The underreef chamber was carved from moonstone coral, its ceiling swaying with phosphorescent threads like hanging vines. The Vermillion Troupe—at least those closest to the heart of their journey—sat in a rough circle around ProlixalParagon as he relayed PillowHorror’s offer. No one interrupted him, though expressions shifted like dune winds as he spoke.

  When he finished, a hush lingered—heavy, electric.

  Marx was the first to break it. The human man leaned back against the curved spine of a shell-bench, arms folded tight.

  “I don’t like it,” he muttered. “Too many unknowns. Faking the death of a crown prince? That’s... it’s not just some smuggling run, Prolix. It’s a lightning rod.”

  His brows knit as he looked across the others. “Draggor will retaliate. You know they will. And guess who they'll start asking about? The Troupe.”

  Ralyria sat cross-legged, calmly running a whetstone along the curve of her halberd’s blade. Sparks danced in the reeflight. She didn’t look up.

  “And if we don’t?” she said evenly. “We wander until the next town tries to conscript us or starve us out. We’re already ghosts on borrowed ground. At least this puts us on a ship.”

  She angled the halberd to the light, inspecting the edge. “Besides, we’ve tricked worse than princes before.”

  Havryn, short and wiry even by goblin standards, slapped his knee and grinned, tusks showing.

  “I like it. Risky’s fine when the payout’s freedom. And getting one over on Draggor royalty?” He clicked his teeth. “That’s a story I’d like to be part of.”

  Beside him, Kaelthari folded her armored arms and gave a single slow nod. The Cataphractan’s silver-scaled pauldrons caught the dim glow like starlight, her mulberry scales nearly black in the light.

  “Draggor hunted my kin like beasts,” she said, voice low but firm. “If this quest tears a crack in their throne, I will tear through it gladly.”

  Marx let out a breath, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You’re all mad.”

  “We’ve been mad,” Ralyria said, finally looking up. “That’s how we’re still alive.”

  All heads turned as Lyra, seated slightly apart in her crescent-backed chair of carved whalebone, lifted her gaze. Her fur, silver and moon-pale, rustled gently as she leaned forward, golden eyes settling on ProlixalParagon.

  “I’ve heard each of you,” she said, voice dry as desert wind and just as ancient. “And each of you is right.”

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  She turned her attention fully to Prolix, eyes unreadable.

  “But this quest was offered to you, my brave little tinkerer. Not to the Troupe. Not to me.”

  Lyra’s hands folded in her lap, weathered fingers tracing the carved patterns of her bracelet.

  “You carry more than tools, Prolix. You carry the shape of what comes next. And so this choice must be yours.”

  She rose slowly, gracefully, and gave a slight nod.

  “Whatever you decide—we will follow. We will prepare. We will survive.”

  Then she turned, walking to the coral curtain that marked her quarters. Before stepping through, she looked back once.

  “Choose not from fear. Choose from hope. Even if it terrifies you.”

  She disappeared into the bioluminescent dark.

  Silence returned for a moment, broken only by the rhythmic scrape of Ralyria’s whetstone.

  All eyes returned to Prolix.

  Sleep was a stubborn, elusive thing.

  Despite the gentle ebb of phosphorescent lights along the chamber walls, despite the soft susurrus of warm brine through coral lattice, ProlixalParagon’s thoughts clashed like sparking gears behind his eyes. He lay still among his companions—Marx quietly snoring, Ralyria curled with her halberd cradled in sleep, Havryn muttering dreams, Kaelthari silent but coiled like a spring—but still he could not rest.

  He had never met the Draggor prince. Didn’t know his voice, his mannerisms, not even his name. He was an abstract figure in the constellation of power—far above, rarely glimpsed.

  And yet, somehow, Prolix was being asked to save him.

  To fake his death.

  To help him disappear.

  It was ludicrous. Dangerous. And most of all… uncertain. How could PillowHorror vouch for someone Prolix had never even seen? How could the life of one privileged runaway possibly be worth gambling the future of the entire troupe?

  PillowHorror’s words repeated in his mind like a cryptic refrain: “It will cause greater change. Open opportunities.”

  But there had been no elaboration. Only the veiled promise that the emperor and empress would grant safe passage to Baigai in return. That alone had rattled something deep in his chest.

  He looked at Lyra's sleeping form—her fur shimmering silver under the light of a slow-turning mana crystal. Her trust had been clear. Not a push, not pressure, but quiet belief that he would choose the right path.

  The weight of that belief was heavier than any tool he'd ever lifted.

  He rose without ceremony, movements quiet and practiced. Belt buckled, pouches secured, claws tapping faintly against the chamber stone. He left the sleeping Troupe behind and padded toward the tide-temple where PillowHorror waited.

  The tide-temple stood quiet, still half-swallowed by the tides. Its ceiling arched like the inside of a shell, shot through with glimmering veins of dreamstone and cut kelpglass. PillowHorror reclined in thought, partially submerged in a basin of living brine.

  He did not move as Prolix approached, but his eyes opened—pale and pearlescent, unreadable.

  “You’ve returned,” he said, as though commenting on the tide.

  “I’ve made my decision,” Prolix said, standing straight despite the churning in his gut. “I’ll take the quest. I’ll help the prince.”

  A pause. PillowHorror’s face was as still as always, but the membrane-fronds along his temples shifted in what might have been approval.

  “You have never met him, I know,” the Quang said, voice distant and smooth. “Nor do I expect you to like him. He is entitled. Fearful. But desperate enough to seek help where his family would not dare look.”

  Prolix’s ears twitched, uncertain. “Why him? Why this risk?”

  At that, PillowHorror's expression sharpened—barely, but it was there.

  “Because one falling branch can turn the river,” he said. “And because, if successful, it will grant the Lunar Empire a gift that war could never win: leverage. That is all I will say.”

  He stood, water sluicing from his robes like shadow peeled from moonlight.

  “If you succeed, I will see to it that the emperor and empress secure your Troupe a ship to Baigai. You have my reputation—and that is not a thing I offer lightly.”

  Prolix nodded, slow but resolute. “Then let’s begin.”

  PillowHorror’s mouth curled—half-smile or threat, it was impossible to tell.

  “The prince will meet us within two days. Until then, rest. Think. Prepare your falsehoods well, little Tinkerer. You will only get one performance.”