​The heavy, steel door to the viewing platform slid open with a soft hiss, and two figures entered. Nightshade and Tinbunny.

​Alistair turned, his expression softening into a disarming, almost welcoming smile.

"Ah, the authors of the problem have arrived," he said, his voice a low, smooth purr.

"Nightshade. Tinbunny. It is good of you to join us."

​He gestured to the two halves of the dying shield, which still pulsed with a faint, confused energy.

"The aetheric opposition from Iggy Starflare's shield was a fascinating variable. A beautiful mistake, really, in its utter lack of grace. It forced us to create a superior tool." He then gestured to the Schism, which hovered in the center of the chamber, a silent, shimmering disc. "This blade does not cut. It unweaves. It finds the metaphysical seam that holds an object together, and it severs it without opposition."

​Nightshade and Tinbunny's eyes were fixed on the blade, a flicker of genuine awe crossing their faces.

​"A truly effective tool, however," Alistair continued, his voice taking on a cold, precise cadence, "cannot be tested on inanimate objects. The essence of a magical shield is focused will. A granite plinth has none. This blade must be tested on a living, willing subject. We must see what happens when the Schism finds the seam in a body held together not just by sinew and bone, but by a consciousness that resists its own dissolution."

​He turned, his gaze falling directly on Nightshade, then on Tinbunny, his smile becoming sharp and pointed.

"Let's be clear. Our initial arrangement was a contract. The provision of the saw constituted a bailment for hire, and the terms were simple: return the tool in working order. The destruction of the asset, while accidental, was still a tortious interference with a piece of my property. There must be a remedy, a settlement."

​Nightshade's expression, previously one of quiet observation, hardened into one of cold confidence. She stepped forward, her voice a low, commanding alto that betrayed no fear.

"Your legal fictions are noted, Alistair. But let us not pretend this was a simple case of negligence. Your blade was flawed. It was brittle, incapable of withstanding the opposition it was designed to cut. The tort here is not ours, but yours—a failure to provide a tool fit for purpose. A judge would be more than receptive to that argument. Perhaps we should see what a magistrate in the mortal realm has to say about it."

​Alistair's smile sharpened, losing all traces of warmth. He met her gaze, his eyes glinting with a rare, dangerous amusement. "You assume a judge would find for you. I assure you, my dear, a court of law would be less concerned with the esoteric qualities of the blade and more with the documented fact that you used an enchanted weapon against an agent of chaos in the heart of London. The legal precedent for that, as I'm sure you know, is… messy. The Order would intervene. And our friends in the legal system would quickly find in favor of a clean, discrete solution."

​He took a slow, deliberate step towards her, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, a cold and intimate threat. "And let's dispense with the notion of cheating. I am well aware of your skills as a chemist, Nightshade. The subtle poisons, the odorless gasses, the clever pills that affect perception and judgment. But fighting demons, devils, and other incursions from hell and the abyss for centuries has left me quite immune to such... terrestrial charms. There is nothing you could conjure that my system would not immediately identify and neutralize. The contest would be... uninteresting for you."

​He gestured to the Schism with a flourish, his tone shifting back to that of a polite, yet absolute, professional. "Think of this not as a punishment, but as arbitration for a business dispute. You brought us a problem. We offer a solution. In a moment, this blade will be tested on a living, willing subject who understands the risks. You, of course, are the ideal candidates."

​Nightshade's smirk grew colder. "Your blade was the failure. We, on the other hand, performed flawlessly. Iggy Starflare's shield was the variable, a piece of raw chaos that your tool could not contend with. That is not on us."

​

Alistair's gaze became razor-sharp, his voice a low, dangerous purr. "Iggy Starflare consented to being sawn in half by me. She volunteered. We had a contract of performance, and our 'tit for tat' was a matter of elegance and mutual respect. I sawed her, and she remained whole. You, on the other hand, in your long-running displays of one-upmanship, did not seek her consent. The shield was not a random act of chaos, Nightshade. It was a perfectly justified, perfectly executed act of defensive magic. A direct consequence of a breach of a fundamental rule of our profession. Your blade was not the failure. Your judgment was."

​He let the accusation hang in the air, a final, unassailable piece of his argument.

His eyes gleamed with a terrible, intellectual excitement, and he let a final piece of the bargain drop into the silence.

"There is, of course, an added inducement. If you both volunteer for this test, demonstrating your full faith in my methodology and this new design... then this blade is yours. A formidable new tool for your collective ventures. A settlement in full."

​He gave them a final, piercing look. "Shall we begin?"

@HenchwomanTinbunny @Nightshade-QOV