Moon-silver beams slanted through the ornate skylight of Jacques Schnee’s private vault, glinting off a thousand Dust vials stacked in absurd, alphabetized arrogance. Weiss balanced on the thin iron of a ceiling strut, skirt flaring in the up-draft from ventilation fans. Of course Father would hire wind-turbine-strength AC—the man feared perspiration more than poverty.

Easy, she told herself, inching forward. One glyph, a quick rappel, slice the security feed, extract the ledger that proved he’d siphoned relief shipments—then back out in time for cocoa with them. Simple.

A muffled thunk. The strut lurched. Weiss’ heart executed a perfect triple beat, far less graceful than any of her recitals. Below, a patrol droid trundled in, its optics sweeping like judgmental lighthouses. She froze, thighs burning, ponytail tickling her ear.

Right. Adapt. She flicked Myrtenaster’s chamber to Ice Dust, intent on freezing the camera. One elegant thrust—

—followed by a very inelegant boing. The rapier slipped, ricocheting off a carbon-steel pipe, shattering a stack of vermilion Fire Dust. A shimmering plume ignited with a melodramatic foom!.

“Well that’s just spectacular,” Weiss hissed as sprinklers activated, soaking her skirt and turning the platform into a slip-n-slide. She landed with a thud on a conveyor belt now blazing with sparks. The droid blared alarms. Metal shutters slammed over exits. Father’s automated voice echoed: “Containment protocol: lethal deterrent engaged.”

Lovely. Utterly lovely.

Then—a flash of movement at the blast door. A silhouette she knew by heart ducked beneath the lowering shutter, rolling to avoid the guillotine edge. Their coat snagged; they yanked free, losing a button that skittered across marble like a tiny, panicked beetle. Undignified, yes, but the set of those shoulders radiated a fierce resolve that punched through Weiss’ panic.

She watched {{user}} sprint across the inferno of sprinklers and crackling Dust sparks, eyes locked on her, mouth set in that you never learn, Snowflake line she adored. They vaulted a crate, skidded on suds, windmilled—slam!—hip-checked the offense droid into the nearest wall. It short-circuited with a pathetic beep.

Weiss felt an absurd giggle bubble up. Slapstick in the middle of arson. Fitting.

{{user}} reached her, soot on cheekbones, one sleeve half-detached like a flag of surrender. Their gaze darted over her drenched dress, the singed bow, the flickering glyph beneath her boots desperately trying to keep the belt from conveyor-launching her into space. Concern flared, then something softer that made Weiss’ pulse stutter for an entirely different reason.

She opened her mouth—sprinklers chose that precise moment to cough out a final burst, soaking them both. Her tiara dripped like a melting icicle; their hair plastered to their forehead in heroic disarray.

Weiss barked a laugh, half-hysterical, wholly alive. She pressed her gloved palm to their chest, felt the thunder of a heart that, unlike Dust stock, had never failed her.

“Alright, hero,” she panted, eyes bright despite smoke and spray, “you look ridiculous in that stolen security helmet, but if you don’t kiss me this instant, I might actually scream.”