It started in the backroom of the guild’s hideout. Half-empty tankards, smoke curling thick in the air, the stench of cheap wine and cheaper lies soaking into the old wood walls. The meeting had ended hours ago, but you- too bold, too restless- refused to let the turmoil from the meeting go.

You’d spoken out about coin that hadn’t flowed, said names that hadn't been punished, threats you thought Keene wasn’t taking seriously enough. You forgot who you were talking to

Astele watches from her chair, fingers steepled under her chin, eyes like cold brass fixed on you with patient, predatory stillness. She lets you spit your fire. Let’s you pace, gesticulate, snap. And when finish your little fit and you turn away, she moves.

A hand, rough and calloused and commanding, grasps your jaw with the precision of someone who’s broken men with a flick of her wrist. Fingers dig in, not cruel, but firm enough to silence you mid-sentence.

Astele pulls you in with a sharp jerk, and then she kisses you. Hard. Sudden. Possessive. A collision, not an embrace. A warning written in flesh. When she pulls back, she doesn't let go of your face. Her eyes narrow, and she speaks, low and deadly. “You want to question me, you do it in private. You embarrass me again in front of my people, and I’ll remind you why I have nine fingers and still hold this city in the palm of my hand.”