ESPERSIA, YEAR 1889
Shit. Shit. Shit.
The door clicked shut behind me and I was already halfway down the stairwell, legs moving before my brain caught up. My heart felt like it had been yanked two steps ahead, dragging the rest of me along for the ride.
I gripped the railing. A sharp turn. Down another flight.
I need to talk to Raamiz.
Even if I wasn't supposed to. Even if the Duke told me not to breathe a word.
My mind spiraled. My feet didn't stop.
I nearly missed him.
Alba.
Leaning against the railing like he'd been waiting there all along. His arms folded. Head tilted just enough to look casual, but not bored.
I slowed down instinctively. Gave him a short nod—keep moving, keep breathing.
He stepped in front of me.
"Wait a moment," he said. "Me and you need to talk."
I blinked, too fast, too disoriented. "Talk about what?"
He raised an eyebrow. "Don't play dumb," he said. "Walk with me."
"I need to find Raamiz," I said, too quickly. "It's urgent."
Alba didn't even flinch. "This is more urgent."
"I'm not—"
"It's not a request."
That shut me up.
There was no edge in his voice, no threat. Just a finality. The kind you don't argue with unless you're ready to turn it into something worse.
We started walking, the two of us moving in step through the dim corridor. Alba didn't look at me, didn't ask if I had questions, didn't offer anything else.
His silence was loud.
I watched the way his shoulders moved, stiff but composed. His hands remained behind his back, military-perfect. If his jaw still ached from what the Duke did to him, he didn't show it.
What does he want?
Did he think I said something to the Duke?
Does he have an idea of what me and Raamiz have been up to?
Or was this about something else entirely?
We passed under a hanging lantern, its flame flickering low, right beside an old wooden door. I noticed a slight limp in his step, just for a moment, before he corrected it.
"Take a left," Alba said quietly.
I turned.
The hallway curved into a dead end with a narrow wooden door tucked into the stone like it had grown there by mistake. I hadn't seen it before—maybe I had, but I never registered it. There was no seal, no crest, no guards. Just a brass handle dulled to green with age.
I pushed it open.
Inside, the air changed—cooler, heavier, like stepping into a sealed vault. The stone underfoot gave way to cracked tiles arranged in a pattern that had long since lost meaning. The room was round, maybe fifteen feet across, and entirely windowless. Old banners sagged from the ceiling beams, their fabric eaten away by time—one still had the faint outline of a red wolf, stitched in fraying thread.
A large octagonal table filled the center, low and wide, carved with unfamiliar markings. Dozens of colored pins had been stabbed into it long ago, most broken or rusted. There were lines across the wood—some drawn, some carved—forming a messy spiderweb of territories, battle paths, or something else entirely. I couldn't tell.
Around the edges of the room were workstations, cabinets with half-open drawers, scraps of parchment stuffed in corners. A toppled hourglass lay by one leg of the table, its sand spilled in a thin curve toward the wall.
I stepped further in, unsure.
"What is this?" I asked, more to myself than him.
Behind me, Alba answered.
"War room. Used to be, anyway."
I turned to look at him. He didn't move from the doorway.
"Old one," he added. "Before they built the new halls. No one uses this floor anymore."
He stepped inside and let the door close behind him with a soft creak.
Alba didn't sit. He just stood by the wall, arms folded again, eyes on me like he was trying to read something behind my face.
"I've been meaning to ask," he said finally, "what exactly you and Raamiz have been up to."
My stomach tightened.
I kept my expression flat, leaned slightly on the edge of the table, and shrugged. "Up to? We talk sometimes. He's my brother."
Alba nodded slowly, like he expected that answer. "You know what I mean, Zeliot. That night in the west wing—you two sneaking out like you had something to hide."
I met his gaze. "We weren't—"
"Don't," he cut in, gently. Not angry. Just tired. "I'm not here to report you. I'm not here to hurt you. I just want to know what's going on."
I said nothing.
He exhaled, a long breath that sounded like it had been sitting in his chest for days.
"I'm sure Raamiz has been putting all sorts of images and thoughts about me into your head," he said. "Painting me a certain way. Cold. Dangerous. Like I'm some pawn of my mother, right?"
I didn't respond. My fingers traced the groove of a line etched into the table.
Alba took a step forward.
"But let me tell you something, Zeliot," he said, voice low now. "I'm on your side."
He turned away—not dismissively, but like he'd said all that needed saying.
"And it's better for you if I continue to be."
I didn't speak.
I stood there, weighing every word that had just been said, unsure whether to step forward or keep the distance.
What would Raamiz do?
Lie, probably. And maybe I should too.
But looking at Alba—really looking at him—it was hard to believe he'd buy it.
"Fine," Alba said, his voice flat now. "I get it. You want to make sure your secrets stay safe."
I almost let out a breath.
Almost.
"And they will," he added, eyes still on me, "as long as you cooperate with me a bit. If you catch my drift."
My throat tightened.
"I don't need proof," he continued, "just enough suspicion. And I've got plenty of that already. I could walk into the Duke's study right now and tell him what I've seen—your conspicuous late-night walks with Raamiz, for starters."
He stepped closer—not threatening, just… closer.
"That wouldn't look great for either of you, would it?"
I didn't answer. I didn't need to. He knew the answer.
He let that settle like a blade placed gently on the table.
Then he reached into the side of his coat—an inner pocket or hidden fold—and pulled out a thin scroll, bound in pale leather and sealed with black wax.
He turned it slowly in his fingers but didn't hand it over. Just let me see it.
"I'm not offering this," he said, "not yet."
I stared at it. "What is that?"
"Something that could make this easier. For both of us."
He tucked the scroll back into his coat without another word and stepped toward the door.
"We'll talk again. Soon."
His hand touched the handle, but he paused, just long enough to glance back.
"And remember what I told you, Zeliot."
His voice was softer now.
"I'm on your side."
The door shut with a soft click.
I stayed standing for a moment, staring at nothing.
Then I sighed, ran a hand through my hair, and sank into the nearest chair.
"This wasn't part of the plan," I muttered.
I said it again, quieter.
"This wasn't part of the plan."
Leaning forward, elbows on my knees, I stared down at my hands.
What the hell am I supposed to do?
How did shit go this wrong this fast?
I need to think...
The note I passed to that stranger—it must've been intercepted. That's the obvious answer.
Or maybe it wasn't. Maybe me and Raamiz just miscalculated.
Either way, it doesn't matter now.
What matters is that the Duke knows what it said.
The second duchess—Amelia—has ties to Penusia. She's a traitor with a traitorous child.
That was the lie we decided on.
I remember the two of us making the decision in the library…
"I don't know," I had said. "Feels like too many things have to line up for it to work."
Raamiz didn't even look up. "The point isn't whether it spreads perfectly. It just has to get picked up. We watch who moves on it—who repeats it, who tries to weaponize it."
"And what exactly am I supposed to be watching for?"
"I have some names in mind…"
He looked at me.
"You're gonna have to trust me here, Zeliot."
I hesitated.
"...Fine."
I had trusted him.
And it looks like it may have backfired.
The Duke must've found out about the rumor.
So the Duke thought he was the one who planted the rumor.
I mean… it does look like it benefits him the most.
What awful luck.
I just made a potential enemy because of dumb fucking timing.
Whatever.,.
So the Duke questioned him.
But then backed off almost immediately? The Duke was somehow instantly convinced of Alba's innocence.
How?
I try to recall what happened during that brief meeting with the Duke…
The way his voice slammed into the room. The sudden shout. Alba flinching. That cough—like he couldn't breathe for a second.
And then…
That flicker in Father's eyes.
I keep thinking about that.
Was it magic?
Some kind of spell to force the truth out of someone?
I don't know. I don't know enough about magic to say.
But it changed something.
That much I'm sure of.
And now, because of the interrogation, Alba clearly has something in mind to keep tabs on me. Maybe that scroll he flashed at me is how he plans to do it. I have no clue.
Fuck.
My jaw clenched. Chest tight.
No. Don't spiral.
Almost out of defensive habit, I slapped my hands to my che
Okay. I'm alright. I'm in a shitty situation, but eks. That was enough to calm me down. I'm alright.
In fact... maybe I can turn this to my advantage.
There are still two days before the summit.
That's time.
Not much. But enough.