Cyria Amberfang leaned against the edge of her white marble desk, her long fox tail swaying with a rhythmic, hypnotic slow-motion. She watched Aiven with golden, slit-pupiled eyes that seemed to calculate his net worth, his mana capacity, and his fear all at once.

  "You look overwhelmed, Aiven Roan," Cyria purred, gesturing with a manicured hand toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. Beyond the glass, the morning sun glinted off the hulls of Vulpine airships and the polished roofs of the industrial plants. "You're wondering why a private company has an army in tailored suits and a spire that dwarfs the government’s own regional offices."

  Aiven gripped the straps of his backpack, his throat feeling dry. "Who are you?"

  Before Cyria could answer, Virelle drifted between them, her hair shimmering with a dangerous violet light. She loomed slightly over the fox beastfolk, her eyes narrowed into slits of pure suspicion.

  "She is obviously another hussy trying to seduce my Master," Virelle declared, her voice dripping with aristocratic venom. She flicked her translucent sleeve toward Cyria’s elegant attire. "Only this one has the audacity to be wealthy. Do not be fooled by the tail and the smiles, Master. Rich predators are the most tiresome of all."

  Aiven felt the familiar heat of embarrassment climb up his neck. "Virelle, please. I am not that popular. Stop assuming every woman we meet is trying to seduce me." He gestured vaguely to his flickering brass arm and his stained shirt. "I’m a handicapped man with barely any cash and a death warrant on my head."

  Cyria let out a delighted, musical laugh that echoed off the marble walls. She didn't look offended; if anything, she seemed thoroughly entertained. "Oh, you two are wonderful! It’s amazing that despite being wanted by the entire Aerilis government for high-level anomalies, you still find the energy to bicker so entertainingly. It’s a breath of fresh air."

  The fox stood up straight, smoothing her dark jacket. "But he is right—a proper introduction is in order. I am Cyria Amberfang, the owner of Vulpine."

  Aiven’s brow furrowed. "Vulpine... I saw that logo occasionally back in Lowhaven when I was doing logistics jobs. If I recall correctly, it was mostly on vehicle parts and mana-engine housing."

  "That’s merely the tip of the tail," Cyria said, walking toward the window. "Vulpine is the parent company of a dozen different brands across almost every industry. We build the Pawrari engines you see in high-end mana cars—you’ve heard of the Pawrari, I assume?"

  "The Pawrari?" Aiven blinked. "Of course. It’s one of the top three vehicle manufacturers in the empire. I just didn't realize there was a parent company behind it."

  "There is. And that parent company is us," Cyria stated, her voice full of a playful but absolute authority. "We operate in Food and Beverages, real estate, and we even hold the primary contracts for the government’s own communication technology. But more importantly, Aiven... Fangreach is unique. It is a private island. Vulpine owns one hundred percent of this land. Every blade of grass, every stone in this spire, and every person wearing a uniform belongs to me."

  Aiven looked out at the sprawling city below with a new sense of scale. "You mean..."

  "I mean that here, the law is whatever I decide it is," Cyria said, turning back to him with a sharp, predatory intensity. "I haven't disclosed your status to the government, and I don't intend to. Even if the central Aerilis Council suspects I am harboring fugitives, there is very little they can do. They rely far too much on my supply chains to risk a confrontation over a single clerk and an unregistered mage."

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Aiven saw a glimmer of hope—a way to finally stop running. But Virelle didn't share his optimism. She drifted forward, her prismatic orb humming like a restrained growl.

  "And what exactly makes you think you are in a position to bargain, fox?" Virelle hissed. "I could simply eradicate this entire architectural eyesore, or perhaps threaten to blast a hole through that pretty orange skull of yours to ensure your eternal silence regarding our whereabouts."

  Cyria didn't flinch. She simply tilted her head, her golden eyes reflecting the swirling mana of Virelle's orb. "You certainly could," she replied, her voice remaining as smooth as silk. "But let's be professional. Blasting this building would trigger a series of autonomous emergency alarms linked directly to the closest island with government authorities. And as for threatening to kill me?" She chuckled, a sharp, knowing sound. "That would mean nothing. I know you won't do it."

  Virelle’s lip curled. "You presume much for a creature of flesh and fur."

  "I presume nothing," Cyria countered, stepping closer to the hovering mage. "I calculate. Killing me makes everything pointless for you. It would make news headlines, the alarms would sound anyway, and you would give the central government a very real, very bloody reason to escalate their hunt. You'd be trading a quiet refuge for a death sentence. And I think we both know you care too much for your Master’s safety to make such a messy mistake."

  Virelle stayed silent, her mana flickering but not dissipating.

  Cyria turned back to Aiven, her golden eyes softening. "Nothing is free in this world, and I hate waste. I learned about the two of you a few days ago through my information network, and I’ve been tracking your progress ever since. I have a need for individuals with your... specific lack of a magical ceiling. I need your help to secure certain ancient artifacts that my regular units have had quite a bit of trouble retrieving."

  She leaned in close to Aiven, the scent of expensive perfume and wild musk filling his senses. "Work for me, secure these items for Vulpine, and I will make sure the government forgets you ever existed."

  Aiven looked at her, his voice quiet. "We don't really have a choice at this moment, do we?"

  Cyria smiled, her amber ears twitching playfully. "Oh, you always have a choice. It’s just that sometimes, the choice is so obvious it feels like there’s nothing else worth considering."

  Aiven turned to the window, looking out over Fangreach. He saw the sprawling lush trees, the elegant buildings, and the rhythmic pulse of fountains scattered throughout the city. Below, expensive mana-rovers and bikes glided through the streets. It was undeniably prosperous. If this was to be a cage, at least it beat running around in the dirt, hopping islands, and spending his days in a cold sweat of constant fear.

  He didn't intend to be a lapdog for Vulpine—not indefinitely. While carrying out their bargain, he would need to think of a contingency in case things went wrong, but for now, this was undoubtedly the best path forward.

  "What happens after the deal is done?" Aiven asked, his gaze returning to the Fox.

  "That depends," Cyria said, her golden eyes shimmering. "You can roam freely, though if it's outside of Fangreach, I may not be able to promise your safety. Or, we can work out other deals later down the line. I'm always open for discussions."

  Aiven took a deep breath, his mechanical hand whirring as he tightened his grip on the straps of his bag. Albeit reluctantly, he nodded. "Alright. We have a deal. But I want a proper residence, and I want Marnie Anvilrun’s status checked immediately. She's in the Lowhaven Industrial District. If she’s in trouble because of us... you get her out."

  Cyria’s amber fox ears twitched, and she let out a musical, genuine laugh that seemed to light up the marble room. She walked right into his personal space, her tail swaying with a rhythmic grace. "Spoken like a true executive. Marnie Anvilrun is a name I know; her theories on mana-gears are quite popular in our R&D labs. Consider her safety a signed clause in our agreement."

  She then turned to the Lion in the suit by the door. "Vane, show our new partners to the 'Aether Labs' on the forty-eighth floor. And tell the kitchen to send up a proper breakfast—the kind with the gold-flecked tortoise buns."

  Virelle huffed, crossing her arms, but she followed Aiven toward the elevator. The hunt was over, but the game had just begun.