"...What?"

The single word hung in the air like a suspended blade. Marco stared at Tresh, his face frozen somewhere between disbelief and fury.

Tresh Mavarin, Guildmaster of the Crimson Scale for nearly five decades, sat behind her mahogany desk with perfect posture. Her silver-streaked hair was pulled back in its customary severe bun, not a strand out of place despite the chaos of the past week.

"I said," she repeated with deliberate clarity, "I am stepping down as Guildmaster. The Crimson Scale Guild will cease operations by the end of the month."

The silence that followed her second declaration was even heavier than the first. Around the room, guild officers and senior staff exchanged glances, some resigned, others alarmed. None looked particularly surprised. They'd all seen this coming after the auction disaster.

Marco stepped forward, his hands clenched at his sides. "You can't be serious."

"I assure you, I am entirely serious." Tresh's voice remained level, almost bored. "The decision has been made. I've already begun the paperwork for the dissolution."

"After one setback? After one public embarrassment?" Marco's voice rose. "Guilds weather these storms. They rebuild."

Tresh's eyes sharpened. "One setback? Our warehouse burned to the ground. Our dye stocks are gone. Our seat in the House of Merchants is as good as lost. Deroq attempted murder in front of the Imperial Inspector and the Archmage." She ticked off each disaster on her fingers with clinical detachment. "This isn't a storm, Marco. It's an extinction event."

"So you're just giving up?" Marco looked around the room, seeking allies. "After so many years, you're walking away at the first real challenge?"

"The first?" Tresh actually laughed, a sound so rarely heard that several staff members flinched. "I built the Crimson Scale from nothing. We rose to the tenth seat at our peak. We've been declining for years - down to thirteenth, then twenty-sixth, now fiftieth. The last seat." She shook her head. "This decline began long before anyone had heard of Wangara Guild."

She stood, smoothing her crimson robes. "I'm eighty-nine years old, Marco. I've spent nearly three-quarters of my life guiding this guild. I built it, sustained it, and now I will end it with dignity rather than watch it collapse in disgrace."

Most of the guild officers nodded in somber agreement. This wasn't impulsive—Tresh Mavarin didn't do impulsive. This was the calculated decision of a merchant who knew when to liquidate a failing investment.

But Marco wasn't ready to accept it. He moved closer to her desk, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper.

"You promised me protection. You gave me your word."

"And I've kept it," Tresh replied evenly. "For months, I've sheltered you. Fed you. Kept you safe from both the Guard and your former associates."

"Until it became inconvenient."

Tresh's eyes narrowed. "Until it became impossible. The terms of our arrangement were clear from the beginning. I would protect you so long as the guild remained viable. It no longer is."

Marco's face darkened. "You took me in when no one else would. I've given you information, contacts, access to networks you'd never have found on your own."

"Yes," Tresh agreed. "And I paid you well for those services. Our arrangement was mutually beneficial, but it was never intended to be permanent."

"So what am I supposed to do now?" Marco's voice had an edge of desperation that made the guards at the door shift uneasily. "Walk out those doors and wait for the knives to find me?"

"That's hardly my concern." Tresh gathered several documents from her desk, tucking them into a portfolio. "Though I would suggest leaving Arkhos entirely. The Eastern Provinces are quite pleasant this time of year."

Marco's hand shot out, gripping her wrist. The room froze.

In an instant, the two guards were there, blades drawn and pressed against Marco's throat and back. No one breathed.

"Remove your hand," Tresh said quietly, her gaze locked with his.

For a moment, it seemed Marco might actually tighten his grip—might force the guards' hands. Then, slowly, he released her.

The guards didn't back away.

"I gave you everything," Marco said, his voice now eerily calm. "Every secret. Every connection I had left. And this is how you repay loyalty?"

Tresh massaged her wrist lightly. "Loyalty? Is that what you call it?" She shook her head. "You came to me because you had nowhere else to go. Because everyone else wanted you dead. Let's not pretend this was anything more than a business arrangement."

"A business arrangement," Marco repeated. "Like the one Cisco had with the Sylla boy?"

At this, Tresh's expression hardened. "Guards, escort Mr. Marco out."

"Wait," Marco said, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "Just... wait." He looked around the room, addressing the assembled staff. "The Crimson Scale doesn't have to end. Not like this. Not because one old woman has lost her nerve."

"Marco," Tresh warned.

He ignored her. "We still have assets. Connections. Knowledge. We can rebuild from this. Better than before."

A few of the younger staff members exchanged uncertain glances. Doubt flickered across faces that moments before had been resigned.

"We don't need the old ways," Marco continued, sensing the shift. "The Wangara Guild has shown us that. New methods. New markets. We adapt."

"Enough," Tresh snapped, her composure finally cracking. "You have no authority here. This guild was built by my hands, and it will end by my decision."

"A decision born of fear," Marco countered. "Not wisdom."

"Guards," Tresh repeated, "remove him from the premises."

The guards moved forward, but to everyone's surprise, three junior staff members stepped between them and Marco.

"Wait," said one, a young woman named Nerissa. "I want to hear what he has to say."

The room fell into a charged silence, dividing itself before Tresh's eyes. Most still stood with her, but the fact that anyone had moved to Marco's side was shocking enough.

Tresh studied the dissenters with cold eyes. "So be it," she said finally. "Those who wish to follow Marco's... vision... are free to do so. Outside these walls."

She turned back to Marco. "You have until tomorrow to vacate the guild premises. All of you. After that, the Guard will remove you by force."

"You're making a mistake," Marco said quietly.

"No," Tresh replied with absolute certainty. "I've made many in my life, but this isn't one of them." She straightened to her full height, somehow seeming taller than her modest stature. "And Marco? Never threaten me again. Not with words, not with gestures, not with implications. The only reason you're still breathing is because I choose to be merciful. That mercy has limits."

She gathered her portfolio and moved toward the door, signaling her loyal staff to follow. Most did, filing out with varying degrees of reluctance and concern.

"This isn't over, Tresh," Marco called after her.

She paused at the threshold, not bothering to turn around. "For me, it is. Whatever you do next—whatever violence you're planning—do me the courtesy of not associating it with the Crimson Scale name."

And then she was gone, her footsteps echoing down the corridor, each one more distant than the last.

Marco stood in the suddenly vast chamber, looking at the three who had remained: Nerissa, a young account manager; Voss, a security officer who had always been too eager with his blade; and Krant, a distribution coordinator with gambling debts he thought no one knew about.

"So," he said, his voice dropping to a silky register as he moved to sit in Tresh's abandoned chair. "Let's talk about what happens next."

*****