The preparation for the Glacier-Crab was a descent into a specific kind of madness. To extract the meat, Marianne had to crack shells that were as hard as industrial diamonds using a silver mallet, all while keeping the delicate flesh beneath at a temperature that wouldn't cause it to shatter.
The Empyrean Broth was even worse; it required constant skimming with a silk cloth to ensure not a single microscopic fleck of sediment remained.
She was halfway through the process, her fingers numb from the ice-shards of the crab, when the kitchen doors swung open. Zoe didn't wait for her to finish. He didn't even look at the pots. He simply walked to the center of the room, his presence snuffing out the warmth of the stoves.
"Your posture is sagging, Marianne," Zoe said, his voice a quiet, terrifying hum. "And your eyes... they still hold the spark of the woman who thought she could rule her own fate."
Marianne wiped her hands on her apron, her chin tilting upward. "The broth is clear, Sovereign. The crab is prepared. My posture has nothing to do with the palate."
Zoe's eyes narrowed, the blue depths of his pupils turning a jagged, crystalline white. "It has everything to do with the soul. You are defiant. You think this is a game of skill, but it is a game of submission. You require a reminder of who holds the key to your silence."
He turned to the grey-clad guards flanking the door. "Strip her of the silk. It is too comfortable for a heart so stubborn. Submerge her in the Basin of Solitude. She will remain there until I find the air in this kitchen to be sufficiently humbled."
The guards moved with terrifying speed. Marianne fought—a wild, instinctive thrashing—but they were as strong as the stone they were carved from. They tore away the midnight-blue silks, leaving her exposed and shivering, and dragged her toward the sunken marble basin in the corner of the sanctum.
The water wasn't just cold; it was enchanted ice, a liquid that didn't freeze the skin but froze the will. As they lowered her in, the shock stole the air from her lungs. The water rose to her chin, and the frost began to spiderweb across her skin, turning her porcelain limbs into blue-tinted marble.
While Marianne was encased in ice, the 1st Hello was still drowning in the roar of the black sand pits. The Parts Attachment Battle had dragged into the late hours, the air thick with the smell of iron and the sound of sobbing.
Robert sat in the soot, his tethered legs a heavy, useless weight behind him. He had already been through three matches. His chest was a purple bruise, and his fingernails were broken from trying to find purchase in the shifting sand.
"Match 412!" the announcer screamed. "The Anchor versus the Half-Hitch!"
Robert was dragged back into the center. His opponent was a massive man with no eyes, who fought by sound and sheer, brute force. Robert tried to use his strength, tried to wrap his arms around the man's waist to gain leverage, but his lack of legs made him an easy target.
The crowd didn't cheer for his effort. They mocked him.
"Look at the worm!" a voice cried from the bleachers. "Give up and crawl back to your hole, Anchor!"
The Blind Man caught Robert in a crushing bear hug, slamming him repeatedly into the jagged stones at the edge of the pit. Robert felt his ribs crack, the pain a white-hot flare in his mind. He looked toward the Stitchers, hoping for a sign of mercy, but they only sharpened their needles, their masks impassive.
"I can't..." Robert wheezed, his face pressed into the black sand. "I give up. I can't do it."
The Blind Man let go, spitting on the ground as he was led away to receive his surgery. Robert lay there, a broken man in a broken realm. He reached for his tethered legs, trying to pull them closer, but his strength was gone.
He looked around the arena. Thousands of people stood nearby, but not one person reached out a hand. Not one person offered a word of comfort. In the 1st Hello, failure wasn't a tragedy—it was a spectacle. Robert closed his eyes, the cold realization hitting him harder than any blow: he would be a crawler for the rest of eternity, and in this hell, he would be completely alone.
The news of Marianne's "ascent" from the pits of the 1st Hello to the private chambers of the Sovereign spread through the afterlife like a viral infection. It moved through the whispers of the guards, the shimmering ripples of the Paradi, and finally, into the cold, secluded sanctums of the Thirteen Judges.
In the Hall of Grey Stones, five of the judges gathered in a circle of flickering shadow. Their indignation was a physical weight in the room.
"A cook?" Judge Malakor hissed, his skeletal hands gripping the arms of his throne. "He takes a woman who butchered her own lineage—a creature of the Doom Hall—and places her in the silver kitchen? It is an obscenity!"
"It is worse than that," another added, her voice trembling with fury. "It is a breach of the Divine Neutrality. To bring a soul of such concentrated darkness into the palace is to invite the void into the heart of the Law. Zoe is not just being 'picky' with his palate; he is mocking the very scales we spend eternity balancing."
They were shocked, but more than that, they were afraid. If the High Judge could ignore the hierarchy of the Hello and the Paradi for a beautiful face, then the foundation of their power was nothing but dust.
Realizing that Zoe would not listen to their counsel, Judge Malakor turned to a mirror of dark obsidian. He traced a sigil on the glass, summoning a connection to the deepest, most chaotic reaches of the lower realms.
The glass cleared to reveal the 3rd Hello, a place of jagged iron and suffocating smoke. At the center of this realm sat a man who shared Zoe's bone structure but none of his icy composure. This was Vane, Zoe's younger brother and the Governor of the 3rd Hello. While Zoe was the winter sea, Vane was the subterranean fire—restless, cruel, and perpetually living in his brother's shadow.
"Governor Vane," Malakor whispered into the glass.
Vane looked up, a cruel smirk playing on his lips as he toyed with a dagger made of solidified shadow. "Judge. To what do I owe this intrusion? Has my brother finally frozen over?"
"Worse," Malakor replied, his voice tight. "Your brother is redefining the afterlife's proceedings. He has reached into the 1st Hello and plucked out the 'Devil Killer' to be his personal servant. He has bypassed the Council, the Statutes, and the Sorting."
Vane's smirk vanished, replaced by a look of sharp, predatory interest. He stood up, the iron floor of his palace groaning under his weight. "He took the Thornveil woman? The one the whole court was salivating to see burn?"
"She is in his palace now," Malakor confirmed. "Washed in silk and kept under his private gaze. He is breaking the Mandate of the Heart, Vane. He is becoming... human."
Vane let out a low, melodic laugh that sounded like breaking glass. "My brother, the Great Icicle, falling for a butcher in red? This isn't just a scandal, Judge. This is an opportunity. If Zoe is softening, then the Throne of the High Court is no longer a seat of ice—it's a seat of glass. And glass can be shattered."
Vane turned away from the mirror, his eyes glowing with a dark ambition. "Tell the others to stay quiet. Let my brother play with his new toy. Every minute he spends watching her in that kitchen is a minute he isn't watching the gates. I think it's time I paid a visit to the High Court to see this 'cook' for myself."