The morning mist clung to Lismore like a silver veil, softening the edges of the palace's towering spires and glinting off the labyrinth of bridges that arched over the valley's churning rivers. Astris Doran adjusted the brass buttons of her royal-crest vest, the stiff fabric of her new uniform chafing against her collarbone as she stepped onto the Isle's main thoroughfare. The air hummed with the scent of sacred herbs—sage and star-bloom—woven into the banners that fluttered above shopfronts, their wild motifs of lions and mountain peaks echoing Cybele's dominion.
Lismore's Outer Court was a symphony of contradictions. Nobles swept past in tea-length silk gowns and nipped-waist jackets, their gloves clutching mana-crystal lanterns that cast prismatic shards of light onto the cobblestones. Commoners in grease-smudged denim and leather bartered with adventurers hawking dungeon-forged steel and vials of glowing azure mana. Astris's knee-high boots clicked rhythmically as she navigated the crowd, her briefcase tucked tightly under her arm embossed with the Leclair crest. She felt eyes linger on her uniform and the profound weight of its symbolism. Official. Trusted. Unworthy. The doubts slithered like Shadow Weavers, but she straightened her spine, her celestial blood thrumming a counter-rhythm: Prove them wrong.
The palace loomed ahead, its Art Deco balconies veiled in mist and framed by cascading waterfalls that roared through the ancient dam's sluices. Astris paused at the foot of the Ivory Span, the grandest bridge leading to the Inner Court, and glanced instead toward the squat, marble-columned building to her left—the Royal Lawyer's Office. Its facade bore the same gilded flourishes as the palace but hummed with utilitarian purpose: clerks darted in and out, their arms stacked with scrolls, while messenger griffins preened on the rooftop, their talons gripping contracts sealed with wax and magic.
Inside, the lobby was a jungle of order and chaos. Potted ferns with leaves like emerald spears framed a mahogany desk where a woman in a flowing, botanically embroidered dress scribbled notes with a songbird-feather quill. Gretchen Bloom, according to the brass placard, didn't look up as Astris entered but waved a hand, and a tendril of ivy slithered across the floor to nudge a stray parchment back into its basket.
"You're early," Gretchen said, her voice warm but edged. She glanced at the water clock dripping behind her, its gears whirring in time with the distant waterfalls. "Seven minutes. The last drafter timed his arrival to the second—a Dragon Scale Quill up his sleeve and a chip on his shoulder. You'll do better."
Astris blinked, disarmed. "I— Thank you?"
Gretchen's laughter was a wind chime's song. "Don't thank me yet. Half the office is in Celestaviel untangling a trade pact with more loopholes than a Deceit Wraith's labyrinth. You'll be handling the overflow." She gestured to a hallway where clerks hurried past, their arms laden with files. "Contracts for dungeon mining rights, guild disputes, a request from the Galli to formalize Cybele's seasonal rites into law…" She paused, her gaze sharpening as she noted Astris's white-knuckled grip on her briefcase. "Breathe, dear. The quills do the work; we just… guide them."
Astris nodded, her pulse steadying. She followed Gretchen past offices where junior drafters hunched over desks, their quills scratching furiously. One glowed faintly—Phoenix Quill, its ink purifying a clause hidden in a merchant's sleight-of-hand terms. Another, Nether Bird-black, hissed as it bound a mercenary's oath into his very marrow.
"Your station's here." Gretchen ushered her into a cramped but sunlit room, its shelves cluttered with inkpots and a vase of rosemary that muttered critiques in Old Lismoran. "The parliament's due a draft on mana-crystal tariffs by noon. The Phoenix Quill's in the drawer—it's fond of dramatics, but it'll sear through any noble's attempts to haggle."
As Gretchen left, Astris sank into her chair, the leather creaking under her. She traced the quill's feather, its heat a gentle warning against deceit. Through the window, the palace's mist-shrouded balconies watched her like sentinels. Somewhere in those towers, laws were debated, alliances forged, dungeons controlled.
Here, she thought, dipping the quill into ink that shimmered like liquid sunlight, I'll shape them.
The quill's tip met parchment, and the room filled with the scent of burning thyme.
Seth Guilladot stormed into the office like a hurricane in a tailored suit, his Shadow Counsel spectacles askew and his usually pristine jacket streaked with dungeon soot. Noah Whisp trailed behind, clutching a stack of scrolls and muttering about "ill-advised shortcuts through the sulfur vents." The rosemary plant in the corner hissed a critique—"Dramatic entrances won't balance the budget, boy!"—but Seth ignored it, slamming a fist on Gretchen's desk hard enough to rattle her inkwells.
"The Trade Guilds are drafting independence decrees," he snarled, his voice sharp enough to slice parchment. "They're auctioning off royal dam schematics to the highest bidder and calling it 'free enterprise.' If we don't throttle this by sundown, that hospital project will be buried in red tape and spite!"
Ally Delvaux peered over her romance manuscript, her Guild's Favor locket glowing faintly. "But the hospital's foundation permits rely on guild-managed mana conduits. If they secede, the healers' ward won't even have light—"
"Exactly," Seth snapped, cutting her off. "Gretchen, find Harvey. I need someone who speaks 'backstabber' fluently to draft countermeasures."
Gretchen didn't look up from her botanical ledger, where ivy tendrils were inking meeting notes. "Harvey's in Celestaviel, renegotiating the silk tariffs. You'll have to settle for mortal talent." She gestured toward Astris's door, where the new drafter stood silhouetted against the midday glare, her Phoenix Quill still smoldering in her hand.
Seth's glare softened briefly, replaced by a flicker of intrigue. Noah adjusted his Truth-whisper pendant, its sphinx-claw charm swinging as he interjected, "She's sharp. Revised the mana-crystal tariffs in three hours. Even the begonias approved." The fern on Gretchen's desk rustled in agreement.
"Fantastic. A prodigy and foliage approved," Seth muttered, though his tone lacked its usual bite. He strode into Astris's office without knocking, Noah scrambling after him.
Astris looked up, her gaze cool but alert. The air smelled of burnt thyme and ambition.
"Trade Guilds are rebelling," Seth said, tossing a scroll stamped with guild seals onto her desk. "They've weaponized contractual loopholes older than the Leclairs' lineage. I need clauses that strangle their leverage without sparking open war. Can your quill handle that, or is it just for show?"
Astris lifted the Phoenix Quill, its feather glowing like a live coal. "It purifies deceit. But it doesn't work without precision." She glanced at the scroll, her eyes narrowing. "You'll need a Nether Bird binding for the ringleaders. And a Lammasu clause to appease the moderates."
Seth raised an eyebrow. "Lammasu? Morality plays in a trade war?"
"Cybele's cult demands it," she said simply. "Unless you'd prefer the Galli breathing down your neck instead of the guilds."
Noah snorted, scribbling notes. "She's right. The temple's been auditing charity contracts. They'll pounce if we ignore divine precedent."
For the first time all day, Seth's mouth twitched into something resembling a smile. "Fine. But if this backfires, you're explaining the Lammasu's 'moral judgments' to the parliament." He turned to leave, then paused. "And draft a backup clause. Something involving explosive sigils. Just in case."
As Seth stalked out, Ally whispered to Noah, "Think they'll survive each other?"
The rosemary plant answered first. "Doubtful. But it'll be entertaining."
Seth's temporary amusement evaporated by the time he reached his office. He flung open the door, his Shadow Counsel spectacles slipping down his nose as he jabbed a finger at Abby Delvaux, who was knee-deep in scrolls and half-eaten pastries. "Find me the head of this circus," he demanded. "Who's orchestrating the guilds' tantrum? I want names, debts, and whatever they're hiding in their wine cellars. And do it before Cybele's priests start sacrificing bureaucrats for good harvests."
Abby blinked, her Guild's Favor locket pulsing faintly as she summoned fragments of her late mentor's investigative prowess. "I'll need access to the tax ledgers," she said, already scribbling a list of merchant houses. "And… maybe a carrot cake bribe for the archives clerk?"
"Do whatever it takes," Seth growled. "Just don't come back empty-handed."
Three hours later, Abby returned, her hair dusted with cobwebs and her sleeves stained with ink that smelled suspiciously of dwarf-fire whiskey. She dropped a dossier on Seth's desk with a thud. "Jack Kaufmann," she announced. "Master of the Merchant Guild, owner of half the shadow markets, and apparently, the proud architect of this disaster. He's consolidated the weavers, miners, and mana-smiths under his banner. They're calling it the 'Free Trade Coalition.'"
Seth's jaw tightened. "Of course it's Kaufmann. That peacock's been sharpening his knives since the last tax reform." He stood, his chair screeching against the floor. "Gretchen! Draft a summons. I want him in this office by sundown."
Gretchen didn't glance up from her botanical ledger, where ivy tendrils were sketching a map of the guilds' mana conduits. "He's already refused. Twice. Claims he's 'renegotiating terms' with a contingent of fey wine merchants."
"Then drag him here," Seth snapped.
Noah cleared his throat, adjusting his Truthwhisper pendant. "He's… uh… also threatened to 'incinerate' any royal couriers who interrupt him. Verbally. Probably."
Seth pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fine. Fine. Tell him we'll meet at his guildhall. Two days. And make sure he knows I'm not bringing a gift basket."
The Merchant Guildhall loomed in the distance, its domed roof inlaid with stolen dungeon opals that glinted like a dragon's hoard. Seth stood at the foot of its marble steps, flanked by Noah and a cluster of junior drafters clutching anti-explosion charms.
"Remember," Noah muttered, "Kaufmann respects audacity. And blackmail."
"Audacity I've got," Seth said, straightening his cuffs. "Let's hope he's forgotten about the incident with the cursed cheese."
Inside, the air smelled of spiced incense and ambition. Guild members in embroidered silks eyed the royal contingent like wolves circling a wounded stag. At the head of a gilded table, Jack Kaufmann lounged, his silver hair catching the light of mana-crystal chandeliers. A goblet of something dark and shimmering sat at his elbow.
"Seth Guilladot," Jack purred, swirling his drink. "Here to plead for the crown's relevance?"
"Here to remind you that treason isn't a trade commodity," Seth shot back. "Your coalition's decrees are void. The mana conduits belong to the throne."
Jack's smile was a blade. "Ah, but contracts can be rewritten. Especially when one party…" He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a velvet threat. "…underestimates the market."
Astris Doran sat motionless in the shadowed corner of the guildhall. Her fingers curled around the cold brass handle of her briefcase. She hadn't expected to be here. The summons had come an hour prior, Seth's terse note delivered by a harried clerk: "Bring the quills. And try not to look like a rookie." Now, she watched the standoff unfold, her pulse steady but her mind racing. The air reeked of spiced incense and ambition, the guildhall's opulent tapestries depicting merchant caravans plundering dungeon hoards. Jack Kaufmann's presence dominated the room—silver-haired, languid, and lethal, like a glacier concealing a volcano.
Seth had tossed her the revised pre-drafts that morning, grumbling about "insurance." She'd memorized every clause, every contingency, but this was no parchment battlefield. This was live steel.
"The throne's claim is non-negotiable," Seth said, sliding a scroll across the table. Its wax seal glinted with the parliament's sigil. "Sign, and the guilds retain partial conduit access. Refuse, and we'll see how your coalition fares when the Royal Guard freezes your assets."
Jack flicked the scroll aside without glancing at it. "Partial access? How generous. But my associates don't settle for scraps." He nodded to a guild enforcer lurking by the door, her fingers resting on a dagger hilt carved from a dungeon wyrm's fang. "We'll take full control. Or we'll reroute the mana ourselves and let the palace light its halls with candles."
Noah shifted uneasily beside Seth, his Truth-whisper pendant humming as it detected the lie. "They're bluffing," he murmured. "Probably."
Astris's gaze drifted to the conduit's schematics pinned to the guildhall's wall—a spiderweb of mana channels feeding the city's hospitals, forges, and temples. Jack's coalition didn't just want profit; they wanted leverage. And Seth's threats alone wouldn't untangle this.
As the men volleyed barbs, she quietly unlatched her briefcase. Inside lay her quills: Phoenix, Nether Bird, and Lammasu, their feathers faintly glowing. She chose the Phoenix first, its heat searing her palm like a warning. The scent of burning thyme filled her nostrils as she skimmed the coalition's public charter, her mind stitching together loopholes, precedents, and the single vulnerability she'd spotted days ago—a clause about "tithe exemptions for Cybele's sanctioned ventures."
Sanctioned ventures.
When Seth slammed a fist on the table, his patience snapping, Astris cleared her throat.
All eyes turned to her.
"The Free Trade Coalition's charter," she began, her voice calm, "grants tax immunity only to enterprises blessed by Cybele's temples." She held up the Phoenix Quill, its tip smoldering. "But the mana conduits you're seizing? They power the orphanages under the Galli's oversight. Divert those channels, and your 'sanctioned' status evaporates. The temples will revoke your exemptions. The crown will claim all guild assets. And you'll owe five decades of back taxes." She tilted her head. "Shall I calculate the interest?"
The room froze.
Jack's smile didn't waver, but his knuckles whitened around his goblet. "A creative interpretation," he said smoothly. "But the Galli's oversight is… flexible."
"Not since last week." Astris withdrew a parchment stamped with the High Priest's seal—a document she'd buried in the pre-drafts as a footnote. "The orphanages are now classified as 'sacred wards.' Interfering with their mana supply is heresy. Punishable by forfeiture."
Seth's lips twitched. Noah choked back a laugh.
Jack leaned back, assessing her with newfound interest. "You're sharper than your predecessor."
"And you're smarter than this gambit," Astris replied, sliding the Nether Bird Quill into view. Its ink pooled black as a starless night. "Sign Seth's terms, and we add a rider: guild-controlled conduits in the eastern districts, tax-free for ten years. Refuse…" She tapped the quill's tip, and the parchment hissed. "…and this binding ensures the coalition's charter dissolves at midnight."
Silence stretched, thick, and charged. Then Jack laughed—a rich, rolling sound that dissolved the tension like sugar in wine. "I see why Seth dragged you here." He plucked the Nether Bird Quill from her hand, its magic coiling around his fingers. "Eastern districts. Fifteen years."
"Twelve," Astris said.
"Thirteen."
"Done."
As Jack scrawled his signature, Seth muttered, "Remind me to never make you negotiate my salary."
The ink had barely dried when Jack leaned back, his silver hair catching the guildhall's opalescent light. "Now, about the dungeon-mining exclusivity clauses," he said, flicking a hand toward a map of Lismore's subterranean veins. "My coalition requires unfettered access to the northern shafts. The crown's current tariffs are… predatory."
Astris opened her mouth, ready to counter with a pre-drafted compromise on shared oversight, but Seth cut in. "Predatory? Try prudent. Those tariffs fund the dam repairs, keeping your precious trade routes from flooding."
Jack's smile sharpened. "Ah, yes. The same dams your engineers botched last year. How many caravans sank in the mud? Ten? Twenty?"
Noah, hunched over a ledger, mumbled, "Thirty-four. But the hospital project needs those tariffs too—"
Seth shot him a glare hot enough to melt iron. Noah snapped his jaw shut, cheeks flushing.
"The hospital," Jack mused, swirling his wine. "A noble endeavor. Shame if its construction were delayed by… logistical disputes."
Astris stiffened. She had prepared for this—a clause linking guild infrastructure support to tax incentives—but Seth steamrolled ahead. "Your coalition wouldn't last a week without the crown's adventurer guilds clearing dungeon pests from your mines. Or have you forgotten the Shadow Weaver infestation?"
Jack waved a dismissive hand. "We've hired private contractors. Half the cost, twice the efficiency. Now, about the eastern spice routes…"
The debate spiraled. Astris interjected twice, her solutions met with Seth's impatient gestures and Jack's theatrical sighs. When she proposed a mana-crystal revenue split to fund both the hospital and dam repairs, Jack laughed outright. "Darling, save your ink. This isn't a charity auction."
Finally, Jack stood, straightening his embroidered coat. "As delightful as this squabble is, I've a shipment of celestial silk arriving. Pirates, you know. So unreliable." He strode toward the door, trailing the scent of sandalwood and spite. "My clerk will send you my next available slot. Do try to bring better wine."
Seth's knuckles whitened around his quill. "This isn't over, Kaufmann."
"Oh, it's barely begun," Jack called over his shoulder before vanishing into the guildhall's shadowed corridors.
The walk back to the Royal Lawyer's Office was a silent storm. Seth stalked ahead, his cloak snapping like a war banner, while Noah scurried to match his pace. "I didn't mean to mention the hospital," he whispered. "It just slipped—"
"Next time, let it choke," Seth snapped.
Astris lingered a step behind, her mind tracing the meeting's fractures. The unresolved dungeon tariffs, the spice route stalemate, Jack's veiled threat to the hospital—each a thread in a tightening noose. She mentally rearranged clauses, searching for leverage in overlooked footnotes.
Noah glanced back at her, hopeful. "You've got a plan, right? Some… hidden clause?"
Before she could answer, Seth whirled on them. "Plans require time. Which Kaufmann's toying with us to drain. That silk shipment? A lie. He's meeting with the fey wine merchants to undercut our tariffs." He jabbed a finger at Noah. "Find out where. And you—" He turned to Astris, his anger cooling into something grudgingly tactical. "Revisit the dam repair contracts. Find a loophole that kneecaps his private adventurer contracts."
"They're airtight," Astris said. "But the Shadow Weavers' nesting grounds intersect with the guild's mines. If we invoke Cybele's ecological preservation statutes—"
"Do it." Seth exhaled sharply, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. "And draft something explosive. Just in case."
As they entered the office, the rosemary plant rustled in its pot. "Back so soon? Do enlighten us."
Gretchen glanced up from her ivy-scrawled ledger. "Well?"
"We survived," Seth grumbled, slumping into his chair. "Barely."
Astris set her briefcase on her desk, the Phoenix Quill already glowing in anticipation. Outside, dusk painted the palace spires in hues of bruise and gold. Somewhere in the city, Jack Kaufmann toasted his small victory.
But Lismore's laws were a living thing—shifting, adapting, hungry. And Astris had only just begun to feed them.