The shard concealed in her sleeve throbbed in sync with the Spire's rhythm, a secret counterpoint to the pendant's warning. She clenched her fist, the shard's edges biting into her palm, and leveled a glare at Theron. The lord stood rigid beside her desk, his usual aristocratic poise frayed at the edges—his velvet doublet rumpled, his cracked signet ring (the Leclair lion half-shattered) glinting dully in the flickering mana-light.
"What is your leverage?" Astris demanded, her voice low. The quill in her hand—a common raven-feather, not yet dipped in ink—hovered over the parchment like a blade. "It would be more impactful—binding—if I could add it to the amendment."
Theron's gaze darkened, his fingers twitching toward the onyx pen tucked into his belt. A tell. He despised showing hesitation. "Some assets," he said carefully, "are not meant for ledgers."
The unspoken words hung between them, thick as the sulfur-tinged mist rolling in from the bay. Astris's jaw tightened. She knew the game—knew the Free Trade Coalition's "assets" ranged from smuggled dungeon cores to blackmail scrolls locked in vaults beneath the palace. But Theron's reluctance meant this was worse.
Seth Guilladot, leaning against a bookshelf with arms crossed, broke the silence with a dry chuckle. "Gods spare us from nobles and their secrets." His boots—scuffed from the Lower Ward's grime—thudded against the floor as he pushed off. "Astris, stop interrogating the man and start drafting. Use the Nether Bird quill. Kaufmann's contracts are laced with infernal ink—only something just as ruthless will bind him."
Astris's grip on the raven quill whitened. The Nether Bird quill was reserved for irreversible clauses, its nib forged from a creature that sang souls into the abyss. It left no room for loopholes, no space for mercy.
"Fine," she bit out, though her gaze never left Theron's. "But if this backfires, you explain to the queen why her mana-crystals are now Kaufmann's paperweights."
Theron's lip curled. "Noted."
Seth snapped his fingers at Gretchen Bloom, the Coalition's receptionist, who whirled into the door holding a ledger to her chest like armor. Her botanical-embroidered sleeves swayed slightly from the herbal-scented breeze that moved through the room.
"Gretch, schedule a meeting with Kaufmann," Seth ordered. "Tell him we're invoking Clause 17-D's arbitration rider."
Gretchen's throat bobbed. "He's not taking calls," she murmured, her voice as delicate as the poison-laced petals she cultivated in her greenhouse. "Not after the… incident with the leviathan pens."
Theron's smile was razor-thin. "Then remind him that 'even broken lions draw blood.' He'll know what it means."
Gretchen's lip twitched, but she nodded and scurried to the speak-stone, her floral perfume clashing with the dense stench of overworked mana-lamps. A moment later, she turned back, her cheeks flushed. "He—he says we have an appointment at his guild this afternoon."
Seth grinned, all teeth. "Hear that, Astris? You've got until lunch to make Kaufmann regret he ever learned to write."
*****
The Chamber of Accords was a cauldron of unrest, its vaulted ceilings swallowing the shouts of Lismore's nobles only to spit them back as a dissonant roar. The air smelled of heated wax from the mana-lit chandeliers and the sharp, metallic tang of sweat—nervous perspiration from people who had never known fear until their coffers bled dry.
Zaiden Leclair, Crown Prince of Lismore, sat stiffly in his gilded chair, fingers drumming against the carved lion armrests. The wood, polished to a mirror shine by generations of restless heirs, bore faint claw marks from where his grip had slipped once, just once, when his Echohold magic flared unbidden. Today, the grooves hummed under his touch, resonating with the Spire's distant growl. A warning.
Across the chamber, Lord Nixion Shadowveil lounged like a vulture, his charcoal-gray robes pooling around him, the silver threads catching the light like spiderwebs. His lips curled as he surveyed the chaos—relishing it.
"Enough!" Martialis Lutherion's voice cut through the din, his ashwood staff striking the marble floor with a crack that silenced even the most belligerent landowners. The High Hierophant of Cybele's cult stood tall, his indigo robes embroidered with golden flames—symbols of the Unburdened, those who had given their wealth to the goddess. His gaze swept the room, lingering on the empty seats of the lords who had already fled Kaufmann's retaliation. "The audit is underway. Cybele's justice will root out the corruption in these trade routes."
A derisive snort came from the farming bloc. "Justice won't fill our granaries," snapped Lady Hilara Clarion, her steel-gray braids quivering with fury. "Kaufmann's leviathans sank three shipments in a single night. What good is an audit when our children go hungry now?"
Queen Nayeli rose from her throne, her opulent gown whispering like a sigh. The silver in her hair gleamed under the chandeliers, but her face—gods, her face was pale. Zaiden had seen that look only once before: the night she'd slapped him in the vault.
"My cousin Theron is working to—" she began, her voice steady, but the parliament drowned her out, voices crashing over her like waves against the cliffs of Kraken's Bay.
Zaiden's vision sharpened, edges tinged red. His spy-cat, perched on a rafter above, hissed—a sound only he could hear through their bond.
Then, Lord Ronaldis Regalius, High Chancellor of Prosperity, slammed his crimson-sleeved arm onto the table. "We don't need more committees," he snarled, his silver mane bristling. "We need ships. Swords."
Something in Zaiden snapped.
The air warped around him, a visible pulse of Echohold magic rippling outward. The chandeliers flickered, their mana-crystals screeching like wounded birds. Shadows peeled from the walls, twisting into half-formed shapes—visions of an unknown vault, the demon's whispers, his father's name inked in blood.
"You want action?" Zaiden's voice was lethally quiet, but it carried, sharp as a blade. His hands, scarred from the blood-ink contract, glowed faintly—a cursed souvenir. "Then stop squabbling like fishwives. Kaufmann didn't take those shipments because we were weak. He took them because we were divided."
Silence. Even Nixion's smirk faltered.
Then, from the back, a nervous clerk dropped an inkpot. The sound—shattering glass, black spreading like a stain—was too much like the vault's contracts bubbling in the dark.
Zaiden exhaled, forcing the magic down. The shadows retreated, but the parliament's fear lingered, thick as the Spire's hum.
Queen Nayeli's eyes met his—approving, for once—before she turned to the room. "The Crown will respond," she said, soft as a knife sliding between ribs. "But if you cannot stomach the wait, perhaps you'd prefer to negotiate with Kaufmann yourselves."
The threat hung in the air, heavier than the leviathan's shadow beyond the bay.
*****
Kaufmann's guildhall was a monument to calculated excess—a sprawling edifice of black marble veined with gold, its towering doors inlaid with leviathan bones that hummed faintly when touched. The air inside was dense with the scent of burning aetherium, a metallic sweetness that clung to the back of Astris's throat like poisoned honey. Chandeliers of mana-infused crystal cast jagged shadows across the walls, their light refracted through hanging cages of bioluminescent eels—Kaufmann's latest vanity, their eerie glow shifting from sapphire to venomous green as the meeting began.
Midas, Zaiden's silver-furred familiar, materialized from the shadows as they crossed the threshold, his mismatched eyes (one amber, one milky white) glinting with feline amusement. He wove between Astris's legs, his tail flicking against her calf as if to say, You're welcome. She wrinkled her nose. Where had he been all day? Lurking in the Spire's underbelly, or curled atop some noble's pillow, trading secrets for scraps?
Kaufmann lounged at the head of an onyx table, his fingers steepled under his chin. His coat—tailored from the iridescent hide of a deep-sea leviathan—shimmered like oil on water, a not-so-subtle reminder of the empire he'd built on drowned ships and stolen cargo. "Ah," he drawled, "the coalition of desperation arrives."
Theron Veyne didn't flinch. He merely adjusted his cracked signet ring, the Leclair lion's fractured mane catching the light. "Desperation is such an ugly word," he mused. "I prefer leverage." His smile was a knife wrapped in silk.
Kaufmann's smirk faltered for half a heartbeat before he leaned back, gesturing to the contract laid before him. "Let's dispense with the theatrics. You want my signature? I want the audit ended."
Seth Guilladot, slouched in his chair like a bored mercenary, snorted. "The audit's out of our hands. Cybele's priests don't answer to merchants—even ones who bribe templars."
A flicker of irritation crossed Kaufmann's face. The eels above dimmed, their glow souring into murky yellow.
Theron tapped his onyx pen against the table—a deliberate, rhythmic click. "Of course," he said lightly, "certain… influences might persuade the cult to be lenient in their report." His gaze flicked to a ledger half-hidden under Kaufmann's elbow—the real prize, a record of every templar paid to turn a blind eye to his leviathan raids.
Kaufmann's jaw tightened. "I want guarantees."
"The only guarantee," Theron murmured, "is that you won't dance at the end of a gallows rope. Your fortunes, however, belong to the crown—and the cult."
A pause. The eels' bioluminescence pulsed slowly, counting the long seconds like a syncopated heartbeat.
Then Kaufmann laughed—a sound like shattering glass. "Fortunes can be rebuilt." He snatched up the quill (a vulgar thing, tipped with a leviathan's tooth) and scrawled his name across the parchment. The ink, mixed with ground aetherium, glowed briefly before dulling to the color of old blood. "The cargo is yours."
Midas, now perched on the table, yawned—revealing needle-sharp teeth. Bored, his posture said. Humans and their petty bargains.
Astris resisted the urge to roll her eyes. But as she gathered the signed contract, her shard gave a faint, answering pulse.
This was too easy. Kaufmann hadn't just surrendered. He'd planned this.
And the game was far from over.
The guildhall's lobby was a gilded cage of ambition, its vaulted ceilings dripping with tapestries woven from spellweave silk—Kaufmann's tasteless ode to his own wealth. The air reeked of cloying jasmine incense, meant to mask the sulfur stench of overworked mana-forges below. The signed contract crinkled in Astris's grip, her shard pulsing a silent warning against her ribs. Too easy. Too smooth. Kaufmann's smirk lingered in her mind, oily and unshakable.
She opened her mouth to voice her doubts—What does he gain from this?—when a voice like wind chimes in a hurricane cut through the haze.
"Astris Doran! Stars above, is that you lurking in this den of sharks?"
Millie Brightvein descended the grand staircase in a whirl of iridescent skirts, her rose-gold curls bouncing with each step. Her gown—a scandalous confection of spider-silk and dormant fireball runes—shimmered violently, casting prismatic light across the marble floor. A Gossip Locket swung from her neck, its tiny hinges squeaking with every dramatic gesture.
Astris cringed. "Millie. What a… surprise."
Seth arched a brow, his smirk widening. "Friend of yours?"
"University," Astris muttered, as Millie skidded to a halt, nearly tripping over Midas. The cat, darted between her ankles, his tail curling around her calf like a possessive ribbon.
"Oh, don't mind him," Millie trilled, bending to scratch Midas's ears. Her perfume—Ambition & Peonies—clashed mercilessly with the lobby's jasmine. "Though if he's yours, darling, you really must invest in a cuter collar. This looks like something my ex's hound wore."
Midas responded by leaping onto a nearby potted fern, knocking it over with a crash. Soil scattered across Kaufmann's pristine floor.
Theron, silent until now, tilted his head. "Brightvein," he said, with an edge. "Your mother's textile monopoly petition is before parliament next week."
Millie's smile sharpened. "And you're the cousin who thinks 'free trade' means 'free to starve.' Charmed." She turned back to Astris, linking their arms with the force of a siege engine. "Now, gentlemen, do you mind if I borrow her? We've got business."
Astris shot Seth a pleading look.
He shrugged, grin unrepentant. "Take your time. We'll be at the tavern—drinking to our inevitable doom."
As Theron and Seth retreated, Midas pounced on a bioluminescent eel scale that had fallen from Kaufmann's chandelier, batting it across the floor like a sinner's soul.
"Millie," Astris hissed, "this isn't—"
"Hush," Millie whispered, steering her toward a shadowed alcove. Her playful veneer cracked for a heartbeat, revealing the steel beneath. "That contract you're clutching? Kaufmann's already reshipping the 'forfeited' cargo through the Midnight Trench. My new beau—a disgraced cartographer—saw the manifests."
Astris froze. "Why tell me?"
Millie's locket clicked open, releasing a whisper only Astris could hear: "Because my mother's ships are next."
*****
Zaiden's study was a tomb of parchment and shadows. Celestial maps pinned to the walls glimmered with star-ink, their constellations shifting restlessly—a gift from Jace, who'd scribbled "For when you tire of mortal squabbles" in the corner. The hearth crackled low, its flames starved of proper fuel; the Spire's growl had sapped even the fire's warmth, leaving the room chilled and brittle.
Zaiden slumped in his chair, fingers drumming a warbeat on the desk. His bad mood was a living thing—a thorned vine coiled around his ribs, fed by the Spire's ceaseless hum and the lingering ache in his scarred hands. The latest trade reports mocked him, ink drying into accusations: Weak. Unprepared. Einar's shadow.
Then—
A flicker at the edge of his vision. Midas, curled atop a bookshelf, yawned.
Zaiden's breath hitched as the cat's vision slammed into him:
Kaufmann's guildhall. The leviathan-bone doors groaning. Aetherium ink's sickly sweet stench. Kaufmann signing the contract with a smirk, his cufflinks glinting like drowned coins. Then—Astris and Millie in the lobby, their whispers sharp as a razor's edge. "Midnight Trench," Millie hissed, her locket burning. Midas, ever the voyeur, flicking an eel scale toward Astris like a taunt.
The vision dissolved, leaving Zaiden's temples throbbing. But he grinned.
"Cedric!" he barked, shoving back from the desk. His chair screeched against the obsidian floor, the sound swallowed by the Spire's growl.
The door creaked open. Cedric Winifred, his personal attendant, peered in, crisp uniform contrasting with his perpetually frazzled expression. "Your Highness? The parliament envoy is—"
"Reschedule my appointments. All of them." Zaiden snatched his cloak from the rack, the fabric stitched with starlight-resistant threads—useful for skulking. "And fetch Zander. Quietly."
Cedric blinked, adjusting his pocket watch. "But the envoy's here to discuss the Frostbane Festival's security—"
"Tell them I'm communing with Cybele. Or dead. Use your imagination." Zaiden strode past him, boots echoing.
In the hall, Zander Valin leaned against a suit of armor, cleaning his dagger with a cloth. The blade—Eclipse's Kiss—sang softly as Zaiden approached. "Temper, temper," Zander drawled, though his eyes sharpened. "Who's dying today?"
"No one. Yet." Zaiden lowered his voice. "Rally the guard. We're hunting leviathans."
Cedric wrung his hands. "Your father will—"
"My father isn't here." Zaiden's tone brooked no argument. The scars on his hands pulsed, casting faint red light over Cedric's ashen face. "And if you value your salary, you'll forget this conversation."
Zander sheathed his dagger, grinning. "Finally. I was starting to think you'd gone soft."
*****
Collan Doran's office was a fortress of order in a kingdom steeped in chaos. Nestled in the Royal Guard's barracks, its stone walls were lined with maps of Lismore's dungeon labyrinths, their shifting corridors annotated in Collan's precise hand. A rack of weapons dominated one corner—polished swords, daggers with hilts worn smooth by generations of hands, and a single, scorched crossbow from the Siege of Ember Hollow. The air smelled of oiled leather and the faint, ever-present tang of dungeon ichor, a scent no amount of scrubbing could erase.
Collan sat at his desk, his hazel eyes scanning a report on the latest breach in the Emerald Labyrinth. The words blurred—"sentient vines," "cursed artifacts,"—but his focus shattered when a mana-bird burst through the window, its crystalline wings scattering shards of light across the room. The creature alighted on his inkwell, trilling a message in Cedric's voice:
"Prince Zaiden en route. Emergency conclave. Assemble your captains."
Collan cursed, the sound swallowed by the growl of the Spire vibrating through the floor. He slammed a fist on the brass bell bolted to his desk—a relic from his first command, its clang echoing through the barracks like a war drum.
Minutes later, the door flew open.
Sloan Taner shouldered through the door first, his caramel-stained boots crunching over shards of mana-glass like autumn leaves. A half-unbuttoned uniform revealed a glimpse of scarred collarbone, and the scent of burnt sugar clung to him—a byproduct of the embers smoldering in his palm. "Someone's tense," he drawled, slumping into a chair with the practiced ease of a soldier who'd napped mid-siege. A curl of non-combustible flame danced on his fingertip, casting jagged shadows over the tactical maps. "Let me guess—Zaiden's pissed about the leviathan fiasco?" His tone was light, but the embers flared brighter at the word leviathan, betraying his guilt over sailors he couldn't save.
Rainer Vain followed, his immaculate uniform—starched with military creases that defied the armory's grime—glistening like well-polished silver. He paused to adjust a crooked portrait of Queen Nayeli, gloved fingers leaving no smudge on the gilded frame. "If His Highness wants to whine about sunk ships," he said, voice colder than a dungeon's heart, "tell him to take it up with the tide." A partitioned plate of dried figs and salted almonds peeked from his belt, meticulously segregated. His nose wrinkled at Sloan's caramel stench, but he said nothing; the last recruit who'd mocked Taner's "snack habits" had spent a week scrubbing latrines with a toothbrush.
Cora Green arrived last, her clairvoyant gaze already distant, as if parsing threats only she could see. She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed beneath a deceptively plain chest plate. Her short mullet was haloed by flickering mana-lights, and a pouch of "seasoning salt" bulged at her hip. "It's not ships," she muttered, rubbing the jagged scar on her wrist—a relic of the wyvern attack she'd foreseen but failed to prevent. "It's the Trench. He knows about Kaufmann's rerouted cargo." Her boot tapped a deliberate rhythm against the floorboards—knock, knock, knock—a superstitious tic she'd deny to her grave.
Collan massaged his temples. "How?"
Cora's eyes narrowed. "A cat. And a locket."
Before he could press, boots echoed in the hall—too fast, too light. Zaiden's tread.
Sloan snorted. "Brace yourselves, kids. The princeling's here to play hero."
Rainer's nose wrinkled as he scrubbed a speck of soot from his sleeve. "If he tracks mud in here, I'm charging the palace for damages."
Collan shot them a warning glare, but the edge of his mouth twitched. "Stay sharp. And Taner—extinguish that."
Sloan smirked but snuffed the flame, plunging the room into the Spire's pallid glow.
As Zaiden's shadow fell across the threshold, the Spire's hum sharpened—a blade being drawn. The captains straightened, but their eyes stayed hard. Royals came and went. The Guard endured.