Being a cop was a lot like patching up a leaky boat with duct tape.
You knew it probably wasn't enough, but you kept at it anyway because if you didn't, the damn thing might just sink outright.
The pay was ass.
Half the days were spent dealing with fucking shitheads—both from the rest of the community and, sometimes, from the other guys on the force.
Every once in a while, a coked up egoistical fucker with his Aura unlocked goes on a bitch fest and ruins everyone's day, and you're stuck shooting bullets that don't do shit waiting for an equally egotistical fucker on your side to put the first fucker down.
Most people hated you, openly or not. No fanfare, no respect. Kids didn't grow up thinking, "Gee whiz, I wanna be a cop when I grow up!"
Hell, he hadn't even wanted to be a cop himself. Double hell, not even his own daughter wanted to be one, and thank the gods for that small mercy.
Nah, Vicky wanted none of her old man's shtick. She wanted to be a huntress! A cool, badass huntress who protected humanity, fought scary Grimm, and trashed streets, leaving the underpaid cops and exhausted cleanup crews to fix the shit they broke. They swaggered around like they owned the place, expecting everyone to grovel at their feet while the rest of the world bent over backward for them before fucking off and letting the underpaid cops and the rest of the little guys to clean up their messes.
IF they bothered showing up in time that is. Huge IF.
Fucking cocksuckers...
Mike just hoped this whole huntress obsession would go the same way her dreams of being a wrestler, a princess, a clown, and a goddamn astronaut (of all things) had gone. Kids didn't stick to anything too long; they'd fall in love with the idea of something, but when it came down to the actual work? They'd drop it like a hot potato.
Still more reliable than those glorified mercenaries, though.
If there was one silver lining to his latest reassignment, it was not having to deal with those schmucks anymore. Nope. Not here. Out in this little village, which was barely a speck on the map of Mistral, he was blissfully free of their crap.
Not a day passed without him regretting ever coming to Sable, though. It might've been the closest thing to a punishment without outright firing him. A big ol' "fuck you" disguised as an opportunity. "Oh, Officer Mike, you're being entrusted with protecting a small, tight-knit community. What an honor." Yeah, right. Like he didn't see through that nonsense. His hopes of promotion were firmly in the negatives now.
Still, he'd taken the post because, frankly, what other choice did he have? Turn it down, and they'd cook up some excuse to boot him off the force entirely. The joke's on them, though—he loved it here.
Sure, it wasn't glamorous. Hell, it wasn't even comfortable by city standards, but it was quiet. Peaceful, even. The kind of place where people waved when they saw you on patrol, dropped off baskets of fresh veggies from their gardens. The wife and kids liked it here enough.
No honking horns, no smog, no waking up at three in the morning to someone yelling or fighting outside the window. Just clean air, warm smiles, and the occasional potluck at the town hall.
Mike was the kind of guy who appreciated the little things. A slower pace, friendly faces, and the fact that his daughters didn't have to deal with the kind of crap kids in the cities did. They even had a dog now. Gus, the big dumb mutt, was the laziest creature alive, but somehow, that just added to the charm of it all.
Better yet, No political bullshit clogging up the airwaves. Just people who actually gave a damn about their neighbors— normals or Faunus, didn't matter. Everyone shared the same dirt roads and sat through the same town meetings.
Out here, life was good. Simple. Honest.
Until it wasn't.
------------------------
------------------------
Mike frowned, hands on his hips, his boots sinking a bit into the soft, wet earth of the field. Next to him, Nolan, a fresh-faced rookie who'd probably pissed off someone higher up to get his green ass dumped out here in this backwater plot, shuffled his feet like he was trying not to bolt.
The kid's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. He looked like he wanted to say something but didn't know where to start. First dead body, most likely. Poor bastard.
Mike didn't blame him. What the hell could you say when you were staring at something like this? The days for this kinda thing oughta've been long gone.
"Sir… what do we—"
"Yeah, figured it's your first time." Mike scratched the back of his head while his fingers grazed over the few stubborn hairs that refused to fall out. "Same as always. We document it. We report it. We do our jobs."
The body hung there, limp and wrong, swayin' a bit in the breeze. A Faunus kid, bruised up and bloody. Couldn't have been older than fifteen. Noose creakin' with every little gust.
Newbie swallowed again, lookin' like he'd puke any second.
Mike didn't bother with the rest. Didn't say how no one'd care. Didn't say how it'd all get swept away in excuses and paperwork like it always did. Hell, back in his younger years, this sorta thing'd been routine. And this rottin' mess of a system? Mistral so bolted on its damn 'traditions' wasn't about to change anytime soon.
"Take the pictures, Nolan," Mike muttered. "Try not to toss your guts while you're at it, yeah? We've got work to do." He pulled out his knife with a groan.
And just like that, the simple, honest life Mike had come to love seemed a million miles away.
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The life of a smuggler wasn't fucking easy.
Dust.
Guns.
People.
In her relatively short career as captain of the Iron Fang, Naika Vardens had seen more shit than most could stomach. Navy blockades. Pirates who thought they were smarter than they were. Sea creatures that should've stayed in bedtime stories.
She'd smuggled all types of shit and suffered all types of shit including having her damn tail blasted by a cannon.
So, by all accounts, some fresh damn food for a couple of old pals was nothing. She even gave'em a discount and that kind of stuff. Times of crises and all that.
But this? This was some next-level bullshit.
"Reload the goddamn cannons!" Naika bellowed, leaning against the railing as another cannonball screamed past and smashed into the waves. Water sprayed up like it was trying to drown the whole crew in one go.
A sailor nearby spat over the side, reloading with shaky hands. "Fuckin' Navy dogs! Can't they leave us alone for one day?"
"Nope, not how it works!" Naika snapped back, her eyes locked on the sleek, navy-painted warship gaining on them. The bastards didn't know when to quit.
"Captain, incoming—on our right!"
"Shit!" She spun around, shouting to the helmsman. "Hard to port, you son of a bitch! Don't just sit there!"
The Iron Fang groaned under the strain of the sharp turn, crates of contraband sliding across the deck. A cannonball slammed into the sea where they'd just been, sending waves crashing up and soaking the crew.
"Turret's fucked!" one of the gunners yelled, smoke from the cannons next to him helping illustrate his point.
"Fucking hit them back!" Naika roared to the still functional cannon's operators, wiping seawater off her face. "And make it count this time!"
A deafening volley erupted from their side. The kickback rattled the ship out of its iron. One of the shots clipped the navy ship, splintering its hull and sending crewmen scrambling on the other deck.
"Direct hit!" someone shouted, a rare cheer.
"Don't pat yourselves on the back yet!" Naika snapped, gripping her cutlass as the Iron Fang narrowly avoided another blast. "We've got a long fucking way to go!"
She sucked in a breath, scanning the horizon.
By sea standards, Naika was old.
By smuggler years, she was an ancient bitch.
So, she'd seen some real shit.
But this?
This was the worst mess she'd gotten herself into. Never in her life did the Mistrali cocksuckers had ever given her s much shit.
The Navy always hunted them like rats, but they'd come loaded for bear this time. And with their luck, she'd bet there was a fucking admiral on board that ship, foaming at the mouth to make a name for themselves.
Fuckin' ironic that the moment she tried to actually do some good shit, the universe pulls all stops.
The day she tries to smuggle some fucking food to Menagerie to ease the strain, Mistral loses its fucking shit.
That's what she fucking gets for buying that race unity hoarse shite!
But if they thought she'd roll over and let them take her and her crew, they didn't know the Iron Fang.
"Keep moving! We get to open waters, and they can kiss our asses!" Naika's voice had long since gone hoarse from screaming.
"Captain, they're pulling closer!"
Naika slammed her fist on the railing, glaring at the navy ship like she could set it on fire with pure hate.
"Then we make them regret it," she muttered. "Load the damn cannons again! This isn't over!"
"Incoming!" someone yelled
THe warning caused her to look into the sky for an incoming cannonball.
She found it as it neared her ship.
It wasn't a cannonball.
It was a huntsman.
The huntsman raised his spear.
"AH Fuc—!"
The Iron Fang was cleaved in half.
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20th of Frost Fall, 143 AE: Southern Confederate City-States Declare Menagerie a Terrorist State
On Frost Fall 20th, 143 AE, the Southern Confederate City-States of Mistral—led by Tetsukawa, Shingen, and Bǎishān —issued a sweeping declaration branding Menagerie as a terrorist state. This decision comes in the wake of allegations tying the White Fang, which operates heavily out of Menagerie, to a series of attempted assassinations targeting prominent Atlesian dignitaries and coordinated attacks on trade routes vital to Mistral's economy.
The proclamation denounces Menagerie's leadership for harboring what the confederates describe as a "radical insurgency," holding them directly accountable for recent unrest. Further, the confederates assert historical ownership of the region, citing pre-Great War territorial boundaries as justification. According to their statement, Menagerie's existence as an autonomous state was tolerated as a temporary wartime measure, but the confederates now consider its sovereignty void citing Menagerie's failure to adhere to international laws, including trade regulations and territorial boundaries, and has violated established diplomatic norms.
Under the new directive, all ships traversing Menagerie's waters without proper documentation issued by the Confederate city-states will be deemed hostile. Captured vessels face immediate seizure, while their crews are to be detained and prosecuted as accomplices to terrorism. The Southern Confederacy has empowered its naval forces to act with full discretion, including the use of lethal force against those who fail to comply.
Government-distributed maps now depict Menagerie's territory as an unmarked expanse within southern Mistral's boundaries. State-controlled media outlets have launched a relentless campaign portraying Menagerie as a haven for anarchists, criminals, and violent extremists, urging citizens to support decisive action.
As of this writing, the remaining nine city-states of the Mistral Confederacy have yet to officially endorse the declaration. However, sources within key territories, such as Kagetsu and Wúshān, suggest that additional proclamations in alignment with the Southern Confederacy's stance are expected in the coming weeks.
However, this assertion has sparked significant opposition, particularly from the northern and eastern city-states, which continue to recognize Menagerie's sovereignty and reject the Confederates' claims arguing that the Confederates' actions are unjustified and threaten to destabilize the region. While they have yet to take formal action, some are expected to issue statements in support of Menagerie's continued independence, setting the stage for a potential diplomatic standoff.
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The measured steps of her long, gorgeous legs carried her forward in a confident strut. Her head was held high, her chest puffed proudly, while the silk dress of red velvet and gold clung to her curves like a lover's embrace.
her heels (appropriately overpriced Froststep, for a feel of the Path of Success) clicked against the cold stone of Evernight Castle. She reached up to brush a dark lock of hair behind her ear with a fair-skinned hand, a gesture so effortless it could drive men to madness and her enemies to their knees.
Cinder Fall.
Perfection in human form.
She truly encapsulated divine beauty and undeniable prowess. What more signs from the gods could Cinder possibly need to know she was destined for greatness?
Darkness crept along the cracked stone walls, swallowing what little light dared to flicker from scattered torches and the violet hue of the Dust crystals. Outside, the wind howled over the barren, lifeless expanse of the Grimmlands, carrying with it the cries of the hideous creatures. Grimm of all sizes and types emerged from the dark pools of shadows that no sane mind could fully comprehend.
Save for Cinder, of course. If she'd bothered and wanted to comprehend them fully, she easily could. She simply didn't, that's all. Cinder had far more pressing matters to take care of than staring at filthy puddles, mind you.
Emerald and Mercury followed in her wake, loyal as hounds, but neither so much as a flicker of warmth passed between them. Good. Neither dared to speak or even glance at one another. She wanted them to remain like this. They were tools: sharp, efficient, and useful for now, but tools nonetheless. Cinder intended to keep them that way. Trust bred complacency, and she had no use for complacency in tools.
But it galled her how Mercury's ever-present and annoying smirk faltered the more he looked around him and out of the windows of the castle, and how Emerald's eyes darted around the hall like a thief caught in someone else's home.
"Stop quivering like rats," Cinder muttered. Neither dared respond.
How pathetic of her lackeys to be intimated by this. First time here or not, the two should have the decency to not be intimated by anything but her.
A sigh escaped her lips as her stride continued uninterrupted.
As dreary a place as ever, she thought, her gaze shifting around lazily in only the smallest side glances. Turning her head, or gods forbid, crane her neck fully was beneath her. The halls of Evernight Castle stretched endlessly, vast and suffocating, like a mausoleum for some forgotten, dead god.
Maybe even literally if whatever little she grasped of Salem's vague ramblings was to be believed.
This entire setup is almost embarrassingly on the nose, she thought, rolling her eyes in the privacy of her mind. Dark castles, endless halls, pools of monsters—it was all so… Salem. Lacking any subtlety or flair. But then, that's what she'd come to expect from the ancient fool. Ah, well. It matters little.
Soon, when she claimed the power she deserved, this place and its master would burn. Salem, with all her schemes and supposed immortality, would meet her end, and Cinder would rise from the ashes. She'd carve out a palace of her own design and a monument to her true greatness.
And she'd do it somewhere the Fucking sun actually rose. Not this... this shithole! Ugh.
But for now, she would play the dutiful soldier just long enough to get what she wanted.
The edges of her lips turned upward.
And to be fair, why waste an opportunity to belittle her lessers and remind them exactly where they stood? Moments like these were almost too delicious to pass up.
Her palms pressed against the heavy double doors of the conference hall. The ancient and disgusting wood groaned under her touch as she shoved them open. She stepped forward with the smirk still on her face.
The room beyond was just as bleak and lifeless as the rest of Evernight Castle, lit only by the dim glow of Dust-crystal sconces and candles atop the altar. At the center was the dark stone table with its surface etched with maps and half-forgotten plans that Salem claimed to be vital only to discard them later on as futile. But only after Cinder had actually gone through the effort of enacting, and nearly finishing them.
The embers in her veins lit up in anger before she snuffed them out. No, no. Now was not the time to dwell on her 'boss's' incompetence.
Seated around the table sat her 'peers'. Hazel slouched in his chair like an immovable boulder, silent, and with the intellectual vibrancy of one as well. The oaf spared them only a glance before closing his eyes again and resumed his brooding.
Tyrian, of course, was absent. Naturally, the madman was likely dead or soon to be once Atlas's bots had their way with him. No great loss, truly. Tyrian was more of a liability than an asset, his madness amusing only in small doses, and his usefulness was apparently overestimated and clearly had long run its course.
Still, the Scorpion had the decency to provide a show at least. It had amused her to see how thoroughly he'd been crushed by Jacques Schnee, of all people. A Dust merchant. A man of laughable influence and painfully predictable greed as all Atlesians were. And yet…
That sniveling, money-grubbing egotist had actually managed something of note. Declaring himself a god and "gracing the world" by crushing Tyrian.
A surprising show of backbone, and mostly importantly power, from a silver-spooned blue blood playing at king. His grandstanding had stuck, for now, and there was even an admirable sense of flair to it.
Mayhaps once I rule the world, Cinder mused, her fingers tapping idly against the cold stone of the table, I'll spare him. Not out of mercy, of course, but as a reward.
For the entertaining spectacle, naturally. And for proving, if only briefly, that even the lowest worms could occasionally amuse their betters. Perhaps as a pet or even a servant; something to flaunt, a living trophy. After all, what better way to remind the world of her benevolence than to grace such a pathetic creature with a place in her court, should he manage to amuse her again?
More than that, Jacques Schnee's Semblance was… intriguing. Awfully versatile. Awfully powerful... If she were to build an eternal dynasty, her lineage had to be worthy of ruling this world...
Again, Cinder shook her head. No point selling the pelt before the bear was even caught.
The crux of it was: Jacques Schnee had bought himself a sliver of mercy with his mildly amusing feats. But his greatest accomplishment, and the one that had truly earned her notice, wasn't his power or his ego. No, it was far simpler.
Far more personal.
Her golden eyes flicked across the table, locking onto the man whom she deliberately chose to sit directly opposite to. The smirk kept creeping across her lips, finally showing teeth.
"Arthur," she purred, dragging out the name.
Watts didn't flinch—he was too proud for that—but Cinder didn't miss the way his jaw tightened, or how his fingers tapped a fraction too quickly against the table. Beneath the calm, boorish façade he worked so hard to present, he was simmering. Fuming.
Thrice.
Three times, Jacques Schnee had made a fool out of Arthur Watts.
The First humiliation? Oh, that one was juicy. Jacques had blared Watts' existence loud enough for Atlas' top brass to hear. The '''brilliant''' Arthur Watts, risen from the dead, and nearly tearing apart the most advanced defense system in the world—only to be foiled and left exposed like a common thug.
A lifetime of meticulous work, years of planning, ruined. And how did he respond? By scurrying back to Salem to whine and grovel like a child denied their favorite toy.
How cute.
The second embarrassment was indirect but delicious all the same. Watching Tyrian nearly turn to ash againsta self-important dirt seller and seeing the already pathetic Fang's forces scatter during that pitiful excuse for an assault had been a farce, one Watts himself had played a part in orchestrating. "I shan't disappoint you, ma'am," Was it?
How quaint.
But the last one... ah, that was Cinder's personal favorite and perhaps the most insignificant of them all. Yet she knew it hurt him the most. Watts was a vain sad little insect with an ego fragile enough to shatter over the smallest slight.
Jacques Schnee had called him an overrated hack. That was it.
It didn't matter if the rest of the world hadn't heard the conversation; the Grimm latched onto Tyrian's flesh ensured they did.
Watts heard everything. He heard how Schnee spoke about him. No, not even that. Schnee mentioned him dismissingly like the very idea of wasting a precious moment of thought on Watts was a waste. For all Watts' supposed genius and achievement, Schnee was utterly unimpressed, completely unbothered by Watts' existence or what he had once accomplished.
Worse still, Schnee hadn't even dignified Watts' petty revenge plot.
Cinder's opinion of the Atlesian had risen a couple of notches that day. He insulted the Salem, and the dust-huffing moron too, so it was clear the man knew about them—really knew. That wasn't random conjecture.
Schnee of course, made no mention of Cinder because, of course, Cinder was far too competent to have her existence be known before the right time.
"You're unusually quiet tonight, Arthur," she cooed innocently "Surely the... what was it?" She snapped her fingers, feigning thoughtfulness. "Ah, yes! 'Le hecking tottes kewlest and bestest scientist Atlas has ever seen.' has something insightful to contribute?"
Cinder savored the way Watts' fingers stilled for just a moment. The sight was delicious. Oh, he hated being here. Hated her. And she loved it.
"Do you intend to contribute anything of substance, or are we all to suffer through another of your witless performances?" Watts' lips pressed into a thin line. He spared a disdainful glance to her underlings standing behind her. "If so, grant us the mercy of doing as your posse and keep your meaningless chatter to yourself."
"Oh, Arthur, there's no need to be so defensive. I was merely trying to engage in conversation. You've been so... subdued lately. It's unlike you." She leaned back in her seat unbothered by his attempt to reclaim dignity.
"Silence is a virtue, and mindless prattling is for the insecure and the dimwit," Watts said with a raised brow and a small uptick of that hideous mustache of his. "But then again, I'd imagine a pitiful servant accustomed to scrubbing the floors like yourself wouldn't understand the finer points of restraint."
The smirk on her face turned a touch more brittle. A tiny burn mark sizzled into the surface of the table where her index finger had tapped. He knew. He knew. He knew, he knew, he knew—how, how, how?!
No, she told herself firmly. He couldn't know. It's just a vague shot in the dark. No one would know. No one could know.
"Truly?" she forced her voice into a mockery of sweetness. The smile on her face came a bit more naturally this time. "Speaking from experience, I take it? You seem to have developed quite the habit of scrubbing up your own messes as of late. Three very public embarrassments, this makes it? How exhausting that must be."
Behind her, Emerald snorted, while Mercury clicked his tongue in disapprovement adding salt to injury.
The jab hit home.
Watts's jaw tensed and his mustache twitched ever so slightly. His eyes narrowed as he started."Unlike you, you miserable incompetent peacock, I actually have important—" Whatever excuses or insults he was scrambling to hurl in return were drowned out as, suddenly, the silent, boorish Dust-huffing moron—a title Cinder was growing rather fond of—stood up with a loud creak of his chair.
Soon after, the doors to the Conference hall groaned just as loud as they were opened. With a harrumph, Cinder broke eye contact and stood up with the still-seething Watts mimicking her. For all his posturing, he wasn't foolish enough to remain seated when the master of this miserable palace arrived.
Neither was Cinder. Not yet, at least.
Salem entered the room with her usual air of fakeness Cinder had come to expect. The swirling tangible Grimm darkness trailed after her while she glided past them with barely a glance until she stood by her seat at the head of the room.
Her eyes swept over the table and then landed on each of them. Hazel offered her a subtle nod, Cinder, unlike her cowardly and frozen underlings, met Salem's eyes with a smile that was neither deferential nor openly defiant.
Watts stood rigid, fingers curled into tight fists at his sides even as he managed to keep his expression neutral. He didn't miss how Salem kept her gaze on him the longest, nor did Cinder.
Salem smiled and raised her hand, allowing them to sit.
Cinder complied without hesitation, making sure to lose nothing of her usual grace. Even sitting could be used to command the lesser.
"My faithful servants," Salem spoke while keeping a smile on her face. " It pleases me to see you all assembled."
"Not all, Ma'am," Cinder said with as much sadness she could muster without laughing. "One of us is dearly missed."
Watts looked like he was about to growl at her. But they both knew he would never dare. so, like the worm he was, he simply fixed the cuffs.
"Tyrian..."Salem stated evenly. "Indeed. His absence is felt."
"Quite so," Cinder chimed, full of faux solemnity. "He always had a certain... zeal and fervor that helped make the rest of us feel welcomed, especially after weeks and months spent behind enemy lines. A truly irreplaceable presence."
"Speaking of presence and long missions," Salem said thoughtfully, "our plans require an even more delicate touch as we proceed. Cinder. How fare your preparations for Beacon?"
Cinder leaned forward, meeting Salem's gaze with a self-assured smile. "Progressing as planned, ma'am. Lionheart has proven to be... cooperative, though his nerves grow more frayed with each passing day."
"As expected," Salem replied. "He fears the weight of his role, but Fear can drive a man to desperate acts, but it can also make him loyal, so long as the consequences of betrayal remain clear. Remind him of his place if he falters."
"Of course," Cinder answered smoothly. It was nigh time the cowardly kitten was reminded of what was at stake.
"Hazel," Salem's gaze shifted to the oaf. "you've been quiet. How are your efforts progressing?"
"There's still no sign of Spring." Hazel straightened in his seat and answered "But, about the other matter, the ground forces are in position, and our supply lines are secure. Lionheart's network has proven useful. For now."
"I doubt she'll appear, given the current state of Mistral following the failed attack in Atlas," Cinder interjected with a smirk aimed squarely at Watts. "Had it not been for the recent... oversight of a certain someone, we might have caught her by now."
Watts' eyes narrowed, but Salem's gaze flicked toward him with a pointed look that silenced his response before it could escape.
"Cinder, "Salem said with a tone that let Cinder know she was growing less patient with her continuous pressing. "Do you believe such barbs serve any purpose beyond sowing discord between us?"
Cinder stood up and bowed slightly.
"Apologies, ma'am." She fought to keep her composure as she felt beads of sweat forming on her back under those crimson eyes' scrutiny."I jus find it hard to digest how much of our hard work would simply go to waste, that's all. Tyrian failure and Watts's continuous errors affect all of us, and reflect on all of us, most of all you, ma'am and that's unforgivable. " she rose from her bow and nodded. "My only concern, ma'am, is ensuring the success of your grand vision.
"A noble sentiment," Salem replied softly. "Yet, I find myself wondering what failure do you speak of?"
Cinder blinked, taken back.
"I've always had an inkling you were an imbecile, but I'm glad you made sure to confirm my assessment," Watts muttered with a smirk opposite to her.
The glare she leveled him could've melted steel, but he simply folded his arms and motioned with a tilt for her to go on "Ah, do go on, Cinder. don't mind me."
She focused back on Salem, offering her best attempt at a placating smile. "The failed assault on Atlas and the... unfortunate loss of Jacques Schnee, ma'am," she explained. "Tyrian's recklessness cost us valuable weaponry, and the resources expended achieved little in return. And, of course, Watts's failure to corrupt Solitas's systems and the communication towers only compounded matters."
Salem tilted her head in contemplation, hand on her cheek. After a moment, Salem smiled in a way reminiscent of the one Cinder often used on those she deemed beneath her. A smile so patronizing, mocking in a way one would throw at a particularly stupid child. It took her some effort not to sneer at Salem.
"I see how it can be interpreted that way, my dear, but I cannot recall ever saying that those were the objectives of the latest operation." The Grimm woman chuckled in a way that grated on the younger woman's nerves.
As if the shame wasn't enough, even the oaf seemed to pile in. "The Fang was never supposed to succeed."
Cinder became thin lipped asshe sat down again, ignoring the urge to incinerate the smug bastard in front of her.
"While Tyrian's loss is very regrettable," Salem began, but despite her words, the tone she used had about the same urgency one might use when talking about the weather, "it does not detract from the operation's success."
She glanced around the table, "There were no casualties on Atlas's side—none they could afford to lose, a shame. And yet, the attack happened nonetheless; as a result, their so-called invulnerability is been called into question. Their weaknesses have been exposed for the world to see."
"And to stop the rest of the world from seeing them as a paper tiger, they'll double down on their displays of strength, overextend themselves, and step over the toes of other kingdoms." Hazel nodded in agreement. "Add in the already disgruntled population of Mantle, the backward discriminatory laws, and Ironwood is sitting on a Dust keg and unknowingly holding the spark."
Salem inclined her head in acknowledgment, a faint, patronizing smile playing at her lips. "Precisely."
Cinder tilted her head slightly, listening intently even as she bit back her irritation.
"In addition, the Grimm hybrid," Salem continued. "has shown ...promise as well. More importantly, the Winter Maiden's location and condition have been confirmed. That knowledge alone outweighs any perceived failure. What seems like chaos to you, my dear, is simply the first step in a much grander design. All pieces on the board are as I intended."
Cinder resisted the urge to roll her eyes. The plan was sound—at least in theory—but she couldn't help but think it relied a little too much on Atlas doing exactly what they were expected to.
"A most… intricate strategy, ma'am," she said with a faint smile. Still, if Salem saw this as progress, it would be unwise to question it further in front of the others.
Watts harrumphed loudly, drawing all eyes to him as he cast a sidelong glance at Cinder. "Did you grasp the brilliance of the plan at last?" he taunted. "Or shall we break it down further into smaller, more digestible pieces for your benefit? Perhaps something simpler, more suited to your... intellect? Miss Fall?"
"Oh, I grasp it, Arthur," Cinder replied with saccharine venom. "Though I do wonder if you'll manage to execute this brilliance without tripping over yourself again. After all, we wouldn't want another performance like your... less-than-stellar showings against Jacques Schnee—who barely knew you existed, I might add."
The smugness vanished from his face in a flash.
The scientist's fingers twitched, trying to keep his composure, as he combed his facial hair, "Jacques Schnee was irrelevant to the grander goals—"
Surprisingly enough, before he could finish, the Dust addict cut him off himself. "She's right. Don't let your pride blind you, Watts. Even without his position, he's a threat that can't be ignored. Blowing your cover and how easily he bested Tyrian should've made that clear."
"If Tyrian hadn't messed around, he would've won," Watts sputtered defensively— clearly an attempt to convince himself as much as anyone else. Cinder didn't care either way.
"Do you truly believe that? Or is it still your pride talking?" Hazel fixed Watts with a pointed look. "Whether you like it or not, he's dangerous." He clenched his fist in front of him. "Probably more dangerous than any other huntsmen on the planet...including the Maidens."
Cinder raised a brow at that and ignored the way her lackeys seemed to stammer at the, admittedly bizarre, statement.
She cast a glance in Salem's direction. The older woman didn't seem bothered by the assertion; she remained silent, waiting for them to speak their minds.
Cinder voiced her doubts.
"I won't deny he's strong, but aren't you giving him too much credit? His movements didn't scream someone with proper training or much experience." She leaned slightly forward, replaying the fight in her mind. "Anyone with enough skill should've seen the holes in his form."
Hazel folded his arms, and gave her an unimpressed stare."That's more than proof enough that he's dangerous," he argued. "Those aren't the moves of an amateur, but of someone who's never been challenged and has crushed everything in his path." He spoke as if from experience. "Remember his words? That Kirin of his was apparently far too weak by his standards."
A simple hum was all she bothered for a response. Cinder wasn't really interested in wasting her breath arguing over Hazel's pathetic man-crush.
She knew what she'd seen—someone adequate, sure. But as much as it grated her to agree with Watts, Tyrian should have put up a better fight.
But maybe she was overestimating the dumbass scorpion. All she knew was that if she'd been in his place, Schnee's head would've rolled long before he got to show off.
Schnee should certainly consider himself lucky.
Still, Cinder kept her mouth closed, letting the others argue.
Watts, however, couldn't do the same. His hand slammed onto the table "Jacques this, Schnee that, a threat!? Preposterous! That arrogant, vain, upstart no-name dirt seller is nothing more than a minor obstacle. Not a threat." His eyes narrowed with disdain. "Certainly not anything beyond an inconvenience. I won't accept it—"
"Arthur."
A simple word instantly halted Watts's rising rant.
Cinder's skin shivered, and her muscles locked as a chill froze the air. The usual glow of the crystals dimmed for a moment.
"Their words hold some merit, Arthur," Salem interjected gently from the side. Watts stiffened but said nothing when Salem's eyes dared him to disagree. His lips thinned for a moment before his poker face was back.
"I apologize, ma'am," he said.
"I understand your feelings, Arthur," Salem said understandingly. The tone she used was soft, but the expression that accompanied it was far from comforting. "I share your anger. I embrace a similar rage."
Cinder felt her next breaths come harder.
Salem's lips curled into a smile that was far different from the fake motherly facade she had used since Cinder's first meeting with her.
The skin at the edges of her mouth cracked and pulled back to reveal sharp, jagged teeth. The veins around her face grew thicker and darker as if they were trying to tear apart flesh from the inside.
"He uttered my name so casually," she continued with a dangerous chuckle. "Challenging me, like I was lesser." She leaned forward, her claws (no longer just nails) scraping against the armrest of her chair. The wood beneath them began to decay. "Such insolence...Such arrogance...a mere mortal... He dares to treat me as anything less than a force of nature, an incarnation of divine wrath?"
Salem's chuckle grew guttural, and the sound made their skin crawl.
Emerald trembled behind Cinder, but Cinder herself was focused on something else—her panicked heartbeat thundering in her chest as the room seemed to shrink, consumed by the raw terror and hatred radiating from Salem.
"Jacques Schnee...."
The darkness at Salem's feet rippled.
Then it moved.
It coiled and stretched outward like oil across silk, crawling up the walls and curling along the ceiling. Shadows devoured the light. One by one, the torches lining the chamber cracked and sputtered, the glow of each crystal dimming as the black tendrils snuffed them out. Even the air turned cold and thick, pressing against Cinder's lungs like smoke.
From the throne, Salem lifted a hand with long, pale fingers ending in blackened claws, and cracked her neck with a sickening, idle pop. The last torch gave a desperate flicker behind her, then died. The chamber was swallowed whole by her presence.
She laughed. Not a snarl, not a cackle. A slow, hungry laugh. Something that sounded like it had crawled up from the belly of the earth.
"How many years has it been," she said, almost wistful, "since someone dared provoke me so brazenly?"
Cinder stood still, spine straight, hands at her sides. She said nothing.
Of course, she reminded herself.
'How could I forget...'
Salem was not human.
She..no,..It wore the shape of a woman. It spoke with the fake patience of a mother and the poise of a queen. But that was performance—costume.
Salem was Grimm.
An ancient, unknowable horror wrapped in flesh. A wound in the world. A mistake that refused to be corrected.
A monster.
A monster Cinder would one day have to destroy—before it destroyed her.
But not today.
In the quiet that followed, she made one small adjustment to her plans.
Salem could wait.
Her destruction could wait.
A few more years. Maybe a few decades, if necessary.
Because Jacques Schnee had just done something unforgivable…
He had made the oldest, deadliest thing in Remnant feel alive again.
And that was dangerous.
Even for her.
Salem's eyes, barely more than twin embers in the void, glowed faintly in the dark. It was no longer speaking to anyone in the room. Its voice had gone distant, distracted, like something remembering an old hunger it had nearly forgotten.
"How many centuries has it been," it whispered,
"...since I've felt the overwhelming lust to shatter a man like this?"