location to every high-level bureaucrat in Cinderglow if he so much as breathed on it.
It was an elegant little trap, the kind that reminded him that while he was playing a high-stakes game of political Tetris, the other players were perfectly happy to throw the game console at his head.
[Warning: High-Level Detection]
[Analytical Mind suggests: Using a thin blade of Aether-conductive metal to bypass the resonance.]
"Aether-conductive metal," Jett whispered, looking around the opulent study.
He opted for the letter opener anyway, channeling his utter lack of Prana into a focused, physical precision. He wasn't trying to overpower the magic; he was trying to bore it to death. With the steady hands of a man who had once navigated forty-column spreadsheets without a coffee break, he slid the blade under the wax. The PR-C hummed a low, anxious note in his chest.
The seal popped. No alarms blared. No guards burst through the door to turn him into a mincemeat.
"One point forJett, zero for the magical surveillance state," Jett muttered, unfolding the parchment.
His eyes scanned the text. It was a request for a "security audit" of the Vane Estate's recent acquisitions, signed by a Council liaison who was definitely on Revas's holiday card list. It was the smoking gun, or at least the smoking grape. Revas wasn't just trying to kill Jett; he was trying to create a paper trail that made the Vane family look incompetent enough for the Council to step in.
Jett reached for a fresh sheet of parchment. It was time for an anonymous tip, the classic coward's weapon of choice. He wrote in a cramped, shaky hand, the kind that suggested a servant with a guilty conscience and very poor penmanship.
"Now," Jett said, looking at the letter. "How to deliver this without getting caught in the inevitable explosion? Oh, wait. I'm the guy who delivers the mail. I am the explosion."
He tucked the tip into a pile of "low priority" trade reports and returned the Council's letter to the desk, resealing it with a bit of heat and a prayer to whatever god handled fraudulent correspondence.
The next morning, the Vane Duke Estate was less of a noble house and more of a beehive that had been kicked by a very angry horse.
Jett stood at the back of the Great Hall, blending into the shadows with the practiced ease of a man who had spent years avoiding his boss's eye during overtime requests.
The entire family was present, looking variously hungover, annoyed, or murderous.
At the center stood the Matriach, looking like a goddess of vengeance who had just found a scratch on her favorite chariot. Beside her, Steward Grevin was holding the "anonymous" note like it was a piece of radioactive waste.
"Revas!," Lyra's voice didn't just carry; it vibrated in the floorboards. "Step forward."
Revas, whose hair oil seemed to be failing him under the pressure of a cold sweat, stumbled into the light. "Matriarch? I don't understand. If this is about the wine incident, I've already explained"
"You've explained nothing but your own stupidity," Lyra interrupted. She tossed the trade reports Jett had 'organized' onto the floor. "These records show your personal accounts were used to buy the Widow's Breath through a dummy merchant in the Eastern Province.
Revas's eyes darted around the room, eventually landing on Jett at the back of the hall. Jett simply offered him a tiny, helpful wave.
"It's a lie!" Revas shrieked, his voice hitting a register that only dogs and particularly sensitive glassware could hear. "That parasite framed me! He's a merchant's son! He doesn't even have a core!"
"Revas you disappoint me" Lyra said, her eyes narrowing into lethal slits, "as the only remaining descendant of my beloved sister, i have turned a blind eye to alot of your mischiefs, but it seems i have been too lax with you."
Drag him out, and keep him on detention, he's to depart for the mines tomorrow as the new administrator there.
The "face-slapping" was loud, metaphorical, and deeply satisfying. As the guards dragged a wailing Revas out, the younger cousins looked at Jett with a new, terrified kind of respect.
Meanwhile Jett was deeply focused on the screen interface in front of him.
[Objective: Identify Culprit - COMPLETE]
[Reward: 2.0 Essence. Current Total: 5.2 Essence]
He caught Sera's eye. She was standing by her mother's side, her expression more conflicted than he had ever seen it. There was a micro-expression of relief there, but it was quickly buried under the crushing weight of her own aura.
She looked pale. Not "noble ice queen" pale, but "I'm about to fall over" pale.
"Matriarch," Sera said, her voice sounding a bit too thin. "The morning demonstration... it is scheduled for the tenth bell. Perhaps we should focus on the guests."
Lyra nodded, her anger replaced by a sharp, clinical focus. "Correct. The Canton needs to see the Vane strength, Go, prepare yourself."
Jett followed at a distance as the household moved toward the training plaza.
The Vane Estate was putting its best asset on display to prove the "wine incident" hadn't weakened them.
The plaza was packed with Canton delegates and minor families. Sera stepped into the center, her white robes fluttering in the cold mountain breeze. She looked like a masterpiece, but Jett's PR-C was screaming.
[Warning: Aetheric Pressure exceeding safety limits]
[Target: Sera Vane]
[Instability: 89%]
[Analytical Mind: Her core is over-revving.]
Sera began her demonstration. It was a dance of ice and violence. Every strike sent waves of frost through the air, pulverizing stone targets with a grace that left the delegates murmuring in awe.
She was pushing. Jett could see the way her Prana channels were vibrating, the silver lines of energy under her skin beginning to glow with an unhealthy, jagged intensity.
"Don't do it, Sera," Jett whispered from the edge of the crowd. "Nobody's worth a core implosion. Especially not these vultures."
She gathered her energy for the finale, a massive, swirling vortex of Arctic Aether intended to freeze the entire center of the plaza. The air grew so cold Jett's breath turned to ice crystals mid-air.
Then, the "flicker" happened.
In Jett's vision, the blue lines of her meridians suddenly turned a violent, bruised purple. The PR-C let out a sharp, chime.
[CRITICAL FAILURE INITIATED]
The vortex didn't explode. It just... stopped.
Sera froze mid-motion, her hand extended toward the sky. The frost on her robes suddenly turned into actual ice, creeping up her neck. Her eyes went wide, the pupils dilating until the blue was almost gone.
A single drop of blood, bright red and steaming in the cold, fell from her nose.
The crowd gasped. Lyra stood up from the high dais, her face turning a ghostly white.
"Sera?" Lyra's voice was a whisper of pure terror.
Sera didn't answer. She pitched forward, her body hitting the obsidian floor with a heavy, final thud that echoed through the silent plaza.
Jett was already moving before the guards could even react. His sarcastic inner commentary had finally gone silent, replaced by a cold, strategic calculation.
"Well," Jett thought, his heart hammering against his ribs. "So much for the slow burn.
He reached the edge of the plaza just as the healers began to scream for space, the blue light of his system reflecting in his eyes as it mapped out the disaster.
[Target: Sera Vane]
[Status: Collapsed / Core Fracturing]