The Royal Legal Office hummed with the low, persistent buzz of mana lanterns, their light glinting off inkwells and the brass fittings of Astris's buttons. She gripped her briefcase, its weight a familiar anchor as she shrugged into her trench coat—charcoal wool lined with dungeon-silk, practical yet sharp enough to slice through courtly pretenses. Her satchel lay open on the desk, the marriage contract peeking out beside Harvy's abandoned renovation scrolls. The silver cat watched from a shadowed alcove, its eyes twin shards of polished onyx.
Gretchen materialized in the doorway, her ivy crown trembling. "Renovation revisions. First bell. Don't forget the smiths' flammable-proof manifesto." She dropped a leather-bound tome on the desk with a thud that rattled the ink bottles. "And maybe wear gloves. The last negotiator got a papercut that required holy sutures."
Astris groaned, cinching her satchel shut. "When Harvy resurfaces, tell him I'm donating his office ferns to the palace goats."
"Already earmarked them for compost," Gretchen chirped, vanishing in a rustle of scrolls.
Astris had barely taken three steps into the hall when Evelyn Laveau descended upon her, a storm of pink silk and indignation. Her cursed quill quivered in her hand like a divining rod sensing catastrophe.
"Where in Cybele's name are you off to?" Evelyn demanded, blocking the stairwell. "The Amber Solarum? Don't think I haven't heard the whispers. You're meddling with fire, darling. Royal fire."
Astris sidestepped her, boots echoing on the marble. "It's a contract review. Not a duel."
"With Zaiden Leclair? Every meeting with that man is a duel." Evelyn grabbed her arm, her perfume—honeysuckle and hubris—cloying the air. "Do you have any idea what's at stake? If that marriage collapses, half the guilds will implode. The Galli will demand sacrifices. Actual sacrifices, not just your usual soul-adjacent dramatics."
Astris paused, her hand drifting to the truth-detection pendant at her throat. It pulsed warm, confirming Evelyn's fear—if not her facts. "Then it's fortunate," she said coolly, "that I specialize in dramatics."
Evelyn's quill slashed a furious glyph in the air, its ink hanging suspended like a threat. "This isn't one of your university debates! Zaiden's already got Cassis halfway to signing over her wyverns. If you push him too hard—"
"He'll what?" Astris turned, her voice a blade. "Revoke my library pass? Forge a clause to have me exiled? Please. He needs me more than I need his posturing."
Evelyn opened her mouth, then froze. Her gaze dropped to Astris's boot, where the shard's faint glow betrayed itself through the leather. "You're playing with things you don't understand," she whispered.
"Aren't we all?" Astris adjusted her satchel, the weight of the grimoire's secrets a silent counterpoint. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a prince to outmaneuver and smiths to placate. Try not to incinerate anyone before noon."
She descended the stairs, Evelyn's hissed warnings dissolving behind her. The palace's lower corridors were quieter, the air thick with the damp musk of stone and the distant roar of controlled waterfalls. As she passed a gilded mirror, the silver cat's reflection flickered into view, licking its paw atop a suit of armor.
Watching. Always watching.
She smirked. Let Zaiden cling to his little spies. Let him stew in whatever cryptic vision the creature had scurried back to share.
The Amber Solarum's doors loomed ahead, etched with celestial maps and guarded by two stone lions with mana-crystal eyes. It breathed with the warmth of enchanted amber, its domed ceiling alive with constellations that shifted in slow, celestial waltzes. Prince Zaiden Leclair lounged at the head of an onyx table, his boots propped atop a stack of scrolls, his wolf pendant glinting like a challenge. Princess Cassis Voclain sat opposite, posture rigid as a wyvern's spine, her tea-stain gown embroidered with silver threads that mirrored the frost in her gaze. Between them, the marriage contract lay open like a wound.
Astris entered, the silver cat slinking at her heels. Cassis's eyes flicked to the creature, her lips tightening almost imperceptibly, but she said nothing. Zaiden's smirk deepened.
"How diligent of you to join us, drafter," he drawled, gesturing to a chair that wobbled slightly—a petty sabotage. "We were just admiring your flair for dramatics. All debts come due. Charming."
Astris ignored the chair, standing instead beside the table. "Clarity prevents war, Your Highness. Let's begin with Appendix Six. Celestaviel's prohibition on sentient artifacts conflicts directly with Clause 17-D's demand for Labyrinth cores. A contradiction that risks divine censure."
Cassis stirred, her voice cool as mountain runoff. "Our treaties with the Galli permit sanctioned extraction. The cores will be purified under temple oversight."
"Purified." Astris arched a brow. "By whose definition? The Galli's last 'purification' turned a dungeon relic into a sentient firestorm. It incinerated three villages before the High Priest called it a 'blessed awakening.'"
Zaiden's boot thudded to the floor. "Are you implying Lismore would endanger its allies?"
"I'm implying precision is preferable to poetry." She tapped the contract. "Define 'sanctioned.' Define 'purified.' Or I will."
The cat leapt onto the table, tail sweeping a goblet of wine perilously close to the parchment. Cassis's hand twitched—a suppressed urge to right it—but she remained still.
"This is absurd," Zaiden snapped. "The terms were agreed upon. Signed. Sealed."
"And yet," Astris murmured, "here we are."
A brittle silence fell. Cassis reached into her sleeve, withdrawing a small velvet box. "A token of Celestaviel's appreciation," she said, sliding it toward Astris. Inside lay a silver bracelet, its links etched with wyverns in flight—exquisite, unmistakably enchanted. "For your… vigilance."
Zaiden's knuckles whitened around his goblet. The wolf pendant at his throat darkened, its ruby eyes glinting.
Astris hesitated. The bracelet hummed faintly, a resonance that prickled her shard. A tracking charm? A truth-binding? Either way, refusal would insult Cassis; acceptance might grant her leverage. She fastened it around her wrist, the metal cold against her skin. "Your generosity is noted, Princess."
Cassis nodded, but her gaze lingered on the bracelet a beat too long.
Zaiden stood abruptly, his shadow stretching across the star-streaked floor. "Enough theatrics. What do you want, drafter? More mana quotas? Stricter oversight?"
"Transparency." Astris met his glare. "Rewrite Clause 17-D to exclude sentient cores. Specify third-party adjudication by the Iron College, not the Galli. And—"
"Third parties?" Zaiden scoffed. "This is a union of kingdoms, not a merchant's tribunal."
"Then perhaps," Cassis interjected quietly, "it should not resemble a caravan haggle."
The prince's jaw clenched. For a heartbeat, the constellations above stilled with a gasp.
Astris pressed on. "Appendix Nine-C's language on dragon-mounted patrols is equally vague. Are Celestaviel's wyverns to be garrisoned in Lismore? Or merely 'on call'? The difference is—"
"—a matter for strategists," Zaiden interrupted. "Not quill-pushers."
The cat hissed, its tail lashing. Cassis's fingers tightened around her own bracelet—a twin to Astris's, she now noticed.
"Then perhaps," Astris said softly, "you should hire better strategists."
The room chilled. Zaiden leaned forward, his voice a velvet snare. "Careful, drafter. Contracts can be rewritten. So can reputations."
She held his gaze, the bracelet's hum syncing with her shard's pulse. Three weeks, it seemed to whisper. Three weeks to unravel him.
"Until tomorrow, then," she said, gathering her scrolls.
As she left, the cat trailing like a sly afterthought, Cassis's voice floated after her—soft, deliberate. "The wyverns favor twilight flights, Miss Doran. Their eyes see… far."
Astris paused. A warning? A threat?
She glanced back, but the princess was already rising, her gown swirling like a storm cloud as she swept from the room. Zaiden remained, his reflection fractured in the Solarum's amber walls, his laughter a low, venomous rumble.
Outside, the clock tower chimed. The bracelet's grip lingered like a phantom hand as Astris stalked toward the armory, the silver cat a shadow she couldn't shake. The Lower Ward's forge-smoke coiled around her, bitter and familiar, but nothing could have prepared her for the figure leaning against the soot-stained meeting hall doors.
Collan Doran stood with his arms crossed, his commander's armor scuffed from recent battle, his beard flecked with what she hoped was dungeon ash and not someone's blood. His grin, when he spotted her, was all teeth—Leo charm laced with battlefield recklessness.
"Little sister," he drawled, pushing off the door. "Heard you've been terrorizing princes. Proud of you."
Astris froze. The cat hissed, its fur bristling. She hadn't seen Collan since the winter solstice, when he'd drunkenly tried to arm-wrestle a chandelier. His presence here, now, was either divine intervention or a prank orchestrated by the universe's cruelest jester.
"You're supposed to be clearing the Obsidian Fissure," she said flatly.
"Cleared it. Then got voluntold to babysit this farce." He jerked a thumb toward the hall, where the muffled roar of smiths arguing with engineers vibrated the walls. "Something about 'military oversight.'"
She stared at him. "You're the oversight?"
"Apparently, dungeon sludge in your boots qualifies you as an expert on ventilation systems." He ruffled her hair—a gesture too brotherly for the venomous look she shot him. "Relax. I'll behave. Mostly."
The cat's growl deepened, its milky eye fixed on Collan's sword. Astris ignored it, shoving past him into the hall.
Chaos greeted them. The smiths—a hulking brigade of soot-streaked artisans—were lobbing rivets at a cowering engineer who'd dared suggest "smaller anvils." Blueprints hung from the rafters like butchered banners, and the central table sagged under the weight of a scale model armory made entirely of cheese wheels.
"Ah! The quill-queen!" bellowed Thrain Ironvein, head smith and notorious pyromaniac. He brandished a glowing hammer at Astris. "Tell this milk-livered scribbler our forges need ventilation, not decorative grates!"
Collan snorted. "Grill them, then. Adds flavor."
Astris pinched the bridge of her nose. The bracelet pulsed, its enchantment sharpening her headache into a blade. "The contract," she began, slapping Harvy's manifesto onto the table, "specifies functional airflow, not aesthetics. If you want gold filigree on your latrines, petition the treasury separately."
Thrain's face purpled. "But the honor of the—"
"Honor won't stop your apprentices from suffocating. Appendix Four-D allows for reinforced ductwork funded by the crown. Take it or sweat to death."
Collan whistled. "Harsh."
"Accurate," she shot back.
Three hours later, they'd resolved exactly one clause (the ductwork) and spawned fifty-three new disputes (including a heated debate on whether dragon dung could stabilize foundation stones). As the smiths filed out, still bickering, Collan slumped into a chair, kicking his boots onto the cheese armory.
"You've gone full bureaucrat," he said, tossing her a flask of something that smelled lethal. "It's terrifying."
Astris drank without hesitation, the liquor burning through the bracelet's chill. "Someone has to clean up Harvy's messes."
"Harvy's not the one signing his life away in triplicate." His gaze dropped to her wrist. "Nice jewelry. Courtship gift?"
"Poisoned chalice, more likely."
He grinned, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Dinner. Tonight. Gilded Gryphon, we can lavish Theo with our presence and regale him with our eventful stories?"
The cat, now perched atop a cheese parapet, yowled.
"If you've brought dungeon stink into my meetings," Astris said, ignoring it, "you're buying."
Collan saluted, his armor clanking as he stood. "Done. Try not to draft any world-ending clauses before then."
He left, his laughter echoing down the hall. The cat watched him go, its tail twitching with predatory interest.
Astris stared at the ruins of the meeting table, the bracelet's enchantment gnawing at her resolve. Fifty-three follow-ups. Harvy's ferns weren't nearly punishment enough.
*****
The trade summit's opulent pavilion buzzed with the clatter of goblets and the syrupy laughter of merchants, but Prince Zaiden heard none of it. His fingers drummed a war rhythm on the gilded armrest of his chair, the wolf pendant at his throat burning with every remembered jab of Astris's quill. Across the room, a dwarven magnate droned about gemstone tariffs, his voice blending with the cloying scent of spiced wine and ambition.
Cedric materialized at his elbow, a steaming goblet in hand. "Your Highness," he murmured, ever the portrait of dutiful calm. "The Naramore delegates await your nod on the Silverthorn accord."
Zaiden didn't look up. "Tell them to choke on their thorns."
Cedric's sigh was barely audible. "They'll interpret that as a rejection of their entire trade bloc."
"Good."
A beat passed. Cedric lingered, his silence sharper than any blade.
"What?" Zaiden snapped, finally meeting his attendant's gaze.
"You're distracted."
"And you're overpaid."
Cedric's lips twitched. "A hazard of the role." He set the goblet down, untouched. "Shall I reschedule the remaining audiences? You seem… taxed."
Zaiden's retort died as a flicker of vision intruded—a flash of the silver cat's perspective, involuntary and unwelcome. Through its eyes, he saw her: Astris, striding through the armory's soot-stained halls, her laugh sharp and rare as she bantered with a broad-shouldered commander. The man's hand lingered on her shoulder, casual, familiar.
Zaiden's jaw clenched. "Who is that?"
Cedric followed his gaze to nothing. "Your Highness?"
The cat's vision sharpened—Astris accepting a flask from the stranger, her posture unguarded, her smirk softer than Zaiden had ever seen it. The commander ruffled her hair. Ruffled her hair.
Zaiden stood abruptly, his chair screeching against marble. The summit fell silent.
"Your Highness?" Cedric's voice tightened.
"Air," Zaiden bit out. "Now."
He stalked to the pavilion's balcony, the cat's sightline clinging like a curse. Cedric followed, a shadow of quiet alarm. Below, the palace gardens sprawled—manicured hedges, mana-lit fountains, and far beyond, the smoky haze of the Lower Ward where Astris and her companion vanished into a tavern.
"Summon Zander," Zaiden ordered.
"For what purpose?"
"I want that man identified. The one with the drafter."
Cedric arched a brow. "The Royal Guard commander? Collan Doran?"
Zaiden froze. "You know him?"
"Third eldest Doran sibling. Decorated dungeon-clearer. Occasionally punches walls to 'test their structural integrity.'" Cedric paused. "He's also her brother."
The words landed like a poorly aimed dagger. Zaiden's fingers tightened on the balcony rail, the wolf pendant's chain biting his neck. Brother. Of course. The resemblance was there—the same defiant angle of the jaw, the same glacial wit.
"Your interest in Miss Doran's familial relations is… noted," Cedric added, too neutrally.
Zaiden shot him a venomous look. "Careful, Cedric. Your concern is showing."
"Merely ensuring you don't incinerate allies over a misunderstanding."
The cat's vision faded, leaving Zaiden stranded in his own sight, the tavern's glow a taunt on the horizon. He forced a smirk. "Jealousy is beneath me."
"Indeed," Cedric said, staring pointedly at the rail's warped metal where Zaiden's grip had left dents. "Shall we return? The delegates are composing ballads about your temperament as we speak."
Zaiden didn't move. Somewhere in the city, Astris was laughing, unburdened, her brother's arm slung around her as they navigated crowds the prince would never walk among. The bracelet he'd watched Cassis give her glinted in the tavern's light—a twin to the one the princess wore, a paired set of shackles.
"Cancel the remaining audiences," he said at last.
Cedric bowed. "Wisely done."
As his attendant retreated, Zaiden's hand drifted to the pendant. The ruby eyes of the wolf glowed faintly, a dormant echo of his mother's Vesselbond magic. Pathetic, he chided himself. Princes didn't lurk in shadows, didn't seethe over draftsmen and their family squabbles.
Yet when the clock tower chimed, its notes slithering through the night, he found himself staring at the Lower Ward's haze long after the tavern's lamps had dimmed.
*****
The Gilded Gryphon heaved with the clamor of off-duty adventurers and the rich, greasy aroma of teriyaki-glazed wyvern skewers. Lanterns dangled from smoke-stained beams, their mana-crystal light glinting off dented armor and the occasional flash of a smuggled dungeon relic. Collan shouldered through the crowd like a battering ram, his laughter booming over the din.
"Theo! You magnificent ale-slinger!"
Behind the bar, Theo Doran looked up from polishing a tankard, his roguish grin widening. "Collan! Heard you got lost in a dungeon again. Need a map?"
"Need a drink." Collan vaulted over the counter, ignoring the indignant yelp of a gnome whose ale sloshed onto his beard. The brothers collided in a back-thumping hug that rattled the shelves of glittering spirits.
Astris lingered at the edge of the bar, her posture loosening for the first time in days. The Gryphon was a mosaic of Doran chaos—a dartboard nailed to a taxidermy griffin, a chalkboard menu advertising Miles' Mystery Stew (meat: questionable), and a ceiling strung with dried herbs that Theo claimed warded off "bad vibes" (but mostly attracted moths).
Grace Doran burst through the kitchen doors, her fiery red hair escaping its braid as she balanced a tray of caramelized onion tarts. "I'd recognize that earthquake laugh anywhere—" She froze, spotting Collan. "You!"
Collan swept her into a one-armed hug, nearly upending the tarts. "Grace! Still putting up with this scoundrel?"
"Someone has to." Grace swatted him with a dishcloth, though her smile softened the blow. Her gaze flicked to Astris, and she clicked her tongue. "Look at you, drowning in parchment fumes. Sit. I've got honey-glazed boar ribs in the oven."
Astris opened her mouth to protest, but Theo slid a goblet of fig wine across the bar. "Don't bother. She'll tie you to the chair if you resist."
Collan dropped onto a stool, commandeering a platter of spiced nuts from a nearby table. "So. Heard you're terrorizing royalty again, 'Stris. Proud of you."
"Terrorizing is an overstatement," she muttered, though the wine's warmth eased the bracelet's nagging chill.
Theo leaned on the bar, his eyes glinting. "Word in the wards says you've got Zaiden Leclair sweating through his fancy silks. True?"
"He's sweating because Cassis's wyverns keep side-eyeing him," Astris said dryly. "I'm just… clarifying terms."
Grace snorted, setting down a plate of ribs that smelled like salvation. "Clarifying. Right. You Dorans and your clarifications." She pointed a sauce-smudged finger at Collan. "You still owe me five silver for breaking that stew pot."
"It was a tactical accident!"
"It was my grandmother's heirloom!"
As they bickered, Astris let the tavern's rhythm wash over her—Theo's shameless flirting with a blushing bard, Collan's exaggerated retelling of his dungeon exploits, the clatter of dice and the sour tang of spilled ale. For a moment, the shard's whispers faded, the bracelet's weight lessened, and she was simply a sister in a den of wolves.
Then the silver cat slunk through the door, its gaze locking onto hers.
Theo followed her stare. "Since when do you have a pet?"
"Since never." Astris flicked a nut at the creature. It dodged, leaping onto a rafter with a haughty flick of its tail.
Collan squinted. "That thing's got prince written all over it."
Grace paused, a tart halfway to her mouth. "You're being spied on by a cat?"
"By Zaiden," Astris corrected. "The cat's just his eyes."
Theo barked a laugh. "Should've guessed. Royals love their creepy little familiars." He raised his tankard toward the rafters. "Enjoy the show, Your Highness! Tell your tailor the velvet doublet's a bit much!"
The cat hissed, vanishing into the shadows as laughter rippled through the tavern.
Astris sighed, tearing into a rib. Tomorrow would bring contracts, clauses, and the Galli's ever-looming scrutiny. But here, now, amid the Gryphon's chaos and her brothers' relentless noise, the world felt manageable.
Even if Zaiden's spies lingered in the eaves.