Chapter 21 – Free Souvenir

“Oh…” Eliza sighed, the porcelain mask tilting downward in clear displeasure. She tapped a finger against the closed lid of the box. “That is unfortunate. Cooperation makes things so much easier. We would really appreciate it if you d-“

“My apologies for the interruption.”

The voice didn’t come from the table. It came from directly beside it.

Everyone froze.

Beside William, the air rippled violently. The absolute silence of the sound-dampening field shuddered, and for a split second, the roar of the lounge—clinking glasses, laughter, the distant announcer—bled through like static interference before William frantically clamped his concentration back down.

“I do hope I am not intruding,” the voice continued, smooth as velvet drawn over gravel, “but I was hoping for a few moments of your time. It is a matter pertaining to the Cellar’s integrity.”

Alice turned her head.

Celo was standing at the edge of the booth. Hands clasped behind his back. Tuxedo absorbing the dim light. The wooden arrow bisecting his mask pointed downward at the table with its usual, relentless accusation.

Nobody had seen him approach. He had simply been absent, and then he had not been.

Eliza recovered first. She straightened in her seat with the practised ease of a woman who had been startled at better parties than this, and turned to face him. Her grip on the wine glass tightened by a fraction.

“Celo,” she greeted, her tone acquiring frost. “You have a terrible habit of materialising beside people. It’s rude.”

“Occupational hazard,” Celo replied.

“Yes, well.” She waved a hand. “You are intruding. We are in the middle of a private discussion. Come back when we’ve finished.”

“I am afraid that will not be possible,” Celo said. He hadn’t moved, but something about his stillness had changed—a density to it, as though the air around him had quietly decided to pay attention. “Asking for your time was a formality.”

Eliza bristled. She was not accustomed to being refused, and certainly not by staff. “Fine,” she said, clipping the word short. “What is it?”

Celo tilted his head. The crossguard of his mask cast a sharp shadow across his shirtfront.

“Miss Sheltie,” he murmured, and the politeness had gone thin enough to see through. “Are you so dense that you have not realised? Or has the wine done the thinking for you this evening?”

Eliza went still. Her jaw tightened behind the porcelain, the mask tilting upward in a motion that was pure reflex—indignation, compressed and swallowed. She took a breath. Held it. Let it go. She was remembering, Alice suspected, exactly whose basement she was sitting in.

“If this is about the damages caused by my forfeiture,” Eliza said, her voice levelled with effort, “I can assure you there was no collusion. Miss Dragonslayer and I met minutes ago. There was no fixing.” She reached for the ebony box. “This is a truth detector. I can prove it. I have never—”

She went to flip the latch. Two gloved fingers descended onto the lid and pressed it shut.

Celo hadn’t grabbed her wrist. He hadn’t needed to. The two fingers rested on the ebony with the gentle, absolute authority of a paperweight.

“I have no reason to doubt the words of your esteemed self,” he said softly. “Match fixing is not why I am here.”

He withdrew his hand.

“Rather—”

The air in the booth changed.

It was not gradual. It was not a creeping unease or a slow tightening of the throat. The atmospheric pressure inside the small, enclosed space spiked—violently, specifically, and all at once, as though an invisible hand had closed around the booth and squeezed.

Alice’s lungs seized. The breath she’d been drawing simply stopped, the air refusing to enter, her diaphragm flattening under a weight that had no source and no shape. Her shoulders drove downward into the leather as though something enormous were sitting on them. The edges of her vision darkened.

Beside her, William made a thin, strangled sound. His eyes lost focus. His hands slid off the table.

Pop.

The sound barrier collapsed. The noise of the lounge crashed back in—a tidal wave of laughter, chips, chatter—slamming into them at full volume after the hermetic quiet of the field.

Whatever remained of Eliza’s composure burned away. Sweat broke across her neck, sliding beneath the rim of the porcelain. She gripped the edge of the table, knuckles bloodless, her spine bowing forward under the pressure even as she fought to keep it straight.

“This is regarding your actions in the arena against Miss Dragonslayer,” Celo said. His voice had not risen by a single decibel. It didn’t need to. “The puppeteering of an opponent. Forcing a fighter to accept a duel against her will. Violation of the sanctity of the pit.”

The pressure increased. The table groaned.

“Unsportsmanlike,” Celo said. “And forbidden.”

“Celo—” Alice choked. Black spots swarmed her vision. Her diaphragm was a fist, clenched and refusing to open. “Please.“

The weight vanished.

Air rushed back into the booth with a cold hiss, and Alice sucked it in—a ragged, greedy gulp that burned on the way down. William pitched forward onto the table, clutching his chest, wheezing in short, wretched bursts.

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

Celo took a step back. He brushed something invisible from his sleeve.

“My apologies to Boxer and Dragonslayer,” he said, inclining his head. “I was inconsiderate. I had not realised I had released my presence to such a degree. It happens when I am… disappointed.”

Eliza was still upright. Barely. Her breathing was shallow and controlled—the breathing of someone who refused to gasp in front of an audience. She stared at Celo, and behind the porcelain, Alice could see the recalculation happening in real time. The man she had been dismissing as floor staff had just flattened three people with his ambient displeasure.

“If it was against the rules,” Eliza said, finding her voice, “and you knew—why didn’t you intervene sooner?”

Celo paused. The arrow remained still.

He let out a breath—a long, human sound that sat oddly against the wooden mask. A sigh.

“I wish I could have,” he said. His voice was low, and for the first time, it sounded like it belonged to a person rather than a position. “I was moments away from stopping the match. But…”

He trailed off. His head turned slightly, as though listening to something none of them could hear.

He shook it off.

“Regardless,” he said, and the steel was back. “What you have done is a violation, and it is done. We are required to respond.”

He looked down at Eliza. The arrow pointed like a sentence being passed.

“Henceforth, you are banned from the premises of the Cellar. By extension, you are barred from Sorto Manor and any affiliated establishments.”

“That’s all?” Eliza asked. Her cadence had returned—not fully, but enough to serve. She set her wine glass down with a precise clink, smoothed the front of her coat, and checked her cuffs with the air of a woman preparing to leave a tedious luncheon. “Banned from the premises. Devastating. I shall struggle to sleep tonight, knowing I’ve been barred from a basement.”