Phèdre didn’t allow Yuki to escape.

  The moment the quest window folded away, she snapped her fingers, lightly and elegantly, and a server appeared as if gravity itself had been seduced into delivering a fresh cup.

  “Non, non, sit,” Phèdre murmured, guiding Yuki back down with one perfectly manicured finger. It wasn’t forceful, but somehow it overrode free will. “You’re buzzing like a lantern about to topple over. Calm.”

  “But—we—we have to—”

  “Bois.” She pressed the cup into Yuki’s hands with a gentle dominance that brooked no argument. “Charlie swears by this blend. They call it Queen’s Tea now. Très dramatique, but so is she.”

  Yuki froze mid-breath. “Charlie… drinks this?”

  “Mm.” Phèdre lounged back, chin lifting, one eyebrow curving with delight. “So if you want to be strong, wise, and terrifyingly stubborn—comme elle—you must drink it too.”

  “That’s… totally how tea works,” Yuki whispered, already sipping.

  The aroma hit, slightly bitter and citrusy, herbs warmed by sun, and something bright. Yuki’s eyes widened. “Oh! That’s—that’s fantastic.”

  “Mais oui.” Phèdre smirked, pleased at being vindicated by a beverage.

  Yuki looked around the room, holding the cup like a precious artifact. “Um! H-hello—sorry—does anyone know why this place is called ‘Second Best Tea Room’?”

  A few patrons glanced over. One shrugged. Another leaned in. “Because the Yellow Grandmaster owned the best one. Before they vanished.”

  “Oh!” Yuki gasped. “That’s… fascinating! I mean, not the vanishing, well, that too, because of the evil thingies, but the naming convention—”

  Phèdre let out a laugh that was all velvet and sin. “You see? Even the teahouses have lore. And then you wonder why Charlie has migraines.”

  Yuki clutched her cup, practically sparkling. “So who owns the first one now?”

  “The crown,” someone said from a corner.

  “Our wonderfully sarcastic Queen,” Phèdre added, raising her cup in a mock-salute that was somehow elegant and irreverent at the same time.

  Yuki squeaked and almost dropped her tea.

  Phèdre, unfazed, shifted her attention to a nearby group of patrons. She lowered her voice, softened her posture, and the surrounding air changed, enticing, impossible to ignore. Two compliments, a purr, and the entire table went pink from collar to hairline.

  Within a minute, they’d scrambled up, bowing, stammering promises to return, leaving their coins scattered like tribute.

  Phèdre waved after them lazily. “Voilà. Now the tea will taste better. They’ll tell everyone it does.”

  Yuki blinked. “Do you—do you just… improve businesses by flirting at them?”

  Phèdre smiled, wicked and pleased. “I improve everything, ma chérie.”

  Yuki wasn’t sure whether to be charmed or frightened.

  Probably both.

  Evening had swallowed Altandai in lanternlight and warm noise.

  People spilled out of homes; merchants yanked open shutters they’d sworn they closed for the fight; musicians tuned strings with the kind of confidence only tipsy crowds rewarded. Freed slaves stood in clusters, laughing the way people laughed when they didn’t yet believe they were allowed to.

  Runners darted between them, shouting over one another:

  “Special coins from the crown!”

  “Free rations for the week!”

  “Pay for labor, and even for repairs!”

  Hope was heavy tonight. A warm one. Yuki soaked it in like sunlight on bare skin. Festive. Hopeful in the good way.

  Her light-mage instincts throbbed with it; every lantern fed her magic after the dip behind the horizon. Her historian’s heart throbbed even louder… cities didn’t shift mood this fast unless something foundational had been kicked over and rebuilt in real time.

  Charlie-core energy, probably.

  Beside her, Phèdre drifted through the street like a decadent shadow, scarf fluttering, jewelry chiming softly whenever she chose to move her hips. She eyed Yuki with languid amusement.

  “You are practically glowing,” she murmured. “It’s like walking beside an overexcited star.”

  “I like when people are happy,” Yuki said. “It makes everything feel more… history-like.”

  “Mhm.” Phèdre nodded sagely. “And also easier to rob, should the need arise.”

  Yuki pretended very hard not to hear that. They crossed into the district Tramar had said he’s in: Black Square.

  Except—

  “Um—that’s not black,” Yuki whispered, slowing to a stop.

  The bricks spread pale gray under their feet, muted and wrong compared to Altandai’s rose-hued stone. The air felt different here too… hushed, as if someone had turned the sound down one notch. “Whoa…” Yuki crouched to run a hand over the stone. “Why—why are the stones different? The Nilaine Quarries only produce rose. And this texture is—this isn’t even the same signature—”

  She spotted an elderly man perched on the steps beside a shuttered shop, cane across his lap, eyes drifting across the street like he’d seen too much of it for decades.

  Which meant: he absolutely knew things.

  Yuki grabbed Phèdre’s sleeve and dragged her forward without hesitation, because restraint was for cowards. “Excuse me! Hello! Sorry—sorry to bother you!”

  When she asked him about it, the man blinked at her, then let out a laugh like thick rope sliding over old wood. “Oh, lass. That’s an old tale.”

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  Behind her, Phèdre inhaled sharply through her nose, the universal sound of I see we are doing lore again.

  “Bien s?r,” she muttered to no one. She touched Yuki’s shoulder, resigned and affectionate all at once. “I will get us drinks. If the story is old, you will ask fifteen questions, and I refuse to be parched through any of them.”

  Before Yuki could defend her entirely reasonable scholarly enthusiasm, Phèdre was already gliding away down the street… vanishing like a rumor, deciding it had better places to be.

  Yuki plopped down beside the man, eyes huge, notebook already half-out of her satchel before she remembered Phèdre’s threat.

  The old man patted the step. “Sit, sit. You like stories, eh?”

  “Yes.” Yuki nodded vigorously. “Yes-very-much-so.”

  He chuckled again. “Well. Back when this square was first planned, the caravan bringing the quarry stones was attacked by ghosts.”

  Yuki inhaled so strongly she hiccuped.

  “Wailing things,” the man went on, “and cold as winter. They say everyone transporting the stone died on the road, and when the soldiers found the carts the next morning, all the stones had turned this color. Gray. Lifeless. Like the spirits bled the warmth out.”

  Yuki’s eyes shimmered.

  “That’s amazing,” she whispered reverently.

  The man nodded. “Later, builders learned you can mimic it. Cover Nilaine stone in ectoplasm—don’t ask me how they get it—and chill it fast. If you fail, it stays slimy pink. Do it right? You get this.” He tapped a brick with his cane. “People around this square loved the look, so they kept the style.”

  Yuki’s brain lit up with twenty-seven follow-up questions.

  But before she could ask even one, footsteps returned. “Bois,” she said lightly, but with the kind of tone that made it very clear it was not optional. “And come. We still have a firecracker of a mage to collect.”

  Yuki scrambled to her feet, bowed gratefully to the old man, and rushed after her, nearly spilling the drink in her hurry.

  She took a sip.

  Oh.

  The flavor hit like a warm spell: cinnamon embers, berry smoke, a lingering heat that curled at the back of her tongue. “Phèdre,” Yuki squeaked, eyes going wide, “this is… this is really good.”

  Phèdre didn’t even look at her at first; she just smiled over the rim of her own cup, lips curved in that lazy, feline way of hers.

  “évidemment.” She flicked a glance at Yuki, amused and indulgent. “Mon c?ur… everything tastes good when you’re about to step into a legendary quest. Even danger. Especially danger.” She tapped Yuki’s cup with her own, a soft clink.

  “Now drink. Heroes do not arrive under-caffeinated.”

  The far end of Black Square was loud enough to shake dust from rooftops. The mood was pure, unfiltered festival energy.

  Someone banged a drum without even pretending they understood rhythm. Another spun in a circle with a lamp, chanting something that might’ve been a spell or a recipe. Two newly freed workers sang a half-remembered war chant while kids butchered the chorus into something about cheese.

  Yuki and Phèdre stepped into a chaos of players, glowing gauntlets, enchanted staffs clacking against each other like drunk wands at a reunion tour. Lantern-light flashed off runes, armor, and someone’s inexplicable sequin cloak.

  And in the center, fire mages competed in volume alone, launching sparks upward that burst into orange confetti.

  “I can hit a wyvern from four streets away!” one bragged.

  “Four? Please, I once tagged a moving cart blindfolded—”

  “A cart isn’t dangerous!”

  “You’ve never met the Lola’s Regulation Cart!”

  “FAIR!”

  Yuki hugged her cinnamon-ember drink close, letting the warmth seep into her fingers, soaking in the messy happiness of it all.

  Then, a familiar bellow cleaved the noise. “ENOUGH TALK! TOURNAMENT!”

  Tramar.

  He stood on a crate like a prophet with excellent posture, wide-brimmed hat glowing. His blue robe fluttered despite no wind. He stabbed a finger toward a low wall. “WE PLACE TARGETS HERE! Ten firebolts! Ten targets! The highest score WINS!”

  A mage with the tag [Carlos Magicus] yelled, “What are the prizes?!”

  Tramar puffed up like a proud peacock, casting a spell. “Winner gets to choose the next dungeon!”

  Carlos inhaled as if he’d just been told he could name a star. “Actually… good!”

  The crowd roared.

  Yuki started to grin until something broke her brain.

  Phèdre.

  Walking in.

  Holding an armful of teapots.

  Yuki stared. “Wh—when—how—you didn’t even leave!?”

  Phèdre winked, a slow, decadent little thing, and deposited the teapots on a barrel with the reverence of someone offering dangerous relics. “Cibles,” she purred to the nearest cluster of mages. “For your little competition. Courtesy of moi.”

  Then, with the absolute serenity of someone throwing a smoke bomb into a stable, she added: “And if you perform exceptionally… I may offer une nuit with me.”

  Three mages instantly misfired and singed the gray bricks. Tramar clapped like a delighted demon. “Up to the winner!” He snapped his fingers, and the teapots were placed into perfect formation along the wall.

  The crowd surged closer.

  Firebolts flew.

  And Yuki, holding her warm drink and staring at the chaos Phèdre had just unleashed with one sentence, whispered: “…This is why Charlie has ulcers.”

  Phèdre only smiled, pleased with herself.

  “Mais oui.”

  “Where did you even get those teapots?” Yuki whispered, still clutching her drink.

  Phèdre pointed over her shoulder with the serenity of a cat showing where it hid the body. Yuki turned and saw an elderly woman operating a stand piled with miscellaneous objects: teapots, clocks, wooden masks, maybe a chicken sculpture. Yuki blinked. Blinked again. “How did… when did…”

  She looked back.

  A mage was already hurling the first firebolt.

  The teapot bounced down with a magical clang. The crowd practically vibrated with excitement.

  They formed a loose circle around the firing area, chanting, cheering, shoving, yelling contradictory advice.

  “GO WIDE!”

  “DON’T GO WIDE!”

  “USE MORE FIRE!”

  “USE LESS FIRE!”

  “HIT IT!”

  Yuki hovered on her toes, heart bouncing with every bolt. Tramar took center stage like a king of fire and theatrical timing.

  He raised his hands. “Watch closely, amateurs.”

  Bolt one: clean hit.

  Bolt two: perfect.

  Bolt three: fast.

  Bolt four: faster.

  “360 no scope!”

  Bolt five: showy spin and hit.

  The crowd exploded.

  Then—

  Bolt six missed, sailing up like a depressed firefly.

  Bolt seven hit.

  Bolt eight missed spectacularly.

  Bolt nine… miss.

  Bolt ten… also miss.

  “SIX OUT OF TEN!” Tramar declared, sweeping his robe. “BEHOLD PERFECTION!”

  “You missed four!” someone yelled.

  “It was windy!” Tramar lied.

  There was no wind.

  Carlos cracked his knuckles and stepped forward. “My turn. And then I chose our dungeon.”

  Tramar choked. “Bold words from a man with that hair.”

  Carlos ignored him.

  He aimed.

  First bolt: way too high.

  Someone in the back shouted, “CEILING KILLER!”

  But then Carlos hit five in a row, each teapot flying away.

  Miss.

  The crowd groaned.

  Next shot: hit.

  Six.

  Tie.

  Tramar made a wounded-cat noise.

  Carlos narrowed his eyes, lifted his hand—

  Another miss.

  “Tramar may lose,” Yuki whispered. Carlos smirked, whispered something dirty under his breath, and fired his last bolt.

  Clatter.

  Seven.

  “HAH!” Carlos threw both arms up. “I PICK THE DUNGEON!”

  The crowd roared again.

  Firebolts fizzled out, cheering collapsed into laughter, people clapped each other on the back, someone declared they were hungry, another declared they were on fire, and Tramar loudly denied this was a fair contest despite losing.

  The energy slowly diffused into friendly chatter.

  That’s when Phèdre caught Tramar by his sleeve.

  “Cher mage,” she said, tugging him toward Yuki. “Our little historian wants you.”

  Tramar tilted his picky hat forward with exaggerated seriousness. “Yeah? What’s up?”

  Yuki swallowed. “I—I have a legendary quest. The Sun Fox’s Labyrinth. I need three people. You’d be the third.”

  Tramar stared for half a second.

  Then: “Yes.”

  Yuki blinked. “W—really?”

  “Yeah, sure.” He shrugged, adjusting his robe. “But only if you get me a matching robe for my picky hat.”

  Phèdre snorted. Yuki squeaked. Tramar grinned. Then he softened slightly. “Kidding. Well—mostly kidding. I’ll go for the fun of it.”

  Yuki’s interface blinked.

  Yuki’s smile lit up brighter than the firebolts.

  The Sun Fox’s Labyrinth awaited.

  And now she had her team.