"Enough," Marren commanded.
The word wasn't loud.
The room obeyed anyway.
Even Venn flinched, breath hissing through his teeth as he braced a hand on the table to keep from collapsing.
Marren rose from his chair with unhurried grace, as if they were at a particularly contentious board meeting instead of a suddenly electrified brawl.
"You damaged a Hydrarchy officer," he said to Gin. "You damaged Hydrarchy property." His gaze flicked to the axe lodged in Venn's shoulder that was slowly turning back into liquid, to the splatters of blood marring his own polished boots. "And now you've damaged my patience."
He reached under the table.
When his hand came back up, it held something that made Gin's bones go very, very still.
It looked like a sword been left too long in a tidepool. The blade was made of some pale, old-world alloy, etched so finely with channels and grooves that it almost resembled circuitry. Along its length, veins of coral and shell had grown, fused, and shaped into serrated ridges. Small polyps pulsed faintly along the fuller, opening and closing like tiny mouths.
It wasn't just a weapon.
It was alive.
Marren stroked the flat with two fingers, almost fondly. The polyps flared, colors deepening, a faint ripple of motion traveling down the blade.
"I don't often need to use this," he said conversationally. "Most people on Khelt are sensible enough to understand how numbers work. Debts. Quotas. Consequences."
He nicked his thumb on the edge.
A bead of blood welled, bright against the pale metal. The reef weapon shivered. The coral veins flushed, drinking the drop greedily. The tiny mouths along the blade opened wider, exhaling a faint mist that smelled like brine and old coins.
"I like this one," Marren went on, "this reefweapon, it listens when I feed it. No complaints. No bargaining. Just hungry obedience."
He walked around the table.
Gin pushed out another blood-red axe from the cut on his palm, chest heaving.
Marren stopped beside the composite desk anchoring the room, its surface already scarred by years of paperwork and the occasional thrown mug. He eyed it for a moment, then lifted the reef sword in a smooth, almost casual arc.
The blade whispered through the air.
The desk parted.
Not dramatically. Not with a crack or explosion. The sword simply moved through it, and the desk realized a moment later that it had been cut in half. The top sagged, then slid, two halves peeling away with a slow squeal as bolts bent and papers cascaded to the floor.
Silence followed.
"So," Marren said lightly, turning back toward Gin. "You will, of course, be billed for the cost of that repair."
Gin swallowed.
"Of course," he said. "Put it on my tab."
Marren smiled.
"Glad we understand each other."
Then he moved.
For a man who wore bureaucracy like armor, Marren was fast.
The reef blade flowed with him, not quite metal and not quite flesh. It hissed through the air in controlled, economical strokes, each one aimed to sever something important without wasting motion.
Gin backpedaled, axe flashing as he deflected the first cut. The impact shuddered up his arms, the living sword's edge biting into the hardened blood with a hungry rasp.
Another strike came for his ribs.
He ducked and twisted, letting the blade slice a shallow line along his side instead of letting it open him up completely. Pain flared hot and sharp. Blood welled.
His reef surged toward it instinctively.
"Don't you dare," Gin hissed under his breath, forcing the Hemovore colony to hold. He needed that blood where it was for now.
Marren pressed, each step measured, each slash a lesson.
"You think strength is enough," he said, voice calm even as they traded blows. "Arrogant Floodborn who never learned the value of structure."
Gin parried a downward cut that would have cleaved his shoulder, sparks skittering where reef weapon met blood-iron. But this time the reef weapon answered—a high-speed jet of water snapped along its edge, turning the clash into a clean slice. The axe sheared in two, and the sword nicked Gin on his bicep.
The next cut came low, feinting for Gin's knee. When Gin stepped back, the blade flicked up instead, slashing across his forehead.
Fire.
Gin staggered, vision going white for a heartbeat. Something hot and wet poured down into his right eye, blurring the world in a rush of red.
He blinked hard, teeth clenching.
"Careful," Marren said. "Eyes are expensive to replace."
Gin swayed.
His bones howled.
He sucked in a breath.
Deep.
Deeper.
Oxygen flooded his lungs. The Hemovore strain seized it, ripping it from air to blood with greedy precision. His veins lit like currentspire cables, oxygenated reef-blood racing up toward his head.
Time lurched.
The room slowed.
Marren's next step stretched out, each fiber in his leg articulating in exquisite detail. The drip of Gin's own blood hung in the air, fat drops tumbling from his brow in lazy arcs. Light flickered slower.
"Oh," Gin said softly. "There you are."
He moved.