Chapter 171. Tea Time

The bells above the door chimed a cheerful cascade as Adom stepped inside, still maintaining his grip on the unconscious assassin's arm.

"Welcome to the Weird Stuff Stor—oh, hello there, Mage."

"Good day, Thessarian. How are you doing?"

She looked up from her clipboard, blonde hair falling across one shoulder in a way that probably wasn't accidental. "Fine, thanks." Her gaze shifted to the man floating beside Adom. "Friend of yours?"

"Is Biggins here?"

"Making tea in the back." She returned to her inventory, pencil tapping against the clipboard. "We got a shipment of those singing teacups yesterday. Half of them only hum, and three won't stop screaming. It's been a day."

"Thank you. You're looking good today."

"Thanks." A slight smile played at the corner of her mouth. "Working here is much less stressful than what I did before. No one tries to kill me for existing, and the worst thing that happens is a candy cane tries to bite a customer."

The shop bustled with organized chaos around them. Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, packed with a large variety of items. A collection of snow globes on the counter contained miniature thunderstorms instead of snow. Candy jars held sweets that changed colors as you watched, and one contained what appeared to be tiny fireworks that exploded into sugar crystals.

Toy soldiers marched in formation across a display table, occasionally breaking ranks to engage in elaborate battles with wooden dragons that breathed actual smoke. A music box played a waltz while tiny dancers spun inside, but the dancers were made of water and the music came from somewhere else entirely.

Thessarian moved between the displays, checking items off her list and occasionally redirecting a wandering toy back to its proper place. A mechanical bird tried to steal her pencil, and she shooed it away without looking up.

"Inventory day?" Adom asked, adjusting his grip on his floating companion.

"Every day is inventory day here. Things have a habit of rearranging themselves when no one's looking." She gestured toward a shelf where books were apparently reshuffling their own order. "Yesterday I found the enchanted mirrors in the candy section. They were trying to convince the chocolate frogs they were ugly."

Adom chuckled and made his way past the counter, threading between displays that seemed to shift slightly as he passed. The unconscious assassin bobbed along beside him like a particularly uncooperative balloon.

He stopped at a door marked "Private" in letters that glowed faintly blue and knocked twice.

The door swung open by itself, revealing a cozy room beyond.

Adom stepped inside.

Biggins stood at a marble counter, pouring steaming liquid from an ornate silver teapot into delicate porcelain cups. His movements were precise, almost ceremonial, like he'd performed this exact ritual a thousand times before. Steam curled upward in perfect spirals, carrying the scent of something floral and complex.

"Hello, Mr. Biggins."

The old man looked up, his eyes brightening with pleasure. "Oh, young Adom! Just in time for tea. Perfect timing, really." He gestured toward the cups with obvious pride. "I've been working on a new blend. Moonflower petals from the Southern Reaches, a touch of crystallized starfruit essence, and just a hint of silverleaf for clarity. I had a feeling you'd appreciate the subtlety."

"I'm sure I will."

"You know," he continued, arranging the cups on a tray with unnecessary precision, "I believe young Thessarian is attempting to seduce me. It's quite awkward, really. She keeps finding excuses to lean over the counter when she talks to me, and yesterday she brought me cookies shaped like hearts." He paused, looking genuinely perplexed. "Could you perhaps mention to her later that I'm not attracted to humans? I don't wish to hurt her feelings, but the situation is becoming rather uncomfortable."

Adom nearly choked on air. "Wait, what? Are you sure?"

"Oh yes, quite certain. The signs are unmistakable."

"Does she know what you are?"

Biggins's eyes sparkled with amusement. "She's been trying to figure it out for years now. It's been quite entertaining, actually. Last week she asked me how old I was, and when I said 'older than the city,' she spent three days researching the founding of Arkhos." He chuckled, a sound like distant thunder. "Yesterday she brought up dragon mythology during casual conversation. Subtle as a brick through a window, that one, but I admire her persistence."

"And you're just... letting her?"

"It's harmless fun. She's clever, determined, and it keeps her mind occupied during the slow hours." Biggins's expression grew fond. "Though I do wish she'd stop with the heart-shaped baked goods. It's becoming awkward."

Only then did his gaze shift to the unconscious man floating beside Adom.

"Problem?"

"Big problem. Thanks." Adom accepted the offered cup, feeling the warmth seep through the porcelain.

Biggins waved his hand, and a cushion materialized out of what appeared to be solidified cloud. It bobbed gently in the air before settling near a low table. "Please, sit. But first, taste the tea. I'm quite eager for your assessment."

Adom let the levitation spell drop. The assassin crumpled to the floor in an undignified heap, but didn't wake up. Adom settled onto the cloud cushion, which was surprisingly supportive despite feeling like sitting on weather.

He raised the cup and took a careful sip.

The tension in his shoulders melted away almost immediately. The knot between his shoulder blades that he hadn't even realized was there simply... disappeared. His jaw unclenched. Even his breathing deepened without conscious effort.

"Hmm," he said, taking another sip. "What did you say was in this?"

"An alchemical blend of my own devising. Quite recent, actually." Biggins beamed with satisfaction. "Excellent for relaxation, as you can tell. The modern world is so terribly stressful, don't you think? All that rushing about, all that tension. People forget to breathe properly."

He produced a plate of small cakes from somewhere, each one a miniature work of art. Tiny flowers made of spun sugar decorated their tops, and they smelled like honey and summer rain. Which was strange for cakes. "Try these as well. The chocolate ones are particularly good."

Adom hadn't realized how wound up he'd been until the relief hit him. The assassination attempt, the conversation with Gaius, the weight of everything he'd learned about Morgana and the Emperor—it had all been sitting on his chest like a stone. Now he could actually think clearly for the first time in days.

He selected one of the chocolate cakes and bit into it. Rich, complex flavors bloomed across his tongue, with layers of sweetness that revealed themselves slowly. "This is incredible."

"Thank you. I do try." Biggins settled into his own chair, which appeared to be made of crystallized amber. His expression grew serious, the theatrical warmth fading almost instantly. "The man's name is Nabû-rēmanni. He is quite the prolific assassin."

Adom's attention snapped to full focus. "You know him?"

"I know all members of the Order. Well, most of them." Biggins replied. "This particular individual belongs to one of the branches I actively avoid. They're not supposed to know of your existence, you see. That branch has been... corrupted. I've taken great care to keep them ignorant of your training and development."

Adom set down his teacup with deliberate care. The relaxation from the tea was still there, but underneath it, his mind was racing. "Corrupted how?"

"They serve interests that are not aligned with the Order's true purpose. Gold has a way of changing priorities, as does fear. And certain... political pressures." Biggins's fingers drummed once against the arm of his chair. "The fact that Nabû found you suggests either my precautions have failed, or someone with considerable resources has been asking the right questions."

"Someone hired him?"

"Oh, almost certainly. Nabû isn't the type to act on personal initiative. He's a tool, not a thinker." Biggins glanced at the unconscious man with obvious distaste. "Rather a crude tool, at that. Whoever sent him either doesn't know your capabilities, or they're testing something else entirely."

Adom picked up another cake, using the motion to buy himself time to think. The assassination attempt made more sense now, but it also raised a dozen new questions. "Which branch?"

"The Fardhis remnant. They've been operating out of the Eastern Kingdoms for the past century, selling their services to whoever pays best." Biggins's expression darkened. "They've forgotten what we were meant to be."

"Who do you think sent him?"

"There's a tribal chief in Fardhis who happens to be the leader of that branch of the Order. Goes by the name Ashur-dan-ili these days, though I knew him by different names in the past." Biggins took a delicate sip of his tea. "Ambitious man. The kind who sees opportunity in chaos."

Adom leaned back against the cloud cushion, mind working through the implications. If they'd found him and sent an assassin, it meant one of two things. Either they thought he was an impostor trying to claim the Architect's mantle, or they'd become so corrupted that the emergence of the real Architect would be a problem for them.

The first option seemed less likely. Biggins had already confirmed they were corrupted, and besides, why send an assassin for a fake? You'd expose a fake, not kill them.

The second option was worse. It meant they knew who he was, or at least suspected enough to want him dead now, before he could grow stronger. Before he could threaten whatever little empire they'd built for themselves in the Eastern Kingdoms.

Biggins chuckled, the sound warm and satisfied.

Adom looked up. "What is it?"

"You're ready now."

"Ready for what?"

"When Law made his plans for the Order, he knew it would be corrupted eventually." Biggins's voice carried that ancient weight again, like he was reciting something he'd heard firsthand. "How he knew, I have no idea. Prophetic vision, perhaps, or simply a realistic understanding of human nature. But everything he predicted so far has proven true."

He gestured toward the unconscious assassin with his teacup. "Because he knew corruption was inevitable, he placed false information in all the branches. Deliberate misdirection, designed to lead them away from you until you could fend for yourself."

"It worked?"

"Obviously. They can send people now, but they'll likely fail." Biggins's smile was sharp around the edges. "With your movements and growing fame, this was inevitable. In fact, I'm surprised they didn't come a few years earlier."

Adom chuckled and got to his feet, brushing cake crumbs from his robes. "Do you have a place for this guy?"

"Oh, well yes, of course." Biggins waved his hand dismissively. "Us dragons always have a spare dungeon for princesses and people we don't like."

Adom laughed outright. "Is that actually true?"

"What is actually true?" Biggins's eyes twinkled with mischief. "The dungeon part? Certainly. The princess part? Well, that's more complicated. You see, the whole dragons-kidnapping-princesses business is terribly overblown. Most of the time, the princesses came to us voluntarily. Palace life is dreadfully boring, apparently, and we're excellent conversationalists."

"And the rest of the time?"

"The rest of the time it was usually the other way around. Princesses kidnapping dragon eggs. Quite aggressive, some of those royal bloodlines." He paused thoughtfully. "Though I wasn't around when my kind was still flying the skies regularly, I'd say the whole narrative was a conspiracy perpetrated by demons. For nefarious reasons, no doubt."

He raised an eyebrow. "Demons you'll also meet eventually, I'm afraid."

"Care to elaborate?"

Biggins's expression grew more serious, though he maintained that theatrical air. "At the origin of all this mess, I know there are demons involved. They're one of the primordial races, older than dragons, older than most things that walk or crawl or fly. What they want..." He shrugged elegantly. "I honestly don't know. But I fought one of them once. The Witch of the Fae Realm, Seraphine. Young Cyrel's mother."

Adom paused, studying Biggins's face. The old dragon had always been evasive about his past, deflecting questions with jokes or changing the subject entirely. But now, with an assassin on the floor and talk of ancient demons, those gaps in knowledge felt more significant.

"You've never told me anything about your life before."

He'd asked before, of course. Small questions over the years, casual inquiries about how Biggins had met Law, what the early days of the Order were like, why an ancient dragon was running a shop in Arkhos. Some of the questions had been answered. The rest had always been vague, wrapped in theatrical flourishes that entertained without actually explaining anything.

But if demons were involved, if there was some larger conspiracy dating back to the primordial races, then maybe those gaps weren't just personal preference. Maybe they were connected to whatever was happening now.

Biggins laughed, but there was something rueful in it. "I am not particularly proud of my early life, you see. I was impudent, arrogant, and could be impulsive and cruel at times. Not the sort of stories one tells over tea and cakes." His expression brightened. "But I would gladly tell you about Law. He was one of my rare friends, and that period of my life is one I'm actually proud of."

Adom remained standing, sensing there was more coming.

Biggins leaned forward conspiratorially. "You'll have to go to the witch to ask her about the other demons. She's not part of their cabal, but she knows about them. It would make everything so much easier if we could finally put faces to our enemies." He sighed dramatically. "I'd love to accompany you, but I'm rather banned from the Fae Realm. Permanently, I'm afraid. Something about property damage and unseemly behavior during a visit."

"I opened a guild for the Fae Realm dungeons. I can go there." Adom shifted his weight, thinking it through. "The last time I met the witch, when we made our deal, I asked for safe passage to her domain. So maybe I could talk to her."

Biggins got to his feet as well, moving to a ornate wooden drawer that definitely hadn't been there a moment before. "Bring Cyrel with you. It will make the witch easier to talk to if her daughter is there."

"Got it." Adom nodded, then glanced at the unconscious assassin. "Thanks for the tea. I have to get to another meeting at Valiant's."

"Young Adom!"

He turned back just in time to catch a small cloth package that Biggins tossed his way. It was warm and smelled like the tea they'd just shared.

"What's this?"

"More of the blend we just had." Biggins's expression grew unusually serious. "You were quite tense today, so keep it with you."

"Thanks."

"Of course. This world has a way of piling weight on your shoulders when you least expect it. When you find yourself wound so tight you can't think straight, when the stress feels like it's crushing your chest and you can't remember the last time you took a proper breath..." He gestured toward the package. "Brew some of that. It will help."

Adom looked at the package, then back at Biggins. He smiled. "One day, I'm going to understand everything you say without having to wonder if you might be a bit mad."

"That would take you thousands of years, I'm afraid. Dragons age differently, and madness is really just a matter of perspective." Biggins made shooing motions with both hands. "Now go! Shoo! Shoo! You have preparations to make for your next Fae Realm visit."