While Team 7 Is Away...

The APS Intramural Council

The common room of the APS Boarding House was less a room and more a persistent experiment in entropy. It accumulated couches the way a pond accumulates frogs: nobody remembered where any of them came from, and every year the pattern of upholstery got a little stranger. Old campaign posters peeled from the plaster; the wood-paneled walls, once a mark of class, now served mainly as a ladder for the legions of cats that waged silent war over every soft surface.

Tonight, the room held seven Runners and one bookworm, not counting the aforementioned cats, who divided themselves evenly between the windowsill and the warmest lap available. A hurricane lamp hissed on the low table. The hearth held a few sticks of smoldering pine, adding its resinous tang to the clatter and squawk of evening debate.

Nyx lounged atop a battered chaise, boots on the armrest and a mug of cider warming his hands. He flicked a penny in the air, caught it, and aimed a sidelong look at Niya, who was kneeling on the rug over a chessboard, her brow furrowed in a crisis of strategy.

"So, how's their extended 'vacation' going, do you think?" Nyx asked, pitching his voice to carry over the conversation. "Any word from Team Seven? Any rumors of them, you know, actually doing their jobs?"

Niya made a tutting noise, never looking up from the board. "They’re not on vacation. They’re on assignment."

Faleth, cross-legged in the window seat, hummed softly, her eyes following the cats more than the conversation. "It does seem like a long assignment," she said. "I hope they’re getting enough sleep."

"Who cares about sleep?" Dalliance called from the settee, his tail draped artfully over the throw pillow. He was cradling his violin as though it were an infant, running a soft arpeggio up and down the neck. "Brynne probably has them up before dawn, doing calisthenics and running drills. Poor bastards."

Nyx flashed a grin. "Yes, and the weather in Volfast is famously lovely this time of year," he drawled. "Nothing says fun like twenty below, xenophobic locals, and a near-lethal concentration of black-market chili vodka."

The room absorbed this in silence for a moment. Then, from the kitchen alcove, Gilene piped up without looking away from her book: "You’re exaggerating. The lowest it’s gotten in Volfast this season is minus nine." She licked her finger, turned the page, and continued reading.

"Thank you, Gilene," said Isylte, who was sprawled across two armchairs, head hanging off the edge and hair grazing the floor. She was juggling a handful of dried beans in the air, catching them in her mouth with the precision of a trained ferret. "Our resident weather oracle strikes again."

Niya looked up, frowning. "Anyway, we don’t know that’s where Team Seven even went," she said. "They could have been sent anywhere. Iliyria was really cagey about it."

Everyone turned to stare at her. Even the chessboard seemed to lean in, interested.

Nyx gave it half a beat, then: "Niya, they left the briefing with a satchel marked 'Volfast' in four-inch letters. Their most recent addition was a member of the LITERAL Volfast rebellion group, It’s not exactly a state secret."

"It’s pretty obvious what they're doing," Dalliance said, resting his chin on his hands. "Brynne's been itching to go back to Volfast ever since, well, you know." He waggled his eyebrows for emphasis.

Faleth nodded, a lock of hair bobbing over her nose. "We all knew it would happen eventually," she said.

The room fell into a rare silence, punctuated by a single, perfectly timed yawn from one of the cats.

After a while, Isylte flipped upright, knocking her bean jar over in the process. "Okay," she announced, "but can we talk about what's going on with Sylren? I can’t be the only one who’s noticed it. She’s been... weird. Like, extra Sylren-y."

Dalliance pursed his lips in an exaggerated pout. "She hasn’t paid me the slightest attention all week," he complained. "Not even when I got locked out of the changing room in the basement after sparring last week, wearing nothing but a towel. If she doesn’t scold me, who am I even?"

Felara, from her perch by the fire, snorted. "Maybe you’re just jealous you’re not her favorite problem child anymore," she said. "Now she’s got all these bright-eyed rookies to lecture."

Orlea, who’d been uncharacteristically quiet, reached under her chair and produced a notebook with "APS Official Business" scrawled in three colors of ink across the cover. She licked the tip of her pencil, opened to a blank page, and spoke in her best imitation of a city judge. "Motion to open the meeting of the APS Intramural Council, topic: Commander Sylren’s Recent Behavioral Anomalies. All in favor?"

There was a chorus of aye’s. Nyx tapped his mug against the table for good measure.

"First order of business," Orlea intoned, "is the Alavara Situation. I think we can all agree that when those two are in a room together, the vibes go off like a leyline in heat."

Felara raised her hand. "Obvious answer: ex-lovers. It's classic Tower drama."

Nyx raised his hand as well, and his eyebrow. "Current lovers. They probably have some secret side quest to reignite the old flame."

Isylte twirled a bean between her fingers. "No, no," she said. "It’s clearly a long-lost family thing. I mean, have you seen the way Sylren looks at her? It’s all... tragic and yearning. Like she’s remembering some ancient heartbreak."

Dalliance leaned forward, eyes wide. "Oooh, what if Alavara is Sylren’s secret missing daughter, lost in the war and now finally found? So tragic!"

Niya dropped her rook and shook her head. "Guys, this is really inappropriate," she said. Then, after a short silence, "But what if they’re twins? Separated at birth, classic switcheroo." She smiled, pleased with herself.

Gilene, still at her book, let out a sharp, derisive snort. "They don't look anything alike, and they’re not even close in age," she said without looking up. "You all read too many penny novels."

Niya pouted. "We shouldn’t rule anything out. Alavara could be hiding her real age. Elves do that sometimes."

"She’s not that kind of elf," said Isylte, but she did not sound convinced.

The room lapsed into a rapid-fire brainstorming session, the kind that was equal parts communal therapy and competitive sport. Orlea scribbled the theories onto her notebook with manic energy, giving each a formal heading: "Tragic Lovers," "Long-Lost Kin," "Clandestine Twins," "Demon Host Body Swaps," "Accidental Cloning," "Illegal Tower Experiments," and, for reasons lost to posterity, "Sylren’s Actually Three Kobolds in a Trenchcoat (see attached diagram)."

They were interrupted only when Isylte, giggling uncontrollably, drew a crude sketch of Sylren with three sets of shoes poking out from beneath her robes. This was so infectious that even Gilene, in her seat of wisdom, had to stifle a laugh.

Orlea cleared her throat, adopting her best judge’s voice. "Okay, I think we have enough theories for one evening. All those in favor of opening a betting pool on which is correct?"

The Runners erupted in cheers, some real, some facetious. Nyx poured another round of cider for the table, and Dalliance produced from his coat a battered deck of cards, dealing them out with theatrical precision. The cats made a game of swatting the cards as they landed.

The lamp guttered low, painting the walls with the wobbly shadows of conspirators at work. For all their nonsense, the Runners looked content: nothing brought people together like a shared obsession with other people’s secrets.

When the betting pool closed, the room took on a more contemplative air. Nyx rolled a coin across his knuckles and said, "You know, whatever it is, it's probably something really simple. Like they're just both allergic to the new cleaning solvent in the meeting room and don’t want to admit it."

Dalliance grinned, raising his mug in salute. "Or maybe they're both in a secret society, sworn to save the world, and we're just their cover band."

"Speak for yourself," said Felara, who was already two mugs in. "I intend to headline the world tour."

They toasted, and the world outside the boarding house faded into the night.

Tomorrow, they would get back to work. But for tonight, the mystery belonged to them.

Showtime

The next morning, the mood in the APS bullpen was a beehive in a thunderstorm: busy, anxious, and likely to sting at the first provocation. The all-hands had run late and as a result the squadron was two hours behind on paperwork and an hour late for morning patrol. The Runners stood in loose clusters by the big chalkboard, comparing route assignments, trading rumors, and mainlining caffeine in the hope of surviving both.

Kethry was the first to notice something off. She was restocking the medical kit when a sharp, metallic rhythm reached her through the window—chanting, not the usual city drone. She drifted over, careful not to make a scene, and pulled the curtain back with two fingers.

The others saw her freeze, cat-like, at the glass. When she turned to the room, her face was a shade paler than usual. “Guys,” she said, voice quiet but clear, “I think we have a problem.”

Dalliance, in the middle of tuning his violin, looked up. “If it’s the city tax assessor, we can hide in the basement. I checked, he’s afraid of dogs and strong cheese.”

“It’s not the tax man,” said Kethry. “Just come look.”

Within seconds, the entire bullpen was crowding the window. Outside, the square in front of APS headquarters had filled with bodies—a clot of citizens, a few hundred at least, packed shoulder to shoulder and bristling with signs. Most of the signs were hand-lettered in angry block: “NO MORE DEMON-KIN IN LAW ENFORCEMENT,” “DITCH THE WITCH,” “REAL HUMANS FOR THE REAL CITY.” The largest banner, held aloft by four burly men, read “RESTORE THE EMPIRE” with the double eagle of the Arethian flag spray-painted beneath.

The crowd’s focal point was a crude poster of Iliyria Sylren, drawn with wild hair, fangs, and what looked like a tiny, burning city clenched in her fist. The caption was less than original: “ELF OUT.”

Gerard, a mid-level Runner who had the face of a retriever and the nerves to match, whistled through his teeth. “Well, today just got interesting. I recognize some of these people— they’re SAE. Sons of the Arethian Empire. Didn’t think they’d get this bold in daylight.”

Felara, slouched against a filing cabinet, let her hand hover near her dagger. “They usually just paint threats on the alley walls and scurry home. This is… organized.”

Faleth, who’d never been much for crowds, wrung her hands. “How do we get out of here?” she asked, eyes wide.

Dalliance gave a theatrical sigh, stood up, and dusted off his lapels. “I suppose it would be rude to keep an adoring crowd waiting,” he deadpanned. “They’ve probably rehearsed this all week.”

Felara moved to block the door as he approached. “You idiot, you are exactly the wrong person to go out there,” she muttered.

He shrugged, all showman. “I’m exactly the right person. I will not be cowed by bigots, and besides—” his eyes twinkled—“someone needs to remind them how to have a civil conversation.”

Nyx, who had somehow produced a set of dark glasses, slid them on and gave a low whistle. “If you get trampled, can I have your violin?”

“Sure, you can,” Dalliance replied, and strode toward the front entrance with all the gravity of a man heading for his own execution, and determined to make it entertaining.

There was a second’s hesitation before Felara followed, muttering about “tiefling pride” and “idiots with martyr complexes.” Then Uvak and Radiance, the two-inseparable, fell in behind, joined by the rest of the bullpen. Kethry closed the march, one hand clutching the first-aid kit, the other already glowing with the faint outline of a protective spell.

They stepped outside as one, Dalliance in the lead, and were met with a wall of jeers and the sour, hot breath of mob excitement. The crowd, stunned for a moment to see the objects of their rage walk out on their own, parted just enough for the APS to reach the top of the steps.

Dalliance lifted his arms, letting the morning sun catch the sharp cut of his horns and the deep red of his skin. He projected his voice with the easy power of a man who’d played to tougher rooms. “Ladies and gentlemen!” he called. “Thank you for exercising your right to peaceful protest. It warms my heart to see such civic engagement. But if everyone could please allow a path, we really do have to get out and do our jobs.”

The crowd wavered. Some, unsure if this was a joke, laughed. Others booed. Then a rock, the size of a child’s fist, sailed from the middle of the mass and caught Dalliance just above the eyebrow. Blood streamed instantly down his cheek.

For a second, the square was utterly silent.

Radiance, who had been clutching Uvak’s arm, jerked free and ran to Dalliance’s side. She wiped the blood away with her sleeve, then turned to the crowd, her golden eyes aflame. “Is that what you want?” she shouted. “You want a show? Here it is.”

The mob roared to life, pushing closer, but the APS did not flinch. Dalliance straightened, grinned, and with a flourish bowed to his attacker. “Excellent aim!” he said. “I’ll be sure to mention you in my memoir.”

The rest of the squad filed out behind him, forming a wedge at the foot of the steps. Felara’s hand never left her dagger, but she kept it sheathed, her eyes locked on the crowd for any sign of escalation. Uvak stepped forward, his presence alone clearing an extra foot of space; even bigots respected a wall of orc muscle.

The standoff was absolute. The APS, outnumbered and surrounded, but upright, hands off weapons. The crowd, emboldened by numbers but unsure how far to go with violence against the city’s only hope for magical containment. For several heartbeats, the world held its breath.

Nyx, whose sense for tension was uncanny, leaned close to Kethry. “If they start throwing eggs, duck. That stuff’s hell on suede.”

Kethry nodded, scanning the faces in the crowd for anyone familiar or dangerously intent.

The second rock hit the pavement, skidding to a stop near Felara’s boot. She eyed it, then the crowd, then without warning picked it up and hurled it back, overhand, into the air above their heads. It arced and landed with a dull thud somewhere in the back.

Radiance stepped forward, hands up. “We’re here to protect you,” she said, her voice ringing with a resonance that could only come from someone who had believed, desperately, in every word. “You can hate us, you can call us monsters, but when the demons break through, it’s us standing between you and the void. Don’t you get it?”

Someone in the front, emboldened by the call-and-response, shouted, “We’d rather the demons! At least they’re honest!” The chant caught and spread, ugly and infectious: “Demons better than traitors! Demons better than traitors!”

Dalliance was about to reply, something biting, no doubt, when a third rock flew. This one went wide, but the intent was clear.

The Runners held their ground. No one moved, not an inch, even as the crowd began to press inward, the line between peaceful protest and riot blurring by the second. Uvak and Felara shifted stance, ready for anything. Dalliance wiped blood from his eye and played the violin, soft, a counter-melody to the shouted slogans.

The Count of Five

The morning began with the familiar chorus of runners’ boots, but the offices above the APS HQ were quieter than usual; every mind preoccupied, every glance edged with worry. Inside one of the smaller conference rooms, Iliyria and Jarren stood shoulder to shoulder behind a long table, the surface lost beneath a sargasso of incident reports. The tower of paperwork had grown so vast that it leaned dangerously to one side, and at the apex, a mug of black tea served as the only anchor to normalcy.

Jarren read aloud from the latest sheet, “Another sighting in East Market, four dead, city Watch swept it under the rug again, and they’re requesting an APS consult in the afternoon. There’s also… three more demon-adjacent felonies reported overnight, and someone stole a shipment of salt from the refinery.”

He passed the report to Iliyria, who skimmed it, brow knitting further with every line. “We’re losing ground,” she said. “At this rate, we’ll be down to half staff before the end of the season.”

She tossed the report onto the heap, which creaked ominously.

“It’s not just us,” Jarren said. “City Watch is stretched thin, too, but they’re making it worse by refusing our runners on mixed teams. It’s like they’d rather lose than share credit.”

Iliyria huffed. “Lowshade’s orders. He wants us to fail. Then he can point to the Council and say ‘see, told you so.’” She mimicked the Watch Commander’s self-satisfied drawl, drawing a rare smile from Jarren.

The smile faded quickly. “You want my honest take?” he said. “If the demon incidents keep doubling like this, we’ll have a city-wide breach before the equinox. And with Team Seven gone, we’ve lost our best counter.”

Iliyria didn’t answer, just ran a hand through her hair, setting it further adrift. She thought back to the last Council session, the one where Lawmaster Runecoat had nearly decapitated Lowshade with her bare hands. The image brought her a moment of savage satisfaction. At least someone else saw the disaster coming. Now if only Sanibalis would do something other than wring his hands and ask for more compromise.

They were interrupted by a sharp, percussive crack against the window. A stone bounced off the glass hard enough to leave a white bullseye. Jarren was at the window in a heartbeat, peering down into the square.

“Problem?” Iliyria asked, not looking up from the file.

Jarren didn’t answer at first. He just beckoned her over.

Iliyria rose, stretched the knots from her back, and joined him at the window. Below, the square was a boiling mass of protestors, chanting and waving banners. The line of APS runners was at the top of the steps, the crowd pushing in around them. A few signs caught the morning sun: “HUMANS FOR HUMANS,” “ELVES GO HOME,” “NO DEMON-KIN.” In the thick of it, Dalliance stood, blood streaming from a cut on his temple, and Radiance was at his side, her horns gleaming.

“Gods,” Iliyria said, her voice flat.

Another stone hit the window, not as hard, but the intent was clear.

“They’re going to push through,” Jarren said. “You want me to call in the City Watch?”

Iliyria shook her head. “Lowshade will let them take a beating. He wants an incident.” She was already moving, out the door and down the stairs three at a time, Jarren on her heels.

They burst into the bullpen, the place empty, everyone already outside.

“Stay put,” Iliyria ordered Valpip, whose head peeked out of his workroom. “If it goes south, lock down and get the suppression wards active.”

She didn’t wait for a response. She strode to the vestibule, flung open the door, and stepped outside.

The crowd was a beast with hundreds of faces, all of them turned toward the line of APS runners. Some were red with anger, some white with fear, most somewhere in between. At the head, Dalliance dabbed at the blood on his face, while Radiance held his arm, ready to incinerate anyone who got too close.

Another stone was cocked back in a woman’s hand, ready to throw.

Iliyria stepped in front of her line. She lifted her right hand, and a shimmer of violet energy blossomed between her and the crowd. Wall of Force, six feet tall and thin as a sheet of paper, but dense enough to break a charging bull.

The stone left the woman’s hand, hit the barrier, and fell to the cobbles.

The crowd, at first, didn’t register the change. Then, as more people tried to push forward, bounced off the invisible wall, the mood shifted. Anger gave way to confusion, confusion to a wary, creeping awe.

Iliyria let the moment stretch, then cleared her throat, amplifying the sound with just a thread of magic.

“Listen up,” she called. “There are two ways this ends. One, I order my Runners to arrest everyone here for assault on a public officer, and you all spend the night in a cozy holding cell. Or two, you disperse peacefully, and let my people get back to the job of protecting you and your city from what’s actually out there.”

She let the words sink in. “You have until the count of five to make up your minds.”

She started counting, crisp as a parade marshal. “Five.”

The front line of the mob hesitated, looking for a sign from their ringleaders.

“Four.”

In the silence, a dozen voices muttered, uncertain.

“Three.”

Someone in the middle turned to leave. Two more followed.

“Two.”

The crowd was already in retreat, the bravado gone. The banners drooped, feet shuffled backward, the old self-preservation rising over the mob’s anger.

“One.”

By the time Iliyria reached zero, the square was nearly empty, the remaining diehards huddled in sullen knots.

She dropped the wall and turned to her Runners. “Next time,” she said calmly, “come get me before you make a dramatic stand. I appreciate the courage, but I’d rather not have to fill out casualty reports for pride.”

The runners, embarrassed but grateful, nodded.

Jarren waited at the door. “You handled that well,” he said.

Iliyria shrugged. “Bought myself some time, at least. They’ll be back.”

They re-entered the office, and Iliyria scanned the mess of reports still waiting. The city was a little less safe than the day before. But for now, her people were protected. That was the job. That was always the job.

She picked up her mug, now lukewarm, and sipped it anyway.

“Let’s get to work,” she said, and Jarren grinned. “Right behind you, boss.”

There were still demons in the world, but for the moment, Iliyria Sylren had bought the Capitol one more day of peace.