Chapter 86
In a place where wealth had weight and wishes left echoes, Jambhala laughed.
Not loudly.
Not cruelly.
But with deep, unmistakable delight.
Gold light rippled through the celestial chamber around him. Coins drifted overhead like tiny moons, while threads of fate shimmered between incense smoke and floating ledgers, each line glowing with possibility, consequence, and very careful wording.
Before him, a wide bronze basin held a vision of Everbloom Garden.
Lanterns.
Petals.
Music.
A pond shining with reflected gold.
And Dara Chann—Lynara Voss now, though the distinction had become less important than she thought—standing beneath falling blossoms with an emerald ring on her finger and a very inconveniently sincere Crown Prince at her side.
Jambhala smiled.
“She asked for money,” he said. “Comfort. Peace. A soft life.”
In the basin, Dara looked down at the ring as though it were both treasure and accusation.
His smile widened. “I gave her all of it.”
A soft rustle came from behind him.
Then a voice said, “You did not give her the world she expected.”
Jambhala did not turn immediately.
A pristine white cat with glowing feathered wings stepped onto the edge of a floating ledger, golden eyes bright with judgment and amusement. Her tail flicked once, scattering sparks of light into the air.
Mercy.
Celestial caseworker.
Contract enthusiast.
Professional menace.
Jambhala glanced over his shoulder. “She did not specify.”
Mercy’s whiskers twitched. “Classic.”
“She prayed quite sincerely.”
“Humans often do.”
“She wanted never to worry about money again.”
Mercy looked into the basin, where Dara stood surrounded by applauding servants, family, guards, pets, and the man who had made himself the largest obstacle to her escape plan.
“I see you interpreted generously.”
“Extremely.”
“She also wanted to go home, didn’t she?”
Jambhala lifted one hand. A golden coin spun lazily above his palm. “She wanted comfort more.”
The coin dropped.
Somewhere unseen, a scale chimed.
Mercy sat, folding her wings neatly at her sides. “Humans never know which wish is the real one.”
“No,” Jambhala agreed. “But they reveal it eventually.”
Mercy looked smug. “I had one sign a contract recently.”
“Carol Reed.”
“You heard?”
“The paperwork echoed.”
Mercy looked offended. “It was a perfectly reasonable contract.”
“It was thirty pages.”
“She skimmed.”
“You told her it was a lifestyle vacation.”
“It is.”
“She woke as a pregnant villainess married to the Butcher of the North.”
Mercy’s tail curled with satisfaction. “And now she has naps, desserts, and deadly adorable pets. I fail to see the issue.”
Jambhala laughed again.
In the basin, Dara hugged her father, eyes bright and smile uncertain but real.
“Mine wanted money, boba, and rest,” he said. “She received a fortune, estates, loyal staff, a city, a mountain full of ore, hot springs, pets, and a husband-to-be who would dismantle a council before allowing her to be harmed.”
Mercy leaned closer. “He is very serious.”
“Painfully.”
“Useful, though.”
“Very.”
“Does she know you gave her exactly what she asked for?”
Jambhala’s eyes gleamed. “She suspects betrayal.”
Mercy purred. “Even better.”
The basin shifted.
Images moved across the surface: Dara in a fast-food uniform, exhausted beneath fluorescent lights; praying at a small temple after midnight.
Then she was waking in silk sheets, hiring workers and accidentally making them loyal, inventing comfort where comfort did not exist, mourning a failed exile route like a tragic heroine wronged by economics, and standing in a dream where city rain and estate moonlight became one world.
Dara saying yes.
Mercy watched quietly, then said, “She did build her own soft life.”
Jambhala nodded. “She only needed a world stubborn enough to make her stop running.”
“And a prince stubborn enough to stand in the way.”
“That helped.”
Mercy’s golden eyes narrowed with feline amusement. “Will you tell her?”
Jambhala looked personally offended. “Of course not.”
“Cruel.”
“Educational.”
“Same thing, often.”
The coin above them spun again, then settled into the air. On one side was the worn face of a woman too tired to ask for more than rest. On the other was a noblewoman in silk with an emerald ring and the expression of someone still suspicious of happiness.
Mercy lifted one paw and tapped the coin.
It rang softly.
“What about the billion dollars?”
Jambhala shrugged. “She has more.”
“In another currency.”
“Currency is a social agreement.”
Mercy stared at him. “That is such a divine answer.”
“It is accurate.”
“She wanted streaming dramas.”
“She has theater, musicians, storytellers, and the ability to fund whatever performance culture she finds insufficient.”
“She wanted modern food.”
“She invented boba.”
“She wanted not to work.”
Jambhala paused.
In the basin, Dara was already speaking animatedly to Valerius about some new garden addition despite having just become engaged.
Mercy’s whiskers twitched.
Jambhala sighed fondly. “That part is proving difficult.”
“Because she has to work?”
“Because she keeps inventing projects.”
“She complains while doing them.”
“They all do.”
Below them, Dara looked suddenly toward the sky, as if sensing the universe mocking her.
Mercy leaned forward. “Can she hear us?”
“No.”
“Pity.”
“She would throw something.”
“Can she reach this plane?”
“No.”
“Pity.”
Jambhala gave her a sideways look. “You enjoy trouble.”
“I am a cat.”
“Winged celestial caseworker.”
“Still a cat.”
They watched in companionable silence as the vision shifted once more.
Valerius took Dara’s hand.
Dara looked at him.
For once, there was no calculation in her face.
No escape route.
No complaint large enough to hide the truth.
Only choice.
Mercy’s expression softened, though she immediately ruined it by saying, “Humans are quite entertaining.”
Jambhala smiled. “Especially when they think they know what they asked for.”
The scale beside him chimed again.
A glowing line appeared across one floating ledger.
WISH FULFILLMENT STATUS: COMPLETE
Mercy read it and snorted. “That is debatable.”
“Most blessings are.”
“She may object.”
“She objects to everything.”
“True.”
Jambhala leaned back, thoroughly pleased.
Far below, Dara stood beneath falling petals with Valerius’s hand clasped around hers, surrounded by the world she had tried so hard not to love.
Gold light moved through the chamber like laughter.
Mercy stretched her wings, tail high.
“So,” she said. “What happens next?”
Jambhala’s smile turned bright and wicked.
“Oh,” he said, eyes on the basin. “Now she has to live with what she chose.”