Ashes of the APS

Inventory and Arson

The APS Headquarters was not designed for peace. The ceilings were low, the walls brick, and even the floorboards seemed to resent the passage of every new set of boots. Valpip preferred it that way; a comfortable fortress of logistical misery. He took solace in the certainty that the walls would hold, the inventory would not, and everything that mattered was somewhere on a shelf if only he could remember which one.

Tonight the stores were dangerously depleted. Valpip perched on a backless stool, a ledger balanced on his knee and a stub of pencil jammed between two knuckles. He recited the contents of the medical cabinet with the rhythmic despair of a priest tolling a death bell. “Three vials of ether, two and a half bottles of analgesic, don’t know where the other half went, probably Orlea’s idea of a prank, a single roll of coagulant bandage, zero functioning tourniquets, and one healing potion. One.” He scrawled an angry circle around the number, then underlined it three times, just for the pleasure of punishing the paper.

He could hear the runners through the walls, their voices bouncing up from the bullpen in a disharmonious fugue. Jarren was on duty, stepping in for Iliyria, and the nervous energy he radiated was so intense it made Valpip’s scalp itch. He tried to ignore it, but the walls were porous and his nerves were shot, so he only succeeded in making himself more irritable.

Jarren’s voice floated down the hall: “...doubling up patrols…I want everyone checked in every thirty…”

Orlea’s retort came, sharp and unfiltered: “If you say ‘duty of care’ one more time, I’m putting you on a self-imposed sabbatical, Saurivier. You’re pacing a rut in the rug.”

Adan, the perpetual optimist, chimed in: “He just wants to get through tonight so he can have some of Mabel’s cider and cookies. Don’t lie, Jarren, I can hear your stomach growling.”

Valpip closed the ledger, massaged his temples, and considered whether it was possible to overdose on black coffee. He settled for a single mouthful, cold and acrid, then hunched over the next stack of paperwork.

On the other side of the door, Jarren was trying to ignore the mounting sense of catastrophe. The city outside was alive with the kind of anxious revelry that only Hearthswarming Eve could bring: every hearth a bonfire, every street an excuse for excess, every alley a powder keg of unprocessed aggression. His job, at least tonight, was to keep all the runners alive and the city unburnt for another twelve hours. He was not convinced either task was possible.

He checked the comms mirror for the seventh time in an hour, glancing at the runes that would flare if any of the teams called in. Nothing. He paced to the window, looked out over the street, then turned back to the desk and tried to convince himself that the weight in his stomach was only indigestion.

Orlea noticed. “Sit down, Saurivier. You’re going to wear out your boots and your dignity in one night.” She was sprawled across two chairs, tossing a paperweight in the air and catching it.

Jarren glared. “You realize what happens if we have a breach and the nearest backup is a mile away, and all of us are already on skeleton crew—”

Adan grinned, running a hand through his hair. “What happens is we do our jobs, and then we celebrate not dying with cookies and cider. I’m not worried.”

Orlea cocked her head, then barked a laugh. “You should be. Jarren’s wound so tight, he might snap and start organizing us by height.”

Jarren ignored them, or tried to. He reached for the next set of incident reports, fingers trembling just enough to make it obvious. He hated this feeling, the helplessness, the anticipation, the sense that the world was about to come apart at the seams and he’d be the one left holding the thread.

He retreated to Iliyria’s office, the only room in the building that still smelled like hope. There was a stack of unsigned forms on the desk, and he attacked them with the fury of a man who believed bureaucracy might save his soul. The mirror chimed, its surface rippling with the blue-white of an incoming call. He expected Iliyria, bored at the Ball and looking for an excuse to bail early.

Before he could answer, the world shifted. A sharp, percussive slam echoed through the building, followed by heavy thud of boots. Jarren froze, then reached for the comms-mirror, half-listening as Orlea shouted from the bullpen.

“Company, and not the friendly kind!” she called. Adan was already on his feet, arms outstretched, voice rising in a prayer that sounded more like a threat than a plea.

Jarren left the mirror, still chiming, and drew his wand. He moved for the door, mind racing. He caught the reflection in the window, the flash of uniforms, the gleam of drawn steel, the unmistakable sigil of the Watch, only these were not the red and gold of the city but the deep, oily black of the Emergency Response Brigade. They had come in force, and they had not come for negotiation.

He had just stepped out into the bullpen when the first shot rang out, a warning bolt that shattered a sconce and sent a rain of glass over Orlea and Adan. Orlea laughed, spat on the floor, and squared her stance.

“About time,” she said. Then, to Adan: “Shield us, now.”

Adan’s voice boomed with divine power as he summoned a dome of radiant energy, the glow crisp and perfect for a split second before a volley of crossbow bolts turned it into a lattice of shattered light. Orlea barreled through the opening, fists a blur, her laughter as savage as the violence that followed.

Jarren hesitated for only a moment, calculating their odds given the number of combatants, and the fact it seemed the Watch was using iron bolts. He knew what was expected of him, even if he was not convinced it would matter, and he stepped into the fray.

* * *

Valpip, meanwhile, had not moved from his stool. He heard the invasion as a series of distant thumps, then the thwack of a crossbow being fired, then the wet crunch of violence filtered through several layers of brick and wood. He stayed perfectly still, mind racing through probabilities. If the Watch had come for the headquarters, it was not an ordinary raid, it was an extermination. He was not, by nature, a hero.

He listened as the footsteps grew closer. A masculine voice, nasal and unpleasant, shouted, “All staff, report to the main chamber! Hands above your heads, no sudden moves!”

Valpip almost scoffed. It was a rookie’s mistake, to announce your intentions before you’d cleared every room. He considered options: escape through the window (scratch that, there is no window in the storage room hiding in the ventilation ducts (possible, but undignified and he had no intention of dying in a duct or, simply, wait it out and hope they wouldn’t check the storage room until the worst of the violence was over.

He chose option three. He did, however, take the time to wedge a steel filing cabinet against the door, then quietly unlock the trapdoor in the floor, just in case.

The comms mirror chimed, and he pressed the rune to accept the call. Iliyria’s face appeared, drawn and wild, her hair a tangled mess and the background a swirl of chaos.

“Valpip, status. Now,” she snapped.

Valpip smirked. “Getting lively over here. Looks like the Watch have gone full rabid dog. I take it the Ball was a disaster?”

He heard the chaos behind her: voices shouting, the whine of magical alarms, the distinctive sizzle of a spell detonating at close range. Iliyria’s image jerked as she turned, eyes wide and frantic.

“They went for the Council. Tried to kill every last one of them. I’m with Team Seven, we have the Council with us. We’re holding a corridor, but we’re boxed in. You need to—” She paused, then narrowed her eyes, calculating. “Where are you? Are the records secure?”

Valpip glanced at the wall of personnel files, the rows of battered folders and the meticulously labeled drawers. He understood, instantly, what she was asking.

“Yes. I’m in the storage room. Do you want me to…?”

Iliyria nodded, once, slow and final. “Burn them. Don’t let them get the list. We can’t risk the families, or the retired runners. You know what they’ll do.”

Valpip felt a flash of pride. For all her faults, the commander had her priorities straight.

“On it,” he said. “Good luck, Iliyria.”

She smiled, quick and brittle, then cut the connection. Outside, the footsteps drew closer, and the banging on the door started in earnest.

Valpip worked quickly, with the precision of someone who’d prepared for this moment a thousand times in his mind. He grabbed three bottles of ether, a box of phosphorous sticks, and a single bottle of the emergency alchemical fire. He poured the ether over the records, then stuffed the open folders with strips of bandage to serve as wicks. He shook the bottle of fire, savoring the way it glowed.

The banging on the door grew frantic. Someone tried the handle, found it blocked, and started shouting.

“Last warning, come out, or we’ll—”

Valpip grinned, and shouted to the men outside the door, “better stand back boys! It's about to get hot in here!” He hurled the bottle of fire at the stacked records. It shattered with a pleasing pop, and the flames roared to life, devouring paper, wood, and everything else with a hunger that was almost beautiful.

He ducked behind the cabinet, bracing himself as the door splintered inward and two Watchmen tumbled through. The smoke blinded them instantly, and Valpip darted for the trapdoor, squeezing through just as a crossbow bolt sank into the wood behind him.

He hit the crawlspace below, knees screaming, and began crawling for the bullpen. The heat was already following him, the fire spreading with a vigor he’d underestimated. He coughed, cursed, then crawled faster.

He emerged in the rear stairwell just as the main room exploded in shouts and confusion. He heard Jarren shouting verbal spell components, the unmistakable snap of Orlea breaking someone’s wrist, and the softer, sickening sound of Adan taking a hit and going down.

Valpip calculated odds. He could make for the street, try to lose himself in the alleys. Or he could make a stand, go down with the rest of them. He surveyed the scene and grimaced. Sometimes the only thing left was to deny the enemy the satisfaction.

He crept through the bullpen, staying low, and watched as the Watch overwhelmed his colleagues, cuffing Jarren with iron bands and dragging a half-conscious Orlea across the floor. Valpip waited for the right moment, then dashed for the front door, making it three whole steps before a Watchman snagged him by the collar and slammed him into the wall.

“Got one more!” the man crowed, then cuffed Valpip’s wrists with hands far too large for the job.

As they dragged him out, Valpip twisted his head to look back at the inferno. The fire had overtaken the records room, flames licking up the walls and filling the air with the scent of victory and loss.

He smiled, then spat on the floor for good measure. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

They shoved him into the snow, and the last thing Valpip saw before they slammed a hood over his head was the APS Headquarters burning, a beacon of stubborn, pointless hope in a city that had lost its mind.

He let them drag him away. If nothing else, he’d done his job. The rest was up to the world.

The Short Straw Patrol

Team Six had drawn the short straw and been assigned the South Market beat. Dalliance, Felara, Kethry, and Barret, four runners, two of whom hated being up before noon, one who believed in “letting the city come to you,” and one who, according to Dalliance, was “born to perform under pressure, darling.” The night was almost too quiet, most of the evening’s celebrations were hosted elsewhere. Even the hawkers and charlatans had packed up early, either heading home or to a holiday party. It was snowing, heavy flakes landing on eaves and eyelashes.

They walked in staggered formation, Dalliance a few paces ahead, twirling his bow and occasionally launching into impromptu overtures on his violin that echoed up the frozen facades. Felara walked at his shoulder, longbow slung and fingers never more than an inch from her daggers. Kethry trailed close, her dark dreadlocks capped with a knit hat and her eyes constantly scanning for strays, animal or otherwise. Barret brought up the rear, always with a three-foot buffer, as if he feared his own armor would infect the rest of them with lawful boredom.

Kethry was the first to speak, her voice muffled by the scarf wound around her face. “You think Team Seven’s actually having fun at the Ball? Or did they draw the short straw too?”

Felara snorted, never breaking stride. “I’m not sure, though I think it’s safe to say the more fun they have, the more stressed Iliyria will be.”

Dalliance laughed, “agreed, I’m not quite sure they have the ability to blend well with the upper crust.” He gave a mock-sigh. “It’s a shame, really. All that opulence wasted on people who can’t appreciate the finer things. I heard the caviar is imported. Can you believe it? Imported. If I was there, I’d—”

“Try to seduce the head of the catering staff and then get thrown out a window?” Felara cut in.

Dalliance waggled his eyebrows. “It’s only happened once. And in my defense, the window was already open.”

Kethry and Barret exchanged a glance, the kind of silent amusement only possible when you’d spent a thousand hours together in close quarters. Barret said, “After this shift, Mabel’s setting up a real Hearthswarming feast. No offense to the Ball, but I’d take her roast and Dalliance’s music over imported caviar any day.”

Dalliance preened, pretending to buff his horns. “My new composition is almost ready. It’s called ‘Ode to a City That Never Sleeps (But Maybe Should, Occasionally).’ I expect tears, Fel. Real ones.”

Felara made a show of gagging. “The only thing that makes me cry is the sound of your tuning.”

They moved through the lamp-lit silence, bantering with the easy rhythm of old friends who had seen too much together. It was almost possible, for a few blocks, to believe the city was simply holding its breath for the holidays. But Felara never let her guard down; she was the first to notice the shadow trailing them at a distance, then the second, and the third. The hair at the nape of her neck prickled.

She brushed a cart they passed, tap-tap, and Dalliance echoed on the cobbles with his boot heel, tap-tap. Tighten up. Kethry and Barret straightened, and suddenly the comms mirror at Felara’s belt pulsed with a sharp, urgent red. She snatched it up, thumbed the rune, and was met with the distorted, frantic face of Nimueh.

“Don’t speak, just listen,” Nimueh hissed. The image was jumpy, the sound of shouts and violence in the background. “The Watch is compromised. They’re moving against us, targeting teams in the field. Get off the streets, now.”

Felara had already started moving, hand slicing a signal through the air: go. Dalliance, picking up instantly, whipped his violin back under his chin and tuned a single string with a flick of his claw. Kethry’s hands went to her staff and component pouch. Barret gripped the hilt of his sword. The four quickened their pace, cutting through alleys and side streets, always with the sense of being watched, hunted.

At each turn: Felara’s fletching on wood, tap-tap, Dalliance answering on brick, tap-tap. With me. With you.

It didn’t take long. By the time they’d crossed into the artisan quarter, the Watch had set up a cordon, blocking both ends of the street with a dozen heavily armed men in midnight-black leathers. The lead officer raised a megaphone rune and bellowed, “APS runners, stand down! You are ordered to submit to city custody, pending investigation of treason and arcane conspiracy!”

Dalliance laughed, a big, rolling stage laugh, then whistled. “City’s gotten creative with its seasonal greetings.”

The first volley came quickly: crossbow bolts whistling through the air. The bolts hissed through the snow; one hit Felara in the upper thigh, two of them went wide and missed Kethry and Barret, but four more cut a clean line for Dalliance. One thunked into the violin case slung across his back, another grazed his sleeve.

“Down!” Felara shouted, dragging Barret behind a cart. But even as she said it, her eyes tracked the way the Watch advanced; two squads splitting to box in the side streets, every crossbow pivoting toward the tiefling.

Dalliance saw it too. He had caught the way the Watchmen’s eyes lingered too long on him; tail, horns, violin case, reputation, while sliding right past Felara’s limp or Kethry’s scowl. “Careful, loves, you’ll muss my jacket. It’s vintage,” he called to their attackers, his words echoing painfully in their eardrums.

Felara’s hand found his wrist: squeeze-squeeze, her silent version of the code. He answered with two fingertips against her pulse, tap-tap. I’m here.

Felara braced against the cart, breath sharp, bowstring drawn. She whispered the syllables for an arcane shot and loosed, only to watch the arrow fall short, fizzing uselessly in the snow. Confused, she looked down and saw the truth: an iron-tipped bolt buried deep in her thigh, blood darkening her leggings.

Her hands shook as she reached into the ether for another arrow. Nothing. The magic refused to answer her, the pain blooming like fire through her leg.

“Damn it,” she hissed.

She dropped to one knee, gritted her teeth, and yanked the bolt free in a single, brutal motion. White-hot pain lanced up her side, tearing a cry from her throat before she could bite it back.

“Felara!” Barret’s voice cracked as he lunged toward her. “Stay down, you’ll bleed out—”

“Not done yet,” she spat, forcing herself upright, bow in hand, blood soaking her boot. Her eyes blazed, daring him to try and stop her.

Barret swung his arm up, invoking Torm’s protection, and a dome of light shimmered into existence for a half second before being shredded by the next round.

Felara staggered, blood slicking her boot, but she forced the bowstring back, whispering the runes through clenched teeth. This time the magic caught. The arrowhead burned blue-white, and when she loosed, it screamed across the snow and buried itself in a Watchman’s chest. He dropped without a sound.

Another bolt hissed past her ear, close enough to shear a lock of hair. She ignored it, nocked again, and drew until her vision swam. The second arrow tore through a shield, detonating in a burst of crackling force that sent two watchmen sprawling into the gutter.

Barret swore beside her. “Gods, remind me never to get on your bad side.”

She didn’t answer, just loosed a third. This one curved mid-flight, guided by her will, and struck a pursuing officer square in the thigh. He howled and went down, tangling two of his comrades in his fall.

For a moment, the street filled with shouts and confusion. The Watch’s advance faltered, buying Team Six a breath of space. Felara’s leg buckled, but she set her jaw and reached for another arrow. “Not finished,” she muttered, though her hands shook with pain and exhaustion.

Kethry slammed her staff against the cobbles, muttering a guttural string of syllables. A pulse of damp air surged outward, and in seconds the street was swallowed in a rolling gray fog. The Watch’s shouts turned to curses as their formation stumbled, crossbows jerking wildly in search of targets they could no longer see.

Barret seized the moment, using both hands to clasp the hilt of his sword and cast Aid, bolstering his allies' fortitude with a quick prayer to his god.

Kethry ran to Felara’s side, hand reaching out to brush against her wounded thigh, muttering something softly in Druidic. The gaping wound closed, and although it still hurt like hell, Felara knew she could run on it. “Move!” Kethry barked, already pulling Felara by the arm. Shapes loomed and vanished in the mist; helms, blades, the ghost of a pursuing officer’s snarl.

Dalliance laughed once, breathless. “Remind me to thank you if we live through this.” Then he plucked at a string, sending a burst of bardic inspiration to Kethry.

The fog held for a dozen heartbeats. Then came the flare of torchlight, orange halos cutting through the gray, and the bark of an officer’s voice: “Spread out! Find them by sound!”

Shadows stirred in the mist, soldiers forcing their way forward with practiced discipline. The cover was fading fast. Dalliance sighed. “Ah, there’s the stage lighting. Knew we couldn’t keep this act intimate forever.”

Felara rolled her eyes. “Shut up and run, idiot.”

Kethry’s staff rapped a wall, tap-tap-tap, and she hissed, “Left!” The team pivoted on the triple code and peeled into a side alley as the Watch thundered after them. Dalliance, always in the lead, began to play, soft at first, then the song built, a counter-melody that tangled with the footsteps of their pursuers. At the next intersection, six Dalliances split off in six directions, each singing a different tune, each dodging through the maze of alleyways.

Barret grunted. “Never gets old.”

Kethry, breathless, said, “It actually does. But it’s effective.”

They kept running. Felara, forcing herself to sprint through the pain, was not fooled by the illusions. She listened for the real cadence, the little tap-tap Dalliance always put under his breath, and followed that, trusting Kethry and Barret to keep pace. She risked a glance back and saw two of the Watch break off to chase a false Dalliance, but the others, smarter, or just meaner, kept after the real group.

They ducked through a butcher’s courtyard, past the carcasses swinging from their hooks, then vaulted a low wall and dropped into a sunken beer garden. Kethry, barely slowing, pointed at the ground behind them. Vines grew from beneath the snow, tangling the legs of their pursuers. It bought them another few seconds.

Dalliance was starting to flag. He wasn’t built for long chases, and the cold night air bit deep into his lungs. He risked a look behind them and saw the sneer on an officer’s lips as he barked: “Take the bard first!” 

Of course it was him. The loud one, the flashy one, the one who had mocked them with a bow and a grin. He was the one they wanted to drag through the streets; the tiefling, the outlier, the  scapegoat. If he went down, maybe the rest of Team Six could scatter and live to fight another night.

He felt the decision settle like a chord struck true.

He caught Felara’s hand in passing, tap-tap. She answered the same, jaw set. “Don’t go silent,” she breathed. “With me,” he said, and let go.

“Keep running,” he muttered, then, with a flourish that was half insult, he stepped out into the open, letting the others pass him. He drew his violin, and played a single, piercing note.

The effect was immediate: three more Dalliances erupted from the darkness, sprinting in every direction. 

The real Dalliance turned, arms spread, and walked directly into the path of the pursuing Watch. He smiled, bowed low, and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, prepare to be dazzled.”

The Watch pivoted as one, bolts lifting, jaws tightening. Their target had declared himself.

*****

Felara led the way, taking advantage of the confusion caused by the additional Dalliance doppelgangers. She cut through the backstreets, rage and panic warring inside her, followed closely by Dalliance and Barret. Kethry brought up the rear, quiet now, watching for any sign of their pursuers.

It took five minutes and a dozen blind turns before they realized no one was following.

They found shelter in the ruins of a collapsed bakery. Felara set two fingers on the cracked ovenstone, tap-tap. Kethry answered from the doorway, tap-tap. Clear.

Felara paced, daggers out, while Barret caught his breath and Kethry scanned the horizon for threats.

Barret clapped Dalliance on the back. “Nice work, friend. That bought us—” His hand passed through empty air.

The illusion of Dalliance smiled, gave a little bow, and then dissolved, leaving nothing but a faint echo of his last note. It ended on two quiet beats, the way only the real one did.

Felara stared at the spot for a long moment, then cursed. He had done that on purpose, he tricked her. “Damned showoff. He always did have to be the hero.”

Kethry’s eyes were wet, though she tried to hide it. Barret set his jaw, the lines on his face hardening.

“What do we do now?” Kethry whispered, voice small in the empty room.

Barret answered, quiet but determined. “We make it count. We get to ground, and we wait for Iliyria’s call.”

Felara kicked a brick across the floor, then holstered her daggers. “If he’s alive, we’ll find him. If not… we’ll make them pay.”

She rested two knuckles against the broken sill, tap-tap, and let the sound die. “With me,” she said, and they nodded.

The three huddled in the dark, the sounds of the city gone strange and empty. Above them, snow continued to fall.

They waited, and they mourned, and they planned.

Somewhere in the night, Dalliance played his encore, and it was beautiful. Across rooftops and drifted alleys, a sound carried: light, stubborn, two notes answering two, tap-tap, a promise kept at distance.

Selaney woke from her afternoon self-pity nap to the sound of Mabel’s rolling pin battering dough in the kitchen below. She lay in the half-darkness, listening to the clatter and hum, the comforting threat of order imposed on flour and chaos.

She could have stayed there, under the thick old quilt, for hours. But she knew what waited if she let her mind drift: the names would return, sharp as razors, slicing through her with a speed that never lessened. Kalen. Shanna. Hodeth. She would see their faces, hear the last, hoarse breaths of her friends, and feel the cold ache in her arms where the chains and dagger had bit.

Selaney had lasted less than a fortnight back at the Tower. On paper, it was the safest place for her; leyline wards, round-the-clock guardians, and the full attention of Master Arcanists who wouldn’t dare let another apprentice vanish. In practice, it felt like a prison, and worse, it meant living under Isemay’s watchful eyes.

Her mentor’s care was genuine, but it smothered. Isemay had taken Selaney’s abduction as a personal failure, hovering in every doorway, second-guessing every step. Selaney loved her for it, but the guilt in her face was harder to bear than the nightmares.

So when Iliyria cleared the Boarding House for her return Selaney seized the chance. The Tower was protection. The Boarding House was family. Living among the other Runners meant she didn’t have to explain the flinches, the scars, or the way she sometimes froze at shadows. Here, she wasn’t alone.

Gathering her resolve, she sat up, laced her boots with deliberate slowness, and counted the heartbeats until she was sure she could walk down the stairs without betraying anything on her face.

The APS boarding house was always warm. Mabel kept the hearth roaring, the air thick with the smells of sage, honey, and, today, something sweet and citrus-laced that lingered in the hallways long after the oven cooled.

Selaney crept into the kitchen, already crowded with platters and cooling racks and the immense, immovable presence of Mabel herself. Mabel was a monument: taller than she looked, with hands like oak branches and an apron splattered with ancient stains. She glanced up, her face creased with the kind of concern that came from decades of managing other people’s disasters.

“Good afternoon, dear,” Mabel said, voice soft and heavy. “You hungry, or are you here to help?”

“Both, I think,” Selaney replied, and was startled by how normal her own voice sounded.

Mabel pointed a rolling pin at the bowl of frosting, then at a pile of tiny sugar bells. “The boys got into the cookie dough last night, but I need at least two dozen decorated for tonight or we’ll have a mutiny.”

Selaney smiled, grabbed one of the aprons hanging on the wall, and went to work. Her fingers trembled as she tried to pipe a straight line across a cookie’s edge. She had always been terrible at this; her handwriting was legible only to herself, and her art never got past the stage of “enthusiastic attempt.” But Mabel never commented on the results, only the effort.

They worked in silence, punctuated by the crackle of the fire and the occasional sharp crack as Mabel split a walnut with the butt of her hand, until Mabel declared it time for a snack break. The two sat in the small breakfast nook and enjoyed mugs of hot cider with some toasted cheese sandwiches. 

After they finished, Mabel checked her list of planned dishes for the feast, confirming that everyone’s favorites were on the menu, before standing and preparing to move onto the next task. Selaney joined her; the cooking was an excellent distraction from her dark thoughts, and Mabel’s company was always comforting.

After a while, Selaney asked, “Will you be joining the party later, or…?”

“I always do,” Mabel said, scraping a lump of dough off the counter. “Someone has to make sure the cider doesn’t evaporate and the children don’t get up to mischief.” She looked at Selaney, wiping flour from her hands. “You know, I’m hoping this Hearthswarming will go better than last year’s.”

Selaney arched an eyebrow from her seat by the fire. “Better? I heard there were several injuries and it ended in a small explosion. I was thankful I chose the Tower’s party instead.”

Mabel sighed, half fond, half exasperated. “Secret gift exchange, never again. Half the runners forgot to wrap anything, the other half brought in cursed trinkets from gods-know-where. Nyx gave Orlea a necklace that kept whispering her own insecurities back at her, and Felara handed poor Barret a dagger that tried to stab him every time he blinked.”

Selaney snorted. “And the explosion?”

“That was Kethry’s gift to Dalliance. Some sort of enchanted snow globe. He shook it too hard, and suddenly the entire common room was knee-deep in freezing water. Took us two days to dry out the floorboards.”

Selaney hid a laugh behind her sleeve. “Sounds festive.”

“Festive?” Mabel huffed, though her eyes were twinkling. “Festive was three years ago when the Watch came pounding on the door because Orlea stole the commander’s hat to wrap as a present for Skif. Poor Iliyria had to march down to headquarters and negotiate their release. Three hours of her keeping a straight face while explaining to Lowshade why his hat had been gift-wrapped with holly and ribbon.”

Selaney laughed outright. “I’ve heard about that one, Dalli’s been singing the song at Misfits for the past month to raise holiday spirits. Iliyria must have loved that.”

“Oh, she pretended she hated every second,” Mabel said with a grin. “But you should’ve seen the little smirk she tried to hide when the runners started calling it the Battle of the Hat. She still glowers whenever someone brings it up, but you can tell she’s proud it’s APS legend now.”

Selaney shook her head, still smiling. “Only the APS.” She leaned back, warmth flickering in her voice. “At least nothing could be worse than that.”

Mabel smiled, nodding in agreement. Selaney was about to say something else, she didn’t know what, when the doorbell rang, two sharp peals and a long, echoing silence. Mabel’s eyebrows went up.

“It’s a bit late for a visitor,” she said. “Do you mind…?”

“Of course,” Selaney replied, wiping her hands on her apron and moving toward the entryway. It took her a moment to see through the frost-blurred glass. Three figures, broad and bulky, their breath fogging in the outside cold.

She felt her stomach tighten. Even at this distance, she recognized the red of the Watch uniforms, the way the visors reflected nothing but their own authority. She opened the door, just enough to block the entry with her body, and tried to smile.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

The lead Watchman was taller than most, with a sharp, angular jaw and eyes that never stopped moving. He looked past her, into the house, then back at her. “We’re here on official business. Is this the APS Boarding House?”

Selaney didn’t answer. Mabel stepped up behind her, presence alone making the doorway feel smaller.

“That’s right,” Mabel said. “And who’s asking?”

The Watchman spoke with measured formality. “If you could please step aside, ma’am.” He and his two subordinates shouldered through, boots scraping the entry’s stone. The movement was practiced, calculated to seize the threshold and take the warmth of the boarding house for their own. Selaney noticed, in that moment, the subtle twitch of Mabel’s hand.

The Watchmen fanned out in a trident, not drawing weapons but making a show of readiness. The leader, who wore his authority in the set of his jaw, scanned the foyer as though expecting an ambush in the umbrella stand. He cleared his throat, a sound like a knife dragged across a whetstone.

“Lieutenant Orvist, Capitol Watch.” He gave a curt nod. “What are your names please?”

It was phrased as a question, but sounded more like a command. Mabel didn’t balk. She stepped forward, hands wiped clean on her apron, and met the Watchman’s gaze. “Mabel Ferros,” she said, the syllables as heavy and inevitable as a falling axe. “I’m the housemother for the APS Boarding House, and the only thing of value in this foyer is the carpet, so I’d appreciate it if you wiped your feet before tracking snow all over it. Can I ask what brings you here?”

The Watchman, Orvist, registered her as a new variable, weighed her mass and discipline against the file in his head. “We have questions about the whereabouts of certain individuals,” he said, letting the vagueness drag like an anchor. “Particularly any APS runners not on evening patrol.”

Orvist’s gaze zeroed in on Selaney as if she’d stepped on a pressure plate. “And you?” he said, voice clipped. His hostility was as obvious as the boot-prints he would leave on Mabel’s just-cleaned carpet.

She drew herself up, chin steady, even as a thousand alarm bells rang in her head. Something about their posture, their gaze, felt dangerous. “Selaney Postill,” she said. “Runner. Divination specialist.”

There was a scribble of pencil from the second Watchman. “She’s on the list,” he muttered, loud enough for everyone to hear.

Mabel tensed. “What list?”

The Watchman didn’t answer. Instead, Orvist turned to Selaney and gave her a slow, deliberate look, a cold assessment that seemed to take apart her height, her scars, the set of her jaw, and even the stains on her apron.

Selaney felt the blood leave her face. Mabel didn’t move.

Orvist’s eyes snapped to hers, bright and pitiless. “You’ll need to come with us. There’s been an incident, and all APS personnel are being brought in for questioning.”

Mabel’s hand closed gently, firmly, around Selaney’s shoulder. “What exactly is this about? Do you have a warrant?”

Orvist didn’t blink. “It’s about a lot of things, and yes, we have a warrant.” He withdrew a piece of official looking paper and waved it at the women. “Please step outside, Miss Postill.”

Selaney hesitated, just long enough to feel the weight of Mabel’s hand steady her.

She looked up and saw it in Mabel’s eyes, the Housemother was running calculations, not for escape, but for maximum damage. Mabel’s jaw flexed once, a tremor running down her neck into the great root-knots of her shoulders; she had not yet moved, but Selaney was suddenly intensely aware of just how much of Mabel’s bulk was muscle, how much of her kindness was, at its core, a controlled burn. The air seemed to grow denser in the foyer, every molecule now a powder keg.

Orvist’s hand hovered near his belt, fingers drumming on the steel stud of his baton. He didn’t see Mabel’s hand inch along Selaney’s arm, didn’t register the way the boarding house mother shifted her mass slightly onto the balls of her feet. Selaney did, and in that split second, history’s entire cycle of rebellion, terror, and cost-benefit analysis replayed itself behind Selaney’s eyes.

Selaney opened her mouth, intending to say something calculated and calm, something that would keep Mabel from turning the foyer into a crime scene, but instead of words, she reached for the leyline.

The pain was immediate and ugly; it knifed up her fingers and into her skull, a cold iron spike that threatened to drive her to her knees. She’d been warned about overreaching, especially after the last incident, but desperation trumped sense. She summoned the thread, thin and white-hot under her skin, and wove it through her teeth and tongue, aiming it square at Mabel’s mind.

Please, she thought, hurling the word into the leyline with the force of a thrown brick, don’t. Not now. You don’t have a weapon and I can’t use my magic. They’ll kill you before you can even touch them. Please, Mabel, don’t.

The message landed with the blunt impact of a fist. Mabel’s pupils shrank to pinpricks; her grip on Selaney’s shoulder loosened, and Selaney extracted herself from the Housemother’s grip. She raised her hands in surrender, and turned, just a little, to look at Mabel, who met her gaze with something like pride, something like mourning.

“It’ll be alright, dear,” Mabel said. “They always come for the strong ones first.”

Orvist stepped forward, cuffs already in his hand. “No need for theatrics, ma’am,” he said, voice softer than expected. “If you come quietly, this will go easier.”

Selaney glanced at the cuffs, then nodded. She held out her wrists. Orvist shackled them, not roughly, but with the kind of efficiency that left no room for protest, and she felt the sting of the iron cut her from the leyline completely. Even if she couldn’t cast spells, the leyline was always a steadying presence for her, a constant hum. Now it was silent.

She stiffened but refused to give the Watch the satisfaction of a flinch.

The Lieutenant leaned close. “Anyone else in the home?”

“No,” Selaney said, voice steady.

“Just me and her,” Mabel added, chin lifted. “Everyone else is out on patrol.”

He studied them both for a beat, eyes sharp as a hawk’s. Then he snapped his fingers at the two watchmen behind him. “Clear it.”

Boots thundered up the stairs. Doors slammed open, cupboards rattled, closets banged against their frames. A cat yowled and shot down the stairwell, vanishing under the kitchen bench.

The Lieutenant’s gaze settled on Mabel, calm and unblinking. “If you’ve lied to me, I’ll have you in irons beside her before the hour’s out.”

Mabel’s arms folded tighter, but she said nothing.

A few moments later the watchmen reappeared, shaking their heads. “Nothing, sir. Just laundry and cats.”

He grunted. “Then we’re done here.” With a sharp tug on Selaney’s chain, he hauled her toward the door, the cuffs biting deeper as the winter night swallowed the room behind her. She caught a final glimpse of Mabel standing in the doorway, wringing her apron with her hands.

The walk to the street was short. The Watch didn’t speak, not even when Selaney stumbled on the icy step. Orvist steadied her, just for a moment, then let go as soon as she found her balance.

They put her in the back of a wagon, closed the door, and left her in darkness.

She waited for the panic to rise, for the rush of memory, but it didn’t come. Instead, she felt only a strange, hollow calm.

* * *

Mabel closed the door with a gentle click and stood in the silence for a long time. The kitchen felt wrong without Selaney in it, more wrong still with the cookies unfinished and the frosting bowl half-full.

She went upstairs, to the small room she kept for herself at the end of the hall. She reached under the bed, pulled out an old trunk, and opened it. Inside was the warhammer, ancient and scarred, the wood worn smooth by years of grip. She hefted it, feeling the weight, the old promise of what it could do.

She set it on the bed, sat beside it, and listened to the house breathe.

It was not the first time she had waited in the dark, weapon in hand, for the world to ask too much.

But she hoped, for the sake of her “kids,” that she wouldn’t have to use it.

Bonus: The Battle of the Hat (Hearthswarming Holly & Ribbon)

Verse 1

Oh the Watch came pounding, boots like thunder on the floor,
“Open up, you scoundrels!”—they were rattling the door.
What crime, cried we, could merit all that racket, bang, and spat?
“Return what’s ours,” they hollered back, “the Commander’s parade dress hat!”

Chorus

Holly and ribbon, tied up tight—
Hearthswarming cheer and mischief’s right!
Iliyria stone-faced, hiding her grin,
Lowshade scowls like a winter wind.
Raise your mugs and tip your cap—
APS won the Battle of the Hat!

Verse 2

Now Orlea heard Sir Skif one night say “Grace? You’ve got but none.
You couldn’t sneak a sugar cube, much less past Watch or sun.”
She winked and ghosted headquarters—stars!—no trip, no chit, no chat,
Came home with holly twined around a very famous hat.

Chorus

Holly and ribbon, tie it tight—
Skif was wrong, and Orlea’s right!
Iliyria stone-faced, hiding her grin,
Lowshade scowls like a winter wind.
Raise your mugs and tip your cap—
APS won the Battle of the Hat!

Verse 3

They wrapped it up with wister’s green and crimson satin bow,
A note: “For subtle hearts—may yours learn how to go.”
We passed it ‘round the common room, the cats took turns to sit—
Skif blushed scarlet, swore an oath, and Orlea curtsied, fit.

Break (Fiddle whirl; handclaps in fours. Shout “HEY!” on the turn.)

Verse 4

Then poor Commander Sylren marched—three hours on the clock—
Explaining holly gift-wrap like a diplomat in frock.
She kept a straight face, gods above, while Lowshade chewed the mat;
We swear we saw her mouth go smirk behind that silver plait.

Chorus

Holly and ribbon, tied up tight—
Hearthswarming prank on a frosty night!
Iliyria stone-faced, hiding her grin,
Lowshade scowls like a winter wind.
Raise your mugs and tip your cap—
APS won the Battle of the Hat!

Call & Response Verse

Dalliance: Who wrapped the brim in holly bright?

Room: OR-LE-A! (That’s right!)

Dalliance: Who proved old Skif was wrong that night?

Room: OR-LE-A! (That’s right!)

Dalliance: Who kept her laughter caged and flat?

Room: IL-IY-RIA! (Tip your hat!)

Dalliance: Who wore a storm for scowl and spat?

Room: LOW-SHADE DID! (Mind your hat!)

Verse 5

She stormed the halls with thunder eyes, her voice all steel and fire,
But every runner watching knew her scowl was half a liar.
Behind her glare, a spark of pride, a laughter held in check,
She wore command upon her face, but joy upon her neck.

Chorus

Holly and ribbon, tied up tight—
Hearthswarming jest and APS might!
Iliyria stone-faced, hiding her grin,
Lowshade scowls like a winter wind.
Raise your mugs and tip your cap—
APS won the Battle of the Hat!

Verse 6

The verdict came like winter rain: “Apology—by hand.
Six months scrubbing bathroom stalls to learn what laws demand.”
Orlea bowed, “To Lowshade, Sir: I’m sorry—just a tad.”
She signed it neat, then winked at us: “Still subtle?”—“Aye!”—“Not bad.”

Chorus

Holly and ribbon, tied up tight—
Hearthswarming dare in the winter night!
Iliyria stone-faced, hiding her grin,
Lowshade scowls like a winter wind.
Raise your mugs and tip your cap—
APS won the Battle of the Hat!

Bridge (Half-time, hush the room)

There’s wars with blades and wars with wit, and wars that leave no scar—
Some legends bloom from ribbon knots and how we raise the bar.
If courage means you take the blame to shield your reckless brats,
Then crown our Commander with a smile—and Lowshade with his hat.

Final Chorus (Double tempo—last round loud)

Holly and ribbon, tie it tight—
Skif was wrong, and Orlea’s right!
Letters penned and floors scrubbed clean,
Still the slyest caper seen.
Clash your mugs and tip your cap—
APS won the Battle of the Hat!
(Tag): APS! (clap clap) APS! (clap clap) GUARD YOUR HATS!