The grand hall of Leclair Palace was a cacophony of whispers and hurried footsteps, the air thick with tension. The news of Jack Kaufmann's supply chain interruption had spread like wildfire, igniting panic among the parliament members. The once-stately chamber, with its towering spires and cascading waterfalls, now felt like a cage, its opulence overshadowed by the weight of impending crisis. The members of parliament, clad in their finest silk and taffeta, paced the marble floors, their faces etched with worry. Some clutched scrolls of parchment, others whispered urgently to their aides, their voices a low hum of anxiety.
At the head of the room, seated on their thrones of polished mythril, were King Einar Leclair and Queen Nayeli Leclair. The king's silver hair gleamed under the mana-crystal chandeliers, his piercing blue eyes scanning the room with a calm that belied the storm brewing within. Beside him, Queen Nayeli, petite and regal, exuded an air of quiet intensity. Her storm-gray eyes missed nothing, her fingers idly tracing the thorns of her necklace—a gift from Elias, her confidant and occasional thorn in the side of the court.
The doors to the hall swung open with a resounding crash, and all eyes turned to see Prince Zaiden Leclair stride in, his raven-black hair disheveled, his military uniform slightly askew. His hazel eyes burned with a mix of irritation and defiance, and the wolf pendant at his throat—a symbol of his betrothal to Princess Cassis Voclain—caught the light as he moved. He was late, and he didn't care.
"Your Highness," one of the parliament members began, his voice trembling, "we must address the situation with Kaufmann. The supply chains—"
"I'm aware," Zaiden interrupted, his tone sharp as he took his place beside his father. He leaned against the throne, his arms crossed, his posture radiating disdain. "Kaufmann's little stunt has everyone in a tizzy. What's new?"
The room erupted in protests, the parliament members' voices rising in a chorus of indignation. "This is no mere stunt, Your Highness!" Lord Thrain Ironvein bellowed, his face red with anger. "The Argent Fissure dungeon's mythril shipments have been delayed. Without those resources, our armories will be depleted within weeks!"
"And the mana-crystal production!" Lady Selene Luminaire added, her voice trembling. "The Veiled Hollow's dreamshards are essential for Cybele's rituals. If Kaufmann's coalition disrupts the flow, the temples will be in chaos!"
Zaiden rolled his eyes, his lips curling into a smirk. "So, what? We're supposed to grovel at Kaufmann's feet because he's decided to throw a tantrum? Please. The man's a glorified merchant with too much time on his hands."
"Zaiden," King Einar's calm, firm voice cut through the chaos. The prince straightened slightly, though his expression remained defiant. "This is not the time for flippancy. Kaufmann's actions threaten the stability of the kingdom. We need solutions, not sarcasm."
The queen's gaze flicked to her son, her lips pressing into a thin line. "Your father is right. This is not a game, Zaiden. Kaufmann's coalition is growing stronger by the day. If we do not act, we risk losing control of the dungeons—and with them, the lifeblood of Lismore."
The room fell silent, the weight of her words settling over the assembly like a shroud. The dungeons were the heart of Lismore's power, their semi-sentient labyrinths providing the kingdom with precious resources and mana-crystals. Without them, the kingdom would crumble.
It was then that Martialis Lutherion, the Voice of the Veiled Dawn, High Hierophant of Cybele's Reformed Cult, stepped forward. A tall, gaunt man with a perpetually furrowed brow, Martialis was known for his meticulous nature and his ability to navigate the labyrinthine bureaucracy of the kingdom. His presence was a calming one, though his sharp eyes betrayed the pressure he was under.
"Your Majesties," he began, his voice measured, "while the situation is dire, we must not act rashly. Kaufmann's coalition is a formidable force, but they are not invincible. What we need is information—clear, unbiased information. I propose an audit of the supply chains and mana-crystal production. Only by understanding the full extent of the disruption can we formulate a plan to counter it."
The room erupted once more, the parliament members voicing their objections. "An audit?" Lady Seraphine Obsidian scoffed. "We don't have time for paperwork, Martialis! We need action!"
"And what would you have us do, Lady Obsidian?" Martialis shot back, his tone icy. "Charge into Kaufmann's stronghold with swords drawn? That would only escalate the situation. No, we must be strategic. An audit will give us the leverage we need to negotiate—or, if necessary, to strike."
King Einar raised a hand, silencing the room. "Martialis is right. We cannot afford to act without a clear understanding of the situation. The audit will proceed. But," he added, his gaze sweeping the room, "we must also prepare for the possibility that Kaufmann will not be swayed by words alone. Zaiden," he turned to his son, "I want you to oversee the military preparations. If it comes to a confrontation, we must be ready."
Zaiden's smirk returned, though there was a glint of something darker in his eyes. "Finally, something interesting."
As the meeting adjourned, the tension in the room remained. The parliament members filed out, their voices a low murmur of concern. Martialis lingered for a moment, his eyes meeting the king's. "This will not be easy, Your Majesty," he said quietly. "Kaufmann is not a man to be underestimated."
"I know," Einar replied, his voice equally soft. "But we have faced worse. Lismore will endure."
As the doors closed behind them, the weight of the kingdom's future hung heavy in the air. The storm was coming, and all they could do was prepare to weather it.
*****
The morning light speared through the Royal Legal Office's stained-glass windows like a vengeful deity, each colorful beam a fresh assault on Astris's throbbing temples. She slumped at her desk, a vial of willow-bark tonic clutched in one hand and a cold compress pressed to her forehead with the other. The Gilded Gryphon's fig wine had been a mistake. Theo's "special reserve" even more so.
Evelyn materialized in a cloud of citrus perfume, her cursed quill already sparking with manic energy. "Status report. Now. Did you corner Zaiden? Extract concessions? Burn Appendix Nine-C to ash?"
Astris winced. "We… clarified terms."
"Clarified." Evelyn's spectacles slid down her nose as she leaned in, her voice a razor wrapped in silk. "The Frostbane Festival is in nine days. If this contract isn't sealed by then, the temples will demand a blood offering instead of a wedding. Preferably yours."
"Noted," Astris muttered, squinting at the marriage draft through half-closed eyes. The clauses swam like eels.
Gretchen fluttered in, her ivy crown drooping. "How did the armory revisions go? The smiths haven't stormed the palace yet, so I'm calling it a win!"
Astris groaned, the sound dredged from the depths of her soul. "Fifty-three follow-up meetings. Fifty-three. When Harvy resurfaces, I'm feeding him to Thrain's forge."
The door slammed open. Seth Guilladot stormed in, his usual swagger replaced by a storm cloud intensity. "We've got a—"
"Not now," Evelyn snapped.
"Priority override." Gretchen thrust a scroll into Seth's hands, its seal a smear of crimson wax stamped with Cybele's lion emblem. "Sect summons. Marked 'urgent.'"
The room stilled. Even the mana-lanterns seemed to dim.
Seth broke the seal, his jaw tightening as he scanned the text. "Jack Kaufmann," he growled. "The Galli have invoked Right of Divine Audit. They're investigating his 'enterprises'… and they want us to testify."
Evelyn's quill froze mid-air. "Kaufmann? Since when does the Sect care about trade disputes?"
"Since he started funneling corrupted mana through the Spire." Seth crumpled the scroll, his knuckles white. "They think he's siphoning dungeon essence. Using it to… alter contracts."
Astris's headache spiked. The bracelet on her wrist hummed, its enchantment flaring as if in recognition. Kaufmann's name, the Galli's sudden interest—it stank of a play far deadlier than tariff wars.
Gretchen paled. "But the Spire's heart is Crown territory! If Kaufmann's breached it—"
"Then we're all standing on a powder keg," Seth finished. He turned to Astris, his gaze sharp. "What's his angle?"
She thought of Kaufmann's oil-slick smile in the Drowned Quay, the way his eyes had lingered on her shard. "The Spire's heart will be mine."
"Power," she said quietly. "The kind that doesn't need crowns."
Evelyn sank into a chair, her bravado fraying. "This changes everything. If the Galli are involved, the marriage contract is a footnote. Cybele's audits leave scorched earth."
"Not a footnote," Astris corrected, rising. The room swayed, but she locked her knees. "A shield. If Lismore and Celestaviel unite before the audit, their combined mana reserves could counter whatever Kaufmann's brewing."
Seth snorted. "You think Zaiden and Cassis will play nice under divine scrutiny?"
"They'll have to." She grabbed the marriage draft, her quill flashing. "Unless they want to be the ones burning on the Galli's pyres."
The silver cat watched from a shadowed corner, its eyes twin coals. Somewhere in the palace, a prince's fist met a wall.
*****
Zaiden stormed from the Hall of Cascading Echoes before the final vote could crystallize, his boots striking the moonstone tiles with enough force to crack ancestral mosaics. Parliament's droning debates about mana quotas and marriage clauses still clung to him like cobwebs. He tore through a side corridor lined with damask tapestries depicting Leclair conquests, their embroidered lions' eyes seeming to track his retreat.
The prince burst into the honeyed sunlight of the Royal Guard training grounds, where the metallic kiss of practice blades and Sloan Taner's booming laughter momentarily drowned the voices in his skull. Across the dust-choked yard, Collan Doran danced around Sloan with the lazy precision of a glacier carving stone, their sparring match equal parts violence and poetry.
"—swing like my granny after three ales!" Collan taunted, deflecting Sloan's overhead strike with a twist of his wrist that sent the taller man stumbling. Sunlight glinted off the commander's Glowmark tattoos as they flared crimson along his forearms. "And she's been dead a decade!"
Sloan recovered with a grin, his ember-lit dagger tracing fiery arcs. "Says the man who still sleeps with a stuffed gryphon!" The scent of singed leather mingled with the tang of sweat as their blades met again.
Zaiden's fingers twitched toward his own sword hilt. Cedric materialized at his elbow, the attendant's tablet already glowing with appointments. "Your Highness, the trade envoy from Celestaviel—"
"Reschedule."
"But Princess Cassis—"
Zaiden vaulted the wrought-iron fence separating nobles from the training pits. Cedric's groan of despair followed him like a requiem.
Princess Inaya's lilting call cut through the din—"Zai, wait!"—but he was already striding past racks of blunted practice swords. Guards snapped to attention, their salutes faltering as he seized a battered longsword from the dirt. The hilt felt alien compared to his usual blade, its balance crude, honest.
Collan noticed him first. The commander's smirk didn't reach his eyes as he disarmed Sloan with a flourish. "Court business, Your Highness?"
"Personal." Zaiden tested the sword's weight.
Something dangerous flickered in Collan's gaze. Sloan melted back into the crowd of suddenly very interested guardsmen.
Their first clash sent sparks skittering across the packed earth. Zaiden pressed the attack, channeling every frustrating negotiation, every veiled threat from Cassis, every glimpse of Astris's secretive smile into his strikes. Collan's defense was a fortress—parrying without retreating, his breathing steady as a blacksmith's bellows.
"Stalking my sister's shadow?" Collan goaded, deflecting a vicious slash that would've cleaved a lesser fighter from shoulder to hip. "Careful. Men who play with contracts get bound by them."
Zaiden's next strike went wide, carving a chunk from a practice dummy. "She's no simple scribe, Commander. Those grimoires under her bed—"
Collan's practice sword kissed Zaiden's throat, its edge humming with restrained power. The training yard froze. "You think I don't know?" The words were velvet over steel. "That girl's been outsmarting dungeon traps since she could walk. If you're fool enough to dive into her games..." He leaned closer, Glowmarks pulsing. "Bring a longer rope."
Jace materialized at Cedric's side, his attire incongruous among the sweat-stained guards. "What in Cybele's name—?"
"An educational exchange," Cedric deadpanned, adjusting his cuffs. "His Highness is... auditing combat protocols."
Zaiden knocked Collan's blade aside and stepped back, chest heaving. The commander's knowing smirk burned worse than any wound. Let the fool think he'd uncovered secrets—Zaiden had seen the shard's glow under Astris's floorboards, heard the silver cat's mocking purr as it led him to her hidden vault. This was a dance, not a duel.
He tossed the practice sword into the dirt. "Your footwork's slipping, Doran."
As Zaiden strode from the yard, Cedric fell into step, already murmuring revised schedules. Behind them, Sloan's laughter erupted anew, followed by Collan's growled threat to "trim that Brando-wannabe mane."
The silver cat watched from the palace eaves, its mismatched eyes tracking Zaiden's retreat. Somewhere in the city, a contract-bound bracelet hummed against pale skin, its enchantment resonating with the prince's racing pulse.
****
The office smelled of parchment dust and burnt coffee, a scent Astris had come to associate with desperation. Late afternoon light slanted through the grimy windows of the Spire's administrative wing, gilding the chaos of her desk—a landscape of half-unfurled scrolls, inkwells crusted dry, and a teetering stack of marriage draft amendments. Her quick-scrawled notes crowded the margins like siege engines, each word a battle fought. The Galli's audit loomed like a storm front, and Cybele's agents did not negotiate. They incinerated.
Astris's hand cramped around her quill. She'd been at it for hours, reworking clauses, fortifying loopholes, trying to weld Lismore's mercurial trade agreements to Celestaviel's frostbound legal codes. The marriage contract was less a union of hearts than a bulwark of ink—one that needed to hold long enough to shield both kingdoms from Kaufmann's machinations and the Galli's wrath. Her head throbbed in time with the Spire's distant mana-pulse, that subterranean heartbeat she'd once found comforting. Now it felt like a countdown.
The door creaked.
She didn't look up. "If that's another invoice from the stonemasons, Seth, I swear I'll—"
"Still charming as a rusted hinge, I see."
The voice—wry, weathered, alive—stopped her cold.
Astris turned slowly, her chair groaning.
Harvy leaned against the doorframe, his olive-green overcoat hanging loose on a frame still gaunt from whatever fever had kept him bedridden for days. His hair was freshly trimmed, though, and his eyes—sharp as ever—glinted with that familiar, infuriating amusement. A scar, pink and puckered, curved from his temple to his jawline. Astris stared at it. A reminder, she supposed, that surviving Kaufmann's "hospitality" at the Drowned Quay wasn't a feat to repeat.
"You're supposed to be dead," she said flatly.
"Disappointed?"
"Annoyed. Do you know how many renovation contracts I've had to revise while you've been convalescing? The Spire's eastern buttress is held together by spit and Seth's dubious arithmetic." She stood abruptly, the room tilting as blood rushed to her legs. She steadied herself against the desk. "But since you've made a miraculous recovery—"
Harvy raised a hand. "Astris—"
"—you can finish the revisions." She swept up an armful of scrolls, their wax seals clacking like teeth, and marched to his desk—a pristine expanse he'd abandoned days ago, now layered in dust. She dumped the load with a thud that shook a stray inkwell. "The stonemasons are charging triple for 'risk surcharges.' The risk, apparently, is you not signing off on their shoddy mortar."
Harvy snorted, edging into the room. "You've misspelled 'Celestaviel' in three separate clauses."
"And you've missed deadlines. Priorities."
They glared at each other, the air humming with familiar tension—half rivalry, half the grudging respect of two people who'd spent time untangling the Spire's secrets. Harvy's gaze flicked to the marriage draft on her desk, its crests of Lismore's twin wolves and Celestaviel's icebloom roses glaring up like rivals. "You really think this farce will hold?"
"It has to." She crossed her arms. "Unless you'd prefer to explain to Cybele why the Spire's mana vaults are half-drained by Kaufmann's pet demons."
He grimaced, running a thumb over the scar. "Fair."
Astris grabbed her coat from the rack, its navy fabric frayed at the cuffs. "I'm leaving."
"It's barely four bells," Harvy protested.
"And my braincells are downing tools. Consider this your welcome-back gift." She slung the coat over her shoulders, its weight a comfort.
Evelyn's head popped up from behind a filing cabinet, her violet hair mussed. "But the marriage contract's amendments—"
"Monday!" Astris called over her shoulder, already striding into the hall.
"The Galli don't observe weekends!" Evelyn shouted after her.
"Then it's a good thing I do!"
The heavy oak door swung shut behind her, muffling Harvy's laughter and Seth's muttered oath about "maniacs with martyr complexes." Astris grinned, sharp and unburdened, as she descended the Spire's winding stairs. Let them grumble. For the first time in weeks, the contract wasn't breathing down her neck. Kaufmann's schemes could wait. Cybele's auditors could smolder.
The Spire's heart pulsed beneath her boots, a deep, resonant thrum. Power, she thought, stepping into the dusk-lit streets, the kind that doesn't need crowns.
But crowns, she conceded, glancing back at the Spire's jagged silhouette against the lavender sky, had their uses.
Monday would come soon enough.