——————————————————

  Sunday, October 23nd, 2253 — 11:30am

  The Mystical Menagerie

  ——————————————————

  Jeremiah found David waiting outside his apartment, the barrel-chested man wearing a weathered coat, the morning mist curling faintly around his boots. Billy’s bubble bobbed beside him as they approached the dark-skinned sailor. The man stood on the sidewalk, soaking in the morning sunlight, his eyes closed and gaze lifted upward, until Jeremiah’s footsteps caught his attention.

  “You sure about this?” Jeremiah asked, half-smiling as he reached him. “I can always find someone else to—”

  David waved him off before he could finish. “Lad, I’ve wrangled creatures ten-times his size that were half as well-behaved. Besides, we got along fine yesterday.” He tilted his head toward Billy. “Ain’t that right?”

  Billy’s mantle quivered, the bubble bobbing gently in agreement.

  Jeremiah nodded, but glanced toward the young kraken, regardless. “You sure you don’t want to stay at the shop today?” he asked. “Could help me keep Lewis out of the pastry stockpile.”

  Billy hesitated for a moment, his gaze flicking between David and Jeremiah. Then a gentle pulse passed through their bond — a faint image of bright lights, layered voices, and motion that came too fast. The impression carried a wash of discomfort that prickled at the back of Jeremiah’s thoughts.

  He chuckled softly. “Yeah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Fair. Big crowds aren’t for everyone.”

  Billy’s eye swiveled toward him, the color within his mantle shifting to a calmer blue.

  “That’s a yes, then,” David said with mock solemnity. “We’ll keep to the quiet docks today. Maybe grab a meat pie or two. He’s got a fondness for those.”

  Jeremiah laughed and shook his head. He’d never been to the large river port far north of Market Street, but he would have to visit one day, if for no other reason than to test his theory about his affinity.

  “Just don’t let him talk you into anything too expensive,” he finally said with a nod.

  “I make no promises,” David said, already turning down the stairwell with a broad wave. “Have a good one, lad!”

  They parted ways, David and Billy moving north toward the river port, while Jeremiah lingered a moment longer, watching, before turning toward Market Street and the day ahead.

  ——————————————————

  The walk to the Menagerie carried him through streets that had been loud and bright the night before. Now the banners sagged under a thin layer of dew, and paper lanterns hung dull in the gray morning light. The scent of fried dough and spice still lingered around the shuttered food stalls, and one could almost hear the faint echo of laughter still clinging to the scene. The area felt like the morning after some grand party, which, Jeremiah supposed, it was.

  Not that it was empty. Across the street from him, a vendor swept confetti from the cobblestones, the paper having softened into streaks of pulp overnight. Another man dragged a snoring drunk onto the sidewalk, grumbling as he worked. A few early risers clustered near a coffee stand, shoulders hunched, cups steaming between their hands, eyes bloodshot and hair a mess.

  Things would pick back up again as the day progressed, and the festivities began anew — but here, in this moment, things were as calm as the hush after a storm.

  Jeremiah drew in a slow breath, the quiet settling around him, and he smiled.

  He turned the corner by the cracked fountain that marked the start of Market Street proper and slowed.

  A familiar tune reached him — though this time, its sound came as the hollow melody of echoing metal instead of the tapping of wood on wood. Ahead, in the open square where the street widened, a small crowd of children had gathered in a loose ring. Their laughter rose in bright bursts, cutting through the hush of the morning. At their center stood the familiar old man from the tournament, his hat set low over his brow, a small handpan drum resting across his knees.

  In front of him, on a small stage the size of a crate, the little Coiled Willow Beetle twined and uncoiled, its body swaying in time with the steady beat. Each segment of its ringed body glinted with faint greens and browns, like sunlight filtering through leaves. The rhythm was simple, playful — one part lullaby, one part dance — and the children followed it instinctively, clapping along as they swayed in time with the beetle.

  Jeremiah found himself smiling despite the chill. He hung back at the edge of the group, watching the old man’s hands move between the various indentations of the drum. He’d seen the instrument before online, but this was the first time hearing it in person. When the tune ended, the beetle gave a last ripple of motion, coiling neatly into a circle before suddenly freezing in place in a rather impressive imitation of a tiny, leafless tree. The children erupted in applause, and a few even tossed a couple of coins onto the stage.

  The old man chuckled, bowing low with a theatrical flourish. “You’ve been a fine audience,” he said. “But she’s tired now — dancing takes it out of the little one.”

  The children giggled and drifted away in twos and threes, still chattering about the “magic bug.” Soon, only Jeremiah remained.

  The old man looked up, eyes glinting beneath the brim of his hat. “Ah,” he said, voice amused. “The shopkeeper.”

  Jeremiah stepped forward, hands in his coat pockets. “So it was you yesterday,” he said. “The Coiled Willow, right? You were controlling her during the match.”

  The man gave a small shrug, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Controlling is a strong word. We prefer to call it… collaboration.”

  Jeremiah huffed a quiet laugh. “Whatever it was, it was impressive. I didn’t know insects could be trained like that.”

  The old man’s grin widened, deepening the creases around his eyes. “Most people don’t. They see small things and assume small minds. But intelligence wears many shapes, and most of them go unnoticed.” He lifted his hand, palm up. The Coiled Willow untwined and crawled across his fingers. “You just have to learn how to ask the right way.”

  Jeremiah tilted his head, watching the beetle’s delicate coils tighten around the man’s wrist. The man’s words tickled at the back of his mind in a way he couldn’t quite place.

  “It’s about learning to consider not just what you want them to do, but how they see the world,” the man continued. “Patience makes all the difference. You can’t force understanding. You can only show them the rhythm of the world and learn how to work within their own understanding.”

  His tone wasn’t lecturing; more like he was speaking half to himself. The beetle flexed once, turning to look up at him, its head tilting in a way that conveyed more curiosity than Jeremiah would have expected from an insect.

  Reggie chuckled softly. “This one’s still young. Barely a year. Hers can live a very long time — forty years or more in the wild — and grow to ten times the size. Maybe more.”

  “That long?” Jeremiah asked. “I didn’t think most beetles lived past a few months.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  The man’s gaze stayed on the creature in his palm. “Many don’t. Others may remain as juveniles for years, sometimes decades, before spending a short time as an adult. But this girl’s kind are the patient sort. They grow slow and remember long.” He looked up then, eyes bright. “A good lesson for all of us, I’d say.”

  Jeremiah nodded slowly as he considered the man’s words. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Do.” The old man set the beetle gently into a small glass carrier. “You’ve built something good here, shopkeeper. People are talking.” He tapped the lid once, then began folding the legs of his makeshift stage, his motions easy and practiced. “We live in a world where people are so focused on forward progress that they forget how to reach back, sometimes. We need more people who do.”

  Jeremiah blinked.

  The man laughed softly. He slung the folded frame over his shoulder, adjusted his hat, and gave a slow wink. “Thanks for the tournament, by the way. It’s been good for her. For both of us.”

  Before Jeremiah could ask what he meant, the old man turned toward the far side of the square. The beetle’s container swung lightly from his hand as he walked, catching the dim light with every step. In another moment, he was gone.

  Jeremiah stood there for a while, watching where he had vanished around the corner. Then tucked his hands back into his pockets, let out a low sigh, and started toward the Menagerie.

  ——————————————————

  The bell above the door chimed once as Jeremiah stepped into the Menagerie. Warm air met him, carrying the mingled scents of fresh coffee, polish, and wet fur. Morning light spilled through the front windows, cutting clean angles across the floor where the autobrooms were already at work, humming softly as they darted under tables.

  The shop wasn’t supposed to open for another hour, but it might as well have been midday. Mani and Alan occupied one corner, both half-dressed and arguing quietly over which part of the uniform counted as “official.” Alan, ever immaculate, had his tie perfectly straight and his vest buttoned, while Mani wore his half-open, sleeves rolled to the elbows, already smudged with pastry sugar.

  “Left over right,” Alan muttered. “Then loop.”

  “I am looping,” Mani protested, managing only to tighten the knot into something that looked like a very confident mistake.

  Across the room, Stella knelt beside the puppy’s enclosure, dealing with a different kind of struggle — two half-awake puppies who had decided uniforms were optional. Tish hung limp in her arms like an exhausted ragdoll, while Tosh tried to burrow into a pile of folded blankets to avoid being dressed entirely.

  Jeremiah paused just inside the doorway, smiling to himself. The early light cut through the front windows, glancing off the tables and scattering across the floor. He blinked, then chuckled, shaking his head with a smile.

  Behind the counter, Lewis looked up, caught mid-pour with a mug of steaming coffee. “Sorry, boss,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “They showed up early. I figured, after how yesterday went, they might want to get a head start.”

  Jeremiah blinked, then laughed under his breath. “It’s fine, Lewis. I’d have done the same. Thanks for your help.”

  Lewis exhaled in relief. “Good, ’cause I’m pretty sure Stella was about five minutes away from picking the lock.”

  “I heard that!” she called without looking up.

  Jeremiah chuckled and waved off Lewis’s apology.

  He left the counter to them and wandered toward the café half of the shop. Jeremiah expected the room to be empty, waiting for him to set things up for the day — but tucked near the back booth, away from the morning chaos, sat someone he hadn’t expected.

  Amani.

  The young djinn was curled up in the corner seat, her hood was pushed back for once, pale horns catching a line of soft light from the window. Sissy lay sprawled across her lap like a queen in a sunbeam, purring deep enough Jeremiah could hear it from here. Amani’s fingers moved in slow, absent strokes through the cat’s tortoiseshell fur, and — for the first time Jeremiah could remember — there was a smile there. Small and unguarded, but real.

  It was there for only a second before she noticed him. Her hand stilled. The curve of her mouth vanished as if it had never been, replaced by the flat, guarded look she usually wore.

  Jeremiah raised a brow, half amused. “Didn’t expect to see you here this early,” he said, keeping his tone casual. “Heard things got a little wild after Sam left yesterday.”

  Amani clicked her tongue and looked away, pretending to find great interest in Sissy’s ears. “It wasn’t that bad,” she muttered. “We managed.”

  Jeremiah leaned lightly against the booth’s frame, watching her. “Mero said you ended up running half the floor.”

  “Yeah, well.” She shrugged, still not meeting his eyes. “Since Sam couldn’t make it today, I figured you’d be desperate enough to need the help.”

  That almost pulled a laugh out of him. For all her power and sharp edges, Amani gave the impression of a teenager caught trying to pretend she didn’t care.

  Jeremiah gave a faint smile, and Amani frowned.

  She rolled her eyes and turned away, but not before Jeremiah caught the tiny blush across her cheeks. “Don’t get weird about it,” she said, fingers resuming their slow stroke down Sissy’s back. The cat purred louder, leaning into her hand.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” Jeremiah said. His voice softened as he added, “Thanks for helping out.”

  Amani twitched as if the words had burned her, but she didn’t turn to look at him. “Whatever. Just don’t expect me to do all the work.”

  He smirked. “Noted.”

  Sissy yawned, stretching in the young djinn’s lap, and Amani shifted to accommodate her. Jeremiah smiled to himself and turned back toward the front of the store. “Alright then. I’ll leave you and Sissy to your morning meeting.”

  Amani didn’t answer, though her hand kept moving in slow circles through the cat’s fur.

  As Jeremiah walked away, he let the hum of the store settle around him — the rustle of uniforms, Mani’s triumphant cry about finally fixing his tie, and the clatter of plates as Lewis set up the pastry display.

  ——————————————————

  The roar of the crowd rose like a living thing, a sound that rolled through the courtyard and rattled the windows of the Menagerie. Jeremiah stood near the side of the stage, one hand resting against the wooden rail, the other tucked into the pocket of his coat. The glow from the floating screens washed across his face, painting the edges of his smile in silver and gold.

  It was later in the day, and the third round had just ended. The brackets on the main screen folded into themselves until only four names remained. The noise that followed was thunderous, and Jeremiah couldn’t help but feel a quiet swell of pride at how far they’d come.

  Three full rounds down, and the day had gone almost absurdly well. No broken equipment, no shouting matches. Even the one brief scuffle over a bad bet had been smothered before it could spark. Nic’s men had stepped in quickly, all calm efficiency and quiet authority, leaving behind nothing but grumbled apologies and a round of free drinks.

  Jeremiah let out a quiet sigh. He hadn’t realized how much tension he’d been carrying until it started to fade.

  Even Birch Snagum had behaved.

  That was a real surprise. Jeremiah had expected him to show up swinging his ego like a club like yesterday, but the man had done nothing but walk in, crush his opponent in record time, and leave without so much as a boast. No smirk, no taunt. Just… silence.

  Now, under the faint shimmer of the Arcadium lights, Mani stepped forward with a confidence that could’ve filled three stages.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” Mani’s voice boomed over the speakers, cutting through the hum of the crowd. When everyone had gone silent, he turned and gestured behind him. “I am proud to introduce to you, our Final Four!”

  The crowd cheered. Mani grinned, basking in it, then lifted a hand for quiet. “Please give a round of applause for our semifinalists!”

  He turned and gestured toward the contestants standing behind him.

  “First up — Cindy Long!”

  Cindy, the young mechanic in her oil-stained coveralls, blinked before giving an awkward half-bow. Somewhere near the back of the crowd, a group of heavyset men in matching jumpsuits and the same square-jawed grin broke into a wild cheer.

  “GO SIS!” they bellowed, waving hand-painted signs that looked like they’d been made during a lunch break.

  Cindy’s cheeks went bright red. She shot them a death glare that only made them cheer louder, then lifted a hand in a reluctant wave to the rest of the audience.

  Jeremiah bit back a laugh.

  “Next,” Mani said, voice dropping to a mock-dramatic timbre, “He might be our oldest contestant, but don’t let that fool you! Reggie!”

  The old man tipped his hat and raised his cane high, like a conductor greeting an orchestra. The crowd answered with whistles and applause. His Coiled Willow Beetle twined lazily around the end of his cane, its legs outstretched as if bowing along with him.

  “Third — Birch Snagum!”

  The reaction was more polite this time — scattered applause and a few half-hearted whistles. Birch didn’t seem to care. He folded his arms, a perpetual sneer on his face.

  Jeremiah frowned, and something in his gut twisted. After yesterday, the man’s quiet was almost worse than his arrogance. Something about the man sat wrong with Jeremiah, though he couldn’t place what exactly.

  Finally, Mani turned toward the smallest figure at the end of the line, a young boy no older than twelve. “And last but not least, representing the Maddock Apartments right here on Market Street! — young Elliot Maren!”

  The courtyard erupted.

  Elliot froze like a startled deer, clutching his beetle’s carrier to his chest. His wide eyes flicked between the screens and the cheering faces until Lewis and Bastion stood up near the front, whistling and clapping like proud uncles. The boy gave a weak wave, his face nearly as pale as his knuckles.

  “Breathe,” Jeremiah muttered under his breath, smiling. “You’ve got this, kid.”

  Mani’s grin widened.

  Onstage, Mani soaked in the energy, pacing like a showman about to drop the curtain. The floating screens brightened in unison, their glow gathering around the central Arcadium.

  Mani’s grin widened. “And now—” he snapped his fingers.

  One by one, the smaller satellite arenas shimmered, dissolving into motes of light that streamed back toward the pedestal in the middle of the stage.

  The particles spiraled together in a soft hum that swelled into a crystalline tone, and then the Arcadium flared to life — a single, perfect arena awaiting its champions.

  Mani raised his hand, grinning like he’d been waiting all day for this line.

  “Let the semifinals… BEGIN!”

  The crowd erupted again, the sound shaking the courtyard to its foundations.