The palace corridors smelled of lemon wax laced with tension as Zaiden strode toward his office, Cedric Winifred scurrying at his heels like an anxious shadow. The steward's polished boots clicked against the marble, his ever-present pocket watch swinging like a pendulum, counting down to some unseen disaster.
"—and the Parliament Clerk will need the revised clauses by noon tomorrow," Cedric prattled, fingers fluttering over his ledger. "Assuming, of course, the celestial alignment doesn't disrupt the messenger hawks again. Last time, the poor creatures got caught in a mana storm and delivered the trade agreements to a fishing village—"
Zaiden flicked a crumb of saffron roll off his sleeve. "Tell them to tie the scrolls to something that can't get lost."
Cedric blinked. "That's… not how avian logistics work, Your Highness."
"Then invent better birds."
They turned the corner, where the hall opened into Zaiden's private office—a space of controlled chaos, its shelves crammed with star charts, half-empty wine bottles, and a disconcerting number of daggers mounted like trophies.
Jace Leclair stood at the window, his lanky frame silhouetted against the Spire's pulsating glow. His fingers were stained with ink, a sketchbook dangling from his belt, its pages fluttering with half-drawn nightmares.
Cedric bowed. "Prince Jace requested an immediate audience. He insisted it was… urgent."
Zaiden waved him off. "Go bother someone else's schedule."
The steward fled, his coat tails flapping.
Zaiden slouched into his chair, propping his boots on the desk. "Let me guess. You dreamed the palace was made of cheese, and now you're here to warn me about lactose-induced doom."
Jace didn't smile. His eyes—usually hazy with artistic distraction—were sharp as broken glass. "A chamber," he said quietly. "Underground. Walls lined with… teeth? No. Bone quills. And something watching from the dark."
Zaiden's smirk faltered.
Jace stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "There was a pact—a signing. And the moment the ink dried—" He shuddered. "Don't do it, Zai. Whatever Cassis and the drafter are planning, don't sign."
Zaiden exhaled through his nose, reaching for the carafe of wine on his desk. "You've been breathing too much turpentine."
"This isn't a painting," Jace snapped, uncharacteristically fierce. "It's real. The Spire—it hungers, brother. And you're walking right into its jaws."
The carafe slipped, spilling ruby liquid across a stack of trade manifests. Zaiden stared at the stain, spreading like blood.
Outside, the Spire's growl deepened—a sound that wasn't anger, but anticipation.
The Spire's shadow stretched long across the Lower Ward as Astris ducked out of the Royal Legal Office, the weight of the day pressing against her temples like a too-tight circlet. She'd managed to evade Lucas Laurent's interrogation—this time—but the Auditor's violet gaze still prickled the back of her neck, a phantom itch she couldn't scratch.
The streets bustled with evening foot traffic: merchants packing up stalls of enchanted trinkets, off-duty dungeon divers laughing over mugs of sulfurous ale, and nobles in spellweave cloaks drifting toward the Upper Ward's glittering soirées. Astris wove through the crowd, her stomach growling loud enough to rival the Spire's rumbles. She aimed for The Rusty Quill, a cramped but reliable tavern where the ale was cheap and no one asked questions—
"Astris Doran!"
The voice hit her like a champagne cork to the skull—bright, effervescent, and impossible to ignore.
Astris cringed. Not now.
She picked up her pace, but the clatter of gem-studded heels only grew louder.
"Oh, no you don't," Millie Brightvein declared, materializing in front of her in a whirl of rose-gold curls and iridescent skirts. Her gown shimmered with dormant fireball runes, the embroidery flickering faintly with every dramatic gesture. The scent of peonies and ambition clung to her like a second skin.
"Millie," Astris said flatly. "I'm busy."
"Busy starving yourself?" Millie tsked, looping an arm through hers with the tenacity of a dungeon vine. "Darling, you look like you've been surviving on ink fumes and spite. Again."
Astris tried to shake her off, but Millie's grip was ironclad. "I was just heading to—"
"—some grimy hovel that serves ale brewed in a boot? Absolutely not." Millie wrinkled her nose. "We're going to The Gilded Thorn. I've already reserved a table."
"I don't have time for—"
"Time?" Millie gasped, pressing a hand to her chest as if wounded. "You've been dodging me for weeks. Do you know how many scandals you've missed? How many romances?"
Astris opened her mouth to protest, but Millie steamrolled on.
"No, no—this is non-negotiable. Besides, I need your opinion on something crucial." She leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I may or may not have accidentally promised my mother's entire winter void-silk shipment to a very attractive pirate."
Astris groaned.
The Gilded Thorn was everything Astris hated: opulent, crowded, and suffocatingly perfumed. Mana-crystal chandeliers cast prismatic light over tables of laughing nobles, their conversations a cacophony of trade gossip and veiled threats. A harpist plucked a melody that sounded suspiciously like The Ballad of the First Spire, but with more vibrato.
Millie sailed through the room like a warship in a ballgown, waving at admirers and winking at waitstaff. Astris trailed behind, feeling distinctly out of place in her ink-stained uniform and practical boots.
Their table was tucked in a corner, half-hidden by a curtain of living ivy that twitched occasionally—likely enchanted to eavesdrop. Millie flopped into her seat with a sigh, snapping her fingers for wine.
"So," she said, propping her chin on her palm. "Tell me everything. How's the palace? How's the prince? And don't give me that 'it's classified' nonsense. I saw the way he looked at you during the Frostbane negotiations."
Astris scowled. "He looked at me like I was a bug he wanted to squash."
"Oh, please. Bugs don't get that much attention from princes." Millie's eyes sparkled. "Unless they're very special bugs."
The wine arrived, a vintage so expensive it probably had its own title. Millie poured with a flourish, her Gossip Locket swaying from her neck.
Astris took a long sip. "What's this really about, Mill?"
Millie's grin faltered, just for a heartbeat. Then she leaned forward, her voice barely audible over the harp.
"I heard Lucas Laurent is auditing the palace. And you're on his list."
The wine turned to ash in Astris's mouth.
Millie's fingers tapped her gem-studded ledger—a nervous habit. "Be careful, darling. Auditors like him don't just ask questions. They dig until they find bones."
Astris set her glass down too hard. "Since when do you care about audits?"
"Since my best friend started playing with fire." Millie's smile returned, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Now, eat. You're wasting away, and I refuse to be seen with a skeleton."
Outside, the Spire's growl rumbled, a counterpoint to the harp's crescendo.
Astris stabbed a fork into her roasted pheasant. Players. Allies. Enemies.
And Millie, it seemed, was still firmly in the first category.
The pheasant lay half-devoured between them, its gilded skin glistening under the flickering mana-lights of The Gilded Thorn. A strand of enchanted ivy curled toward Astris's wineglass, as if eavesdropping, until Millie flicked it away with a painted nail.
"Remember that time," Millie said, swirling her wine with a grin, "when you tried to brew a truth serum for Professor Halric's exam and accidentally turned his hair neon blue for a week?"
Astris snorted into her drink. "You mean your truth serum. I just provided the lab notes."
"Semantics." Millie waved a hand, the fireball runes on her sleeve catching the light. "The point is, he never suspected you—because obviously, the quiet one scribbling in the corner couldn't possibly be the mastermind."
"And yet, here we are." Astris raised her glass. "Masterminds."
They clinked glasses, the crystal ringing clear over the murmur of nobles and the distant strains of the harp. For a moment, it was like old times—back in their cramped university dorm, where the only consequences were hangovers and hastily scribbled apologies to irate professors.
Then Millie's smile faltered. She set her glass down too carefully, her fingers tracing the rim.
Astris sighed. "What is it?"
Millie's shoulders slumped, her usual vibrancy dimming like a snuffed candle. "It's Bastian," she muttered. "The bard. He left this morning. Said my 'expectations were suffocating.'" She scoffed. "As if expecting someone to remember your birthday is some Herculean feat."
Astris stared at her. "You're upset over Bastian? The man who wrote a ballad comparing your laugh to 'a goblin choking on a kazoo'?"
"It was satire," Millie sniffed. Then her voice dropped, uncharacteristically small. "Why does this keep happening, Astris? Is there something… wrong with me?"
Astris blinked. Millie Brightvein, the hurricane in human form, reduced to this? She fumbled for words, her grasp on emotional support as shaky as a first-year's spellwork. "You're… not unbearable," she offered lamely.
Millie groaned. "Gods, you're terrible at this."
"I told you."
A sudden glint returned to Millie's eyes as she leaned forward. "You know what I need? A Doran. Your brothers are all tragically handsome, absurdly loyal, and—most importantly—single."
Astris nearly choked on her wine. "Absolutely not."
"Come on," Millie wheedled. "Collan's dashing, Eli's sweet, and Miles—well, he's Miles, but I could fix him."
"You can't 'fix' a Doran any more than you can fix a collapsing dungeon," Astris said flatly. "And Collan would run screaming if you so much as winked at him."
Millie gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. "I'll have you know, my winks are devastating."
Astris rolled her eyes, but the tension in her shoulders eased. Outside, the Spire's growl rumbled, distant but insistent—a reminder of deadlines and dangers waiting beyond this moment.
Millie's grin turned sly. "Fine. No Dorans. But you are helping me steal back that void-silk from the pirate."
Astris groaned.
The morning air in Lismore's Upper Ward was thick with the scent of festival preparations—bakers carting trays of honey-glazed pastries, florists weaving garlands of firebloom and silvervine, and the ever-present hum of mana-infused lanterns being polished to a blinding sheen. Astris trudged up the marble steps of the Royal Legal Office, her boots scuffing against stone worn smooth by centuries of harried bureaucrats. Five days until the Frostbane Festival, and the city thrummed with a frenetic energy that set her teeth on edge.
She pushed through the grand oak doors, only to freeze mid-step.
Lucas Laurent stood in the atrium like a shadow given form, his midnight-blue robes pooling around him like spilled ink. The constellations embroidered across his sleeves shimmered faintly, as if alive with their own celestial light. His violet eyes—sharp enough to flay secrets from bone—locked onto hers.
"Drafter Doran," he said, his voice a velvet-wrapped blade. "How… punctual."
Astris's fingers twitched, but she forced them still, gripping the strap of her satchel. "Auditor Laurent. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
The corner of his mouth lifted, the barest hint of amusement. "The Spire's growl keeps me awake at night. I thought I'd investigate the source." He gestured toward the conference room, its door already ajar. "Shall we?"
The room was small, dominated by a table of polished blackwood inlaid with silver runes—anti-eavesdropping enchantments, standard for high-level legal discussions. A carafe of water and two crystal glasses sat untouched, condensation pooling around their bases.
Lucas took a seat, steepling his fingers. The silver circlet on his brow caught the light, its central mana crystal pulsing in time with his breath. "Let's begin with the dungeon tithe revisions. Clause 17-D, to be precise."
"Of the marriage contract?" Astris sat, her spine rigid. "What about it?"
"It's curious." He leaned forward, the scent of frostbell and parchment drifting across the table. "The wording is airtight, almost prophetic in its foresight. As if the drafter knew exactly how Kaufmann would try to circumvent it."
"That's called competence."
"Or insider knowledge." His gaze flicked to her wrist, where Cassis's bracelet lay hidden under her sleeve. "Princess Cassis is many things, but a legal scholar isn't one of them. Which makes me wonder… who really crafted that clause?"
Astris held his stare, her pulse a drumbeat in her throat. Outside, the distant roar of a leviathan's horn echoed from the docks—Kaufmann's fleet, no doubt.
"I draft contracts," she said evenly. "It's my job to anticipate loopholes."
Lucas smiled, slow and knowing. "And what else do you anticipate, drafter? The Spire's hunger? The Convergence?" He tapped his scepter against the floor, the runes along its length flaring violet. "Tell me, does your grimoire whisper warnings, or just instructions?"
The air in the room thickened, the anti-eavesdropping runes glowing brighter as if straining under the weight of the conversation. Astris's mind raced—how much did he know?
Then, mercifully, the door burst open.
Gretchen Bloom stood in the doorway, her botanical-embroidered skirts askew, a stack of scrolls teetering in her arms. "There you are! The High Chancellor's been demanding the Celestaviel trade logs for hours—"
Lucas didn't look away from Astris. "We're not finished."
"Oh, but we are," Gretchen chirped, bulldozing into the room with the grace of a startled wyvern. She dropped the scrolls onto the table with a thud, sending the water carafe sloshing. "Unless you'd like to explain to Queen Nayeli why her audit documents aren't ready?"
A muscle in Lucas's jaw twitched. He stood, his robes whispering against the floor. "Another time, then."
As he swept out, Gretchen winked at Astris.
The moment Lucas Laurent's shadow disappeared down the corridor, the tension in the Royal Legal Office snapped like an over-tightened bowstring. Astris exhaled, her fingers curling into fists—until the doors burst open again, this time with enough force to send a stack of precariously balanced scrolls cascading to the floor.
Lord Theron Veyne stood in the doorway, his usual icy composure shattered. His charcoal silk doublet was rumpled, as if he'd thrown it on mid-stride, and the cracked Leclair lion on his signet ring gleamed dully under the flickering mana-lights. His onyx pen—normally a poised instrument of precision—was clenched in his fist like a dagger.
Astris arched a brow. "Can we help you?"
Theron's sharp gray eyes locked onto hers. "Kaufmann's invoked Clause 17-D."
The words landed like a cannon blast. Even Gretchen Bloom froze, her ever-present scrolls clutched to her chest.
Ethan Fetters, lurking near the filing cabinets with his cursed monocle glinting, let out a low whistle. "Of course he did. The bastard's been itching to pull that lever."
Seth Guilladot materialized from the shadows near the back, his collar unbuttoned and sleeves rolled. He took one look at Theron's expression and jerked his chin toward the conference room. "Everyone. Now."
Ally Delvaux was already herding clerks out of the way, her frilly sleeves fluttering. "Move, loves! Crisis incoming!"
The air inside was thick with the scent of ink and urgency. The blackwood table, inlaid with anti-eavesdropping runes, hummed faintly as Seth slammed the door behind them. Theron wasted no time.
"Three Coalition ships sank in Kraken's Bay last night," he said, slapping a waterlogged contract onto the table. The parchment reeked of salt and something darker—dungeon ichor, perhaps. "Kaufmann's claiming 'trade disruption' and seizing the cargo. Including the royal mana-crystals meant for the Spire."
Astris's truth-detection pendant flared red against her chest. "Bullshit. Those ships didn't just sink."
Theron's jaw tightened. "No. They were sabotaged. Dungeon-energy surges, timed perfectly with a Leviathan patrol." His fingers tapped the cracked lion on his ring—a nervous tell he'd deny to his grave. "He's making his move before the Frostbane vote."
Ethan adjusted his monocle, peering at the contract. "Classic Kaufmann. Bury the knife in the footnotes."
Seth leaned over the table, his scarred hands braced on the wood. "Why now? What's he after?"
"The Coalition funded Lady Opheara's reforms," Theron said quietly. "If Kaufmann bankrupts us, the pro-dungeon faction collapses. Cybele's cult takes control of the Spire."
A beat of silence. Then Ally gasped. "Oh, hells. This isn't about trade—it's a coup."
Astris's mind raced. The grimoire shard in her sleeve pulsed, a whisper of heat against her skin. She forced her voice steady. "We need a counter-clause. Sovereign immunity for crown-adjacent assets."
Theron's gaze sharpened. "Can you draft it?"
Before she could answer, the window rattled. Outside, the bay waters churned as a bioluminescent leviathan breached the surface, its jagged spine glinting under the sun—a not-so-subtle threat from Kaufmann.
A courier scurried in, thrusting a note into Astris's hands.
Drafter Doran—
Clause 17-D voids your revisions if unsigned by dusk.
P.S. How's your brother? I hear the Royal Guard's pay is... adjustable.
—J.K.
Astris's blood turned to ice.
Seth's voice cut through the tension. "Well. Guess we're doing this the fun way."
The note crumpled in Astris's fist, its edges biting into her palm like Kaufmann's thinly veiled threat. The ink smelled faintly of sulfur—probably infused with some petty infernal charm meant to unsettle her. It worked.
Seth leaned in, his scarred knuckles whitening where they gripped the table. "What's that?"
"Nothing." Astris shoved the note into her pocket, the parchment whispering against the hidden shard in her sleeve. She turned to Theron, her voice razor-edged. "I need to see the original contract. Now."
Theron slid the waterlogged document across the table, his cracked signet ring catching the light. The Leclair lion's fractured mane seemed to sneer at her.
Astris smoothed the damp parchment, her celestial-blooded eyes scanning the clauses with lethal precision. "The Free Trade Coalition negotiated a monopoly exemption with Kaufmann's Leviathan Cartel," she muttered, tracing a finger along the inked lines. "Allowing your merchants to bypass dungeon tariffs. But here—" She tapped a subclause buried beneath layers of legalese. "Any disruptions to trade routes—including but not limited to pirate attacks, dungeon surges, or celestial interference—shall render Coalition vessels and cargo forfeit as collateral."
Theron's jaw twitched. "An oversight."
Seth barked a laugh. "An oversight? That's a five-alarm fuck-up, Veyne. This is exactly why we have a Royal Legal Office." He gestured wildly to himself, Ethan, and Ally. "We exist so arrogant nobles don't sign their souls away because they were too busy admiring their own letterhead."
Theron's glare could have frozen lava. "The Coalition's dealings are none of your concern."
"They are now," Seth shot back.
Astris ignored them, her mind racing. "Amending the contract isn't the issue. Getting Kaufmann to sign it is. What's the plan?"
Theron straightened his cuffs, the motion too controlled to be casual. "Kaufmann wants leverage. We give him a different leverage."
Ethan adjusted his cracked monocle, peering at the contract. "You mean blackmail."
"I mean negotiation," Theron corrected smoothly. "He's not the only one with secrets."
Outside, the bioluminescent leviathan breached again, its jagged spine cutting through the bay's choppy waters. The light from its hide pulsed in time with the Spire's distant growl—a reminder that time was slipping through their fingers.
Astris's pendant flared red against her chest. Lies. Theron was holding something back.
But then, so was she.