It didn't take long for the party to truly come alive. More guests arrived in waves, filling the grand chamber with a chaotic energy that pulsed through the air. Laughter rang out over the din of music and clinking glasses, and the once-spacious hall quickly became cramped with bodies in motion.

  By this point, Tiffany had already indulged in more than her fair share of her own goods. Lost somewhere in the sea of revelry.

  Meanwhile, Yearn was preoccupied greeting new arrivals and so left Puce stranded—the lone noble adrift in a riotous tide of inebriated peasants.

  Without Yearn as a social buffer, Puce wasted no time retreating to a plush couch tucked into the corner of the room, hoping to escape the worst of the drunken debauchery. He had no right to complain—he was a guest in this estate just as much as they were—but his family had never been ones to mingle so freely with the common folk.

  Despite the loud and dishonourable jumble that had conquered the atmosphere, Puce ensured to keep his noble demeanour, even if it was only manifested by standing perfectly still as small as possible at the couch's edge.

  The only issue with his plan of being out of sight and out of mind was that Tiffany's increasingly befogging mind had found a strange magnetism with the poor boy—and where Tiffany went, a crowd inevitably followed.

  At some point in the night, she drifted toward his corner, finally collapsing onto the same couch and resting her head atop his lap as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  Puce stiffened, every fibre of his being recoiling at the indignity of it. The boy did not dare speak out against it, though, with all of these begrimed ruffians around, and the crowd was only getting larger.

  A young man, built like an ox and twice as sturdy, pushed his way through the gathering crowd by the couch. Broad shoulders stretched the seams of his worn tunic, his arms thick with the kind of muscle that came from years of hard labour rather than idle training. His weathered face bore a grin full of yellowed teeth, a testament to both his easygoing nature and the vices he indulged in.

  Despite his imposing stature, Stark's demeanour remained lighthearted, though his brow furrowed slightly at the sight of Tiffany sprawled across Puce's lap. Still, his tone was as affable as ever. "Hey, Tiff, you're still here?"

  Before he even finished speaking, Tiffany was already rummaging through her bag, fishing out a short paper roll marked with the number two. She tossed it to him without looking. "Are you kidding me, Stark? I wouldn't miss seeing a firebox for anything."

  Stark caught the roll between his teeth and leaned forward, raising his thick fingers in front of the joint, poised in a snapping gesture. His lips curled back in an anticipatory wince as he braced for oncoming pain.

  Tiffany smirked at the reaction. "What, don't trust me?"

  His words came out garbled around the paper roll. "You don't have the best track record."

  The snap rang out, crisp and sharp—but his fingers didn't move. Instead, a small flame burst to life at the tip of the roll, instantly scorching his upper lip before settling into a steady ember.

  Stark ripped the burning grass away from his lips, "Ah! Dammit, Tiffany! What did I just say!?" he recoiled, rubbing at his singed lips while Tiffany cackled beside him.

  Stark's pained grimace only fueled Tiffany's laughter, her giggles bubbling over in a wild, unrestrained fit. "Sorry, Stark, I'm suuuuuuuper high right now… or wait—am I wasted?"

  She turned her head lazily, tilting up toward Puce, who steadfastly ignored her, his gaze locked onto the nearest blank wall as if willing himself out of existence.

  Undeterred, Tiffany began her assault. “Puce…, Puce, hey Puce! Puuuuce! Hey! Hey! Hey, Puce!" Her voice sing-songed with each repetition, dragging his name out in exaggerated syllables.

  When he still refused to acknowledge her, she jabbed a playful finger into his cheek, drawing out one last, elongated plea. "Puuuuceeeeeee."

  Puce let out a long, exhausted sigh; any resistance he once had now eroded into numb acceptance. He finally turned toward her and met with a pair of hazy, red-rimmed eyes and cheeks flushed from intoxicated delight.

  "What?" he muttered, bracing himself for whatever nonsense was about to follow.

  Tiffany fought through a fresh round of snickers, barely managing to form the words through her breathless amusement. "Am I high or wasted?"

  Puce blinked, unimpressed. He had no idea what she found so funny or how any of this could be enjoyable to anyone. "…Both."

  Tiffany's eyes widened as if he had just unravelled the secrets of the universe. "I'm Highsted!"

  That was it—that was the peak of comedy. She immediately dissolved into a howling fit, clutching at her stomach as if it physically hurt to laugh so much.

  Stark, too, joined in the laughter but seemingly less so from her actual 'joke' and more in reaction to her overly entertained response to it.

  Stark took another puff from his joint and then circled back to his original question. "What I meant to say, Tiff, was—weren't you supposed to be at Ersatz University or something?"

  The instant that irritant name poisoned her ear, Tiffany jolted upright with righteous indignation. "All right!"

  She paused.

  Just as quickly as the fire ignited, it flickered out—her train of thought slipping through the cracks of her fogged mind. Frowning, she dug into her pocket and retrieved a small glass tube, uncorking it with a practiced flick of her thumb. A thick, cloudy vapour coiled into the air before she inhaled the entire plume in one sharp snort.

  The effect was instant. Tiffany flinched as the hit slammed into her, blinking rapidly to clear her head before shaking off the stunned daze.

  A brief moment of clarity reminded her of her train of thought, and she continued. "Don't get me started on those fat bourgeois stooges! Are you getting me started?"

  Without waiting for an answer, she sprang to her feet, her pacing across the sofa erratic and forceful, like a caged animal worked into a frenzy.

  Stark turned to a few people adjacent, offering a tight, uneasy grimace to show his concern toward the unexpectedly violent reaction to his simple question. "Yikes. I didn't mean to get you started on anything."

  "Well, too late!" Tiffany jabbed a finger in his direction, eyes ablaze. "No backing out now, Starky boy—you got me started! You asked, so now you're gonna hear it. Let me REGALE you the horrors I had to endure!"

  She leaned forward, her grin sharp and wicked, soaking in the anticipation—real or forced—of her audience.

  "So there I am, hitchhiking my way over to Proselyte, right?" She threw out her arms as if setting the scene, eyes flicking between them like she was preparing for battle.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Stark, recognizing the makings of a long-winded rant, found an open spot within the huddled circle and plopped down, readying himself for whatever verbal storm was about to hit.

  "I had to pick up a bunch of gigs with the Adventurer's Guild to cover food, inns, carriages, and whatever because, news flash, travelling is stupid expensive."

  Puce gave Tiffany a doubting look.

  Tiffany caught it immediately and snapped, "Keep it to yourself, you ivory stick puppet." Tiffany made a rude hand gesture to emphasize her comment, enticing a round of laughter from her inebriated audience. "It was expensive for me. And REALLY expensive—Proselyte is far away okay? Took me, like, two weeks 'cause I kept having to stop and make enough money just to keep going."

  She paused, arms crossed, jaw tight, seething at the mere memory of it.

  "So, I finally make it to Proselyte—four days before my interview."

  A slow inhale. A visible clench of her fists.

  Puce got the feeling that whatever came next was not going to be pleasant and inched his way further off the couch to try to escape the ever-increasing stomping of her pacing feet.

  "Remember how I made money by working with the Adventurer's Guild!?" Tiffany spun on her heel, throwing her arms up. "Well, even with all that, I couldn't afford the cheapest inn in Proselyte. And guess what? There were literally no job postings that could get me the money I needed in time. LITERALLY, no way to pay for a bed!"

  She sucked in a breath through her teeth, nostrils flaring, fists tightening at her sides. Reliving the memory reinvigorating the irritation all over again. "So I stay calm—because, you know, I'm a reasonable person."

  A scoff from Stark. A doubtful look from Puce.

  Tiffany ignored both. "I go to Ersatz University, it takes me like two hours to convince the moronic prejudiced security to let me in—and that's after they searched me for weapons like I was some kind of low-life criminal. Like, come on! You know you're being looked down on when the magic wizards search you for prison shivs."

  She started gesturing wildly, emphasizing each point with sharp, deliberate movements. "I'm wandering around this giant maze of a campus, trying to find anyone—a clerk, a teacher, someone—who can help me with my housing issue. And the whole time—"

  She stopped, turning to the group with an incredulous glare.

  "—I feel like a devadoot or something with all these rich, arrogant snobs staring at me as I walk by!"

  She placed a hand to her chest in mock horror, mimicking an exaggerated noble's gasp. "Oh no, she's poor! Someone, fetch the guards!"

  Laughter rippled through the gathered crowd, but Tiffany wasn't laughing. She was still fuming, arms crossed so tightly that her nails dug into her sleeves.

  Tiffany took a few laps of the couch in silence to quell her anger. "SO finally, I find this—this help desk thing, right? And I explain everything. I lay it all out for them, plain and simple." Her voice trembled with barely contained rage. "And you know what they say? Do you want to know what they told me!?"

  The raucous crowd quietened as they noticed Tiffany's dour mood and took the enraging story more seriously. Puce found himself feeling a little embarrassed for the behaviour of his compatriots.

  Stark, realizing she was actually waiting for someone to play along with her, asked. "Uh… what did they tell you?"

  "They told me—" Tiffany's voice pitched up in sheer disbelief, her arms flailing as if trying to physically hurl the memory away, "—that due to some of the high-profile members of the university, they couldn't jeopardize the safety of the faculty by housing the unaffiliated peasantry!"

  She threw her hands up and let out a bitter laugh. "Can you believe that!? I spent almost half a week homeless in the Proselyte ghetto. I was assaulted seven times in that interim—seven! Sure, none of the assaults were particularly successful—but still."

  The gathered crowd gasped in shock, but Tiffany barely registered it, too wrapped up in the injustice of her own tale.

  "And the traffic in and out of the city was so bad that I couldn't even get to a lake to wash, so I showed up to the interview with some rando's blood on me. Took me more than just two hours to get inside the university on that day! Turns out university security? Not too keen on homeless people drenched in the blood of multiple strangers."

  She snorted at her own misfortune, shaking her head in amused disbelief as she recalled the heated debate she'd had with the guards that morning.

  Taking a pause, Tiffany lifted that tiny glass tube from her pocket, uncorked it, and inhaled another deep whiff. Her eyes rolled back slightly from the hit, her shoulders shuddering with pleasure before she exhaled and pushed on.

  "Next to no one is willing to talk to me, so it takes me forever to find where I'm actually supposed to go. But eventually—EVENTUALLY—I find my way to the waiting room for all the scholarship students."

  She let out an exasperated sigh, flopping onto the couch beside Puce with exaggerated exhaustion.

  "Obviously, I'm the only person there who doesn't have a diamond spoon rammed up their rear looking mega out of place. I wait forever for my turn, constantly getting approached by security and staff, questioning what I'm doing here. Like lady, I'm here for the interview. Why else would I willingly trap myself in this silk prison?"

  Much of her audience found themselves caught between disturbed amusement and unfortunate camaraderie, nodding along at the relatable struggle of dealing with nobles. Puce, however, just felt profoundly uncomfortable.

  "I'm this close to breaking loose, you know?" Tiffany held up her fingers, barely a sliver of space between them. "But I'm also too close to finishing this stupid journey, so I keep my cool. Which I'm sure most of you here already know—" she gave the crowd a knowing glance, "—that's not really my style."

  She hesitated for a beat before turning toward Puce, who was still doing his utmost to fade into the upholstery of the couch. "Just so you know, Puce—keeping chill isn't my style." She said, trying to keep Puce in the loop, but in all honesty, she didn't need to tell him. He could pretty much make that assumption on his own.

  Tiffany smirked half-delirious before rolling back to face her audience and diving back into the story. "So finally, it's my turn for the interview, and I get invited into this greater than thou over-the-top office and, of course if it isn't the mighty Ken Ream himself," she exclaimed the legend's name with a sarcastic gravitas.

  She leaned forward, eyes gleaming with derisive humour. "Now, I promise you, this guy looks exactly like someone who would nickname himself 'The Preeminent.' When I get in, he gives me this lookover, the whole toe-to-head sweep, complete with the ever-classic chest pause and everything." she shuddered with theatric disgust. "Like the shrivelled pervert he is."

  A few murmurs of distaste rippled through the group, but Tiffany wasn't done. She rose back up and recommenced her pacing, incapable of containing her furor.

  "And don't even try to tell me that he wasn't checking me out. The dude's got a massive painting of some twenty-something chick on his wall. Not even a good portrait—like, full-on boudoir energy. That guy's creeper vibes are off the charts."

  She let the disgust settle for a second, then threw her hands up in exasperation. "Anyways—after all of that, after everything I've been through just to get to this one stupid moment, after travelling halfway across the continent, getting de-homed, attacked, discriminated, and turned to eye candy, you know what he says?"

  Tiffany let the tension hang for a second before deadpanning: "I've never had an interviewee look so ragged before."

  The sheer audacity of the statement elicited a few groans from her enthralled audience.

  Tiffany gave a sharp, humourless laugh. "Oh, buddy. You have no idea."

  "So what did you do?"

  Tiffany shrugged nonchalantly. "I did what anyone would have done in my position—I spat on him and left… Oh yeah, and I took his hat too."

  A ripple of shock and laughter spread through the crowd, but Puce just blinked, stunned.

  She what?

  Puce had met Ream the Preeminent before—just once—but even that was enough to know that the man commanded a level of respect and fear that few dared to challenge. To spit on him? To steal from him? The entire story sounded so utterly ludicrous that Puce felt no difficulty convincing himself that it was but a fabrication of Tiffany's addled mind.

  The rest of the audience, however, weren't as dismissive. "How did he react?" someone asked, wide-eyed.

  Tiffany smirked. "He didn't." She spread her arms in a dramatic flourish. "No one talked to me. No one even DARED approach me. I just stormed my way out of Proselyte as fast as humanly possible, hoping to never see the place again."

  She scoffed.

  "Screw that stupid university and its pretentious ignobles. I snuck into one of the lectures during my stay there, and it was all baby stuff anyways; it would've been a waste of time."

  As she spoke, Tiffany paced along the couch, gesturing wildly—until her foot sank into the groove between the cushions. With a graceless yelp, she staggered forward, just barely catching herself from an undignified tumble onto the floor.

  "Besides, there's no way I could party like this in that stuffy place. Speaking of which, someone get me another drink! Chop chop minions!"

  The crowd erupted in cheers and movement, eager to keep their favourite storyteller entertained.

  Puce, meanwhile, just sighed and sank further into the couch, wondering how much longer he had to endure this madness.