The streets of Lismore's Upper Ward thrummed with frenetic energy as Astris wove through crowds of merchants stringing up mana-lit lanterns shaped like Cybele's lions. Garlands of firebloom vines—imported at exorbitant cost from the Sunspire Isles—draped every archway, their petals glowing faintly in the dawn light. The air smelled of spiced wine and floral incense.
"Move it!" a harried baker barked, nearly upending a tray of honeyed wyvern tarts onto Midas. The cat hissed, leaping onto Astris's shoulder with a yowl.
"You're welcome," she muttered, sidestepping a troupe of acrobats juggling enchanted daggers.
The Royal Legal Office loomed ahead, its marble façade obscured by scaffolding for the Frostbane Festival. Inside was bedlam. Clerks sprinted down hallways clutching armfuls of scrolls, their boots squeaking on freshly polished floors. A harpsichord somewhere played a frantic rendition of Celestial Hymn No. 3, likely Gretchen Bloom's doing—she believed music "soothed bureaucratic beasts."
"Astris! Finally!"
Camilla Valero, the Royal Accountant, barreled toward her, arms stacked with ledgers teetering like a Jenga tower of doom. Her assistant, Oliver Sum, trailed behind, dwarfed by a quill case strapped to his back like a porcupine's armor.
"Laurent arrives in twenty minutes," Camilla panted. "We need Seth Guilladot to verify these dungeon tithe records now—"
"He's in his office," Astris said, pointing.
"Bless you!" Camilla lunged past, Oliver tripping over his own boots as they vanished into the storm.
Evelyn Laveau materialized next, her rainbow-cloak billowing. "Update on the Voclain-Leclair marriage contract. Now. Clause 17-D is a ticking mana-bomb—"
"Drafted revisions are on my desk," Astris said, ducking as a clerk hurled a cursed quill across the room.
Gretchen Bloom popped out of a supply closet, her frilly blouse smeared with ink. "Astris! You've a meeting with Prince Zaiden and Princess Cassis in an hour. Royal Pavilion."
"I didn't schedule that."
"He did." Gretchen shrugged. "Something about 'revising terms under divine scrutiny.'"
Midas chose that moment to leap onto Evelyn's desk, sending a pot of ink cascading over a stack of subpoenas.
"Catastrophe!" Evelyn wailed.
"Literally," Astris said, snatching Midas mid-air. She dumped him onto Gretchen's lap. "Keep the gremlin alive."
At her desk, she grabbed her satchel—already stuffed with the grimoire, Miles's dagger, and a half-eaten saffron roll—and froze.
Lucas Laurent stood in the lobby.
The Auditor of the Cybele Cult moved like a shadow given sentience, his midnight robes swallowing the light. The constellations embroidered across his sleeves shimmered as if alive, and his violet eyes glowed beneath his hood, fixing briefly on Astris. The air thickened, the office's cacophony dimming to a hush.
"Drafter Doran," he said, his voice a silk-wrapped blade. "We'll speak later."
It wasn't a request.
Astris forced a nod, her throat dry.
Midas, now perched on Gretchen's shoulder, sneezed loudly.
"Charming," Lucas murmured, though his lips didn't move.
Astris fled.
Outside, the Festival's garish joy clashed with the Spire's growl. She adjusted the satchel's strap and muttered, "Let's get this over with, princeling."
But as she strode toward the Royal Pavilion, Lucas's warning echoed in her skull: Even stars burn out.
The Royal Pavilion stood atop a floating island of enchanted quartz, tethered to the palace by bridges of woven starlight. As Astris crossed, the Spire's shadow stretched across the chasm below, its growl vibrating the air like a struck gong. The cat, Midas, padded beside her, his tail flicking at motes of mana that drifted up from the abyss.
Astris paused, gripping her wrist. The silver wyvern-bone bracelet Cassis had gifted her during their last negotiation burned suddenly, its carved runes glowing faintly amber. A warning? A threat? She shook her arm, the heat fading as quickly as it came. Midas hissed at the bracelet, then darted ahead, his fur bristling.
"Drama queen," Astris muttered, adjusting her satchel.
Inside the pavilion, the air smelled of ink, aged parchment, and the sharp citrus perfume Princess Cassis favored. The princess stood at a crescent-shaped table, her hands braced on a map of dungeon trade routes, her wyvern-leather riding gloves creaking with tension. Prince Zaiden lounged in a gilded chair, boots propped on the table, spinning a dagger with a hilt shaped like a wolf's head.
"Finally," Cassis snapped, her Celestaviel accent sharpening the word. "Must every meeting hinge on your tardiness, drafter?"
Zaiden grinned. "Relax, Cass. She's fashionably late. It's a Lismore tradition."
Astris ignored them, slamming her satchel onto the table. Midas leapt up beside it, knocking over an inkwell. Zaiden righted it with a flick of his fingers, the liquid freezing mid-spill.
"Clauses first. Snide commentary later," Astris said, unrolling a scroll. "Joint military patrols on dungeon routes—Lismore's knights, Celestaviel's Skyriders. Equal oversight."
Cassis's glare could've frostbitten a volcano. "My wyverns are not beasts of burden for your grubby trade caravans."
"No," Astris agreed, "they're strategic assets. Which is why Section 4-B mandates humane bridling and monthly inspections by neutral mage-wrights."
Zaiden snorted. "Neutral? You mean your brother and his guilt complex?"
"Better than your templars and their bribes."
Midas batted a wax seal across the table, his purr a thunderous counterpoint to the tension.
Cassis leaned forward, her braid slipping over her shoulder like a rope of midnight silk. "And the beast trade transparency clauses? Celestaviel does not surrender its secrets."
"But you'll lease them," Astris countered. "For a 15% tithe reduction and guaranteed protection from dungeon poachers. Unless you'd prefer Kaufmann's leviathans devour your wyvern roosts?"
Zaiden's dagger stilled. "You've been auditing his ledgers."
"I've been surviving his ledgers."
The bracelet on Astris's wrist flared again, hotter this time. Cassis's eyes flicked to it, her lips tightening. Zaiden noticed, his grin widening.
"Problem, drafter?"
"Just your breath," she lied, yanking her sleeve down. "Section 7: humane treatment protocols. No forced breeding, no venom-milking, no—"
"—soul-binding," Cassis finished coldly. "A barbaric practice your kingdom invented."
Astris met her gaze. "And dismantled. Thanks to your mother's treaty."
The pavilion trembled as the Spire's growl crescendoed. Midas arched his back, hissing at nothing.
Zaiden stood, the levity gone. "We'll amend Section 7. But the oversight stays. Cybele's audits are coming, and I'd rather not explain wyvern carcasses to Lucas Laurent."
Cassis snatched the quill from his hand, signing the parchment with a flourish that splattered ink like blood. "Pray your reforms hold, Leclair. My beasts do not forget… and neither do I."
As she swept out, Zaiden pocketed his dagger. "You've made an enemy, drafter."
Astris rolled the scroll. "Just another Monday." The bracelet cooled, its runes dormant. But as Astris shoved the scrolls into her satchel, Midas pawed at her wrist, his claws catching on a glyph now glowing faintly green—a tracker, or a curse.
Not just a bracelet, then.
The sound of the festival's cacophony swelled below the starlit bridge—children shrieking as they chased illusionary fireflies, merchants hawking "authentic" dungeon relics, and minstrels butchering ballads about Cybele's lionesses. The air tasted of charred sugar and pastries, starkly contrasting to the Spire's metallic growl reverberating through the quartz beneath Astris's boots.
Zaiden leaned against the pavilion's balcony railing; his silhouette haloed by floating lanterns shaped like snarling wolves—Lismore's emblem. "Festivals in six days," he said, plucking a honey-dusted pastry from a tray on the table. "You ready to watch me pledge undying devotion to Cassis in front of half the continent?"
Astris flicked a crumb off the contract scroll. "The ceremony's pageantry. The real vows are here." She tapped Clause 23: Mutual Defense Against Leviathan Incursions. "Once both parliaments ratify this, you're shackled to patrols, tithes, and transparency. Assuming your nobles don't filibuster it into oblivion."
Zaiden shrugged, biting into the pastry. "They'll squawk, then fold. They always do."
"And if they don't? Your wedding doesn't hinge on wyvern welfare clauses, but your alliance does."
"Aw, drafter." He grinned, syrup glinting on his teeth. "You almost sound like you care."
Midas hissed, batting at the green-glowing glyph on Astris's wrist. She tucked her hand behind her back. "I care about not redoing this paperwork when your vanity tanks the accord."
Zaiden's gaze sharpened. "Speaking of redoing things… When are you heading to the Library? Two weeks left, isn't it?"
The words hung like a blade. The Library of Ash and Echoes, buried beneath the Spire's roots—a labyrinth of forbidden texts and dead Architects' whispers. Astris remembered mentioning it when they were in the forgotten chamber, and he'd never let it go.
"You're misremembering," she said coldly.
"Am I?" He stepped closer, the scent of spiced wine and ironwood enveloping her. "What was it you said? 'I'll take the archives. You take the wine'"
The bracelet flared, its green light bleeding through her sleeve. Zaiden's eyes flicked to it, his smirk deepening. "Need a hand with that?"
"Need a muzzle?"
He laughed, low and dangerous. "I'll have wine ready when you crawl back. The good vintage—aged in dungeon oak."
Astris turned, her satchel slamming against her hip. "Don't bother."
As she stalked away, the festival's joy curdled into static. Midas trotted beside her, his tail lashing. Behind, Zaiden called, "Tick-tock, drafter!"
The Spire's growl swallowed his laughter, but the glyph on her wrist pulsed in time to her heartbeat—a reminder that in Lismore, even secrets had deadlines.
The festival's din faded behind Astris as she turned down a side street, the scent of roasting chestnuts giving way to the sharper tang of wyvern musk and oiled steel. The Wyvern Plateau loomed ahead—a tiered training ground carved into the cliffs near the Royal Army's barracks, where the air thrummed with the beat of massive wings and the shouted commands of Skyrider captains.
Then—thwack.
A folded paper bird smacked into her forehead, its edges razor-sharp. Midas pounced, batting it to the cobblestones with an indignant mrrp.
"Really?" Astris plucked it up, her thumb brushing the wax seal of Celestaviel—a wyvern in flight, its tail coiled around a dagger. She groaned.
Drafter Doran, the note read in precise, looping script, Your presence is requested at the Wyvern Plateau at once. Matters of mutual interest require discussion. – CV
Astris crumpled the paper. "Because obviously, I don't have enough to do today."
Midas chirped, as if in agreement.
She pivoted toward the Plateau, barely registering the familiar clank of armor or the raucous laughter from a nearby tavern.
"Astris!"
Collan Doran stood in the middle of the street, his Royal Guard insignia gleaming, his hazel eyes sharp with concern. Behind him, his subordinates—Sloan, Rainer, and Cora—lounged against a hitching post, their grins wicked.
She didn't stop.
"Damn it, Astris—" Collan started after her, but Sloan slung an arm around his shoulders, pulling him back.
"Oof. Guess you're not as important as you thought, Commander," Sloan drawled, his ember-lit grin flashing.
Rainer flicked a speck of dust from his immaculate sleeve. "Perhaps she's finally realized you're the less interesting sibling."
Cora rolled her eyes. "Or maybe she's just busy saving the kingdom from your collective incompetence."
Collan scowled, shaking Sloan off. "She didn't even look at me."
"To be fair," Rainer mused, "you are tragically forgettable."
Astris was already gone, the Plateau's towering gates rising before her. The guards—clad in Celestaviel's signature amethyst-and-silver livery—nodded her through without a word.
At the top of the stairs, Cassis Voclain stood at the railing, her wyvern perched behind her like a living shadow, its golden eyes tracking Astris's every step. The princess didn't turn.
"You're late," she said.
Astris held up the crumpled summons. "You sent this thirty seconds ago."
Finally, Cassis faced her, the wind tugging at her braid. "And yet, here you are."
Midas, ever the opportunist, leapt onto the wyvern's back, earning a warning rumble.
Astris crossed her arms. "Why have you summoned me, your highness?"
Cassis smiled—a slow, dangerous thing. "To talk about the real contract. The one Zaiden doesn't know exists."
The wind howled across the Wyvern Plateau, carrying the metallic tang of Stormshard's scales and the faint, honeyed scent of Cassis's perfume—something rare and expensive, distilled from frostbell blossoms that grew only in the highest peaks of Celestaviel. The princess leaned against the railing, her gloved fingers tapping an idle rhythm against the polished stone.
Astris crossed her arms, the wyvern-bone bracelet heavy on her wrist. "How can I help you, your highness?"
Cassis's smile was slow, deliberate, like a blade being drawn from its sheath. "The amendments you pushed through today," she said, her voice low enough that the wind nearly stole the words. "They're good. Necessary. But they've made you… visible."
Astris's brows knit together. "Visible to whom?"
Cassis tilted her head, her dark eyes flicking to the bracelet—just for a heartbeat—before meeting Astris's gaze again. "To people who prefer their contracts unsigned and their secrets buried."
Midas, still perched on Stormshard's back, let out a chirp. The wyvern rumbled, but the sound was more amusement than warning.
Astris scoffed. "If this is about Kaufmann, I've already got a target on my back. A few more clauses won't change that."
Cassis exhaled through her nose, a sound that might have been frustration or admiration. "You're infuriatingly direct, you know that?"
"And you're speaking in riddles."
The princess pushed off the railing, stepping closer. The scent of frostbell sharpened, mingling with the charged crackle of Stormshard's restless energy. "Fine. Let me be clear: there are players in this game who don't care about wyvern rights or trade routes. They care about power. And you, drafter, are standing in the way."
Astris held her ground. "Then they'll find out I don't move easily."
Cassis's lips curved again, but there was no humor in it. "Stubbornness won't save you from a knife in the dark."
For a moment, the world narrowed to the space between them—the wind, the wyvern's breath, the pulse of the bracelet against Astris's skin. Then Cassis turned, her braid whipping over her shoulder as she swung onto Stormshard's back with practiced ease.
Astris frowned. "Are you actually worried about this wedding? Or is this just another political dance?"
Cassis glanced down, her smirk mirroring Zaiden's too perfectly. "We're all dancing, drafter. The trick is figuring out who's leading."
Astris rolled her eyes. "And what's the point if neither of you believes in it?"
The princess hesitated, just for a breath. Then she leaned forward, her voice barely above a whisper. "Because the dance reveals the players. The allies. The enemies. The ones who matter."
Before Astris could respond, Cassis nudged Stormshard into motion. The wyvern spread its wings, the downdraft sending Astris's hair flying into her face. By the time she pushed it aside, Cassis was already a silhouette against the setting sun.
Midas dropped to the ground with a thump, his tail flicking.
Astris stared after them, the bracelet's runes pulsing faintly green.
Players. Allies. Enemies.
The Spire's growl vibrated through the stone beneath her boots, a reminder that in Lismore, even the most careful steps could lead you off a cliff.