The walk back to the Royal Legal Office was a blur of mist and muttered curses. Astris's boots echoed on the cobblestones, each step syncing with the shard's persistent thrum in her heel. The dam's roar faded behind her, replaced by the clatter of merchants hawking dungeon-forged trinkets and the acidic tang of mana-brewed coffee wafting from street carts.
Halfway across the Bridge of Whispers, she heard it—a soft mrrp at her heels. A cat, its fur the color of tarnished silver, trotted beside her, tail flicking like a metronome. It blinked up at her with mismatched eyes: one amber, one milky white.
"Shoo," Astris muttered, quickening her pace.
The cat matched her stride, purring louder.
She stopped. The cat sat, licking a paw with an air of theatrical nonchalance.
"Fine." She crouched, grudgingly scratching behind its ears. The creature's fur was warm, its purr vibrating through her ink-stained fingers. For a moment, the shard's pulse dulled.
Then it darted ahead, slipping through the office's cracked door before Gretchen could rise from her desk.
"How'd it go?" Gretchen chirped, watering a carnivorous fern that snapped at her shears. Her flowery blouse clashed violently with the office's drab walls. "Did Prince Broody remember to wear pants this time?"
Astris slumped into her chair, tossing the scorched marriage contract onto a teetering stack of parchment. "They want a full rewrite."
"What?"
Evelyn Laveau's rainbow quill exploded into sparks, searing a hole in the "Urgent" stamp on her latest brief. She surged from her desk, her sequined sleeves scattering light like a chandelier in a hurricane. "That contract's been pending for months! Celestaviel's tariffs are hinging on this! Do they think we're their personal scribes?!"
Seth stormed out of his office, a ledger clutched in one hand and a half-eaten caramel-glazed muffin in the other. "We've got a mana-crystal smuggling ring funneling corrupted cores into the Lower Ward. Three dungeon breaches last night alone. The marriage drama can wait."
"Wait?!" Evelyn whirled, her quill now dripping neon-pink ink. "Every minute that treaty stalls, Kaufmann's cronies leech another thousand crowns from the trade routes I negotiated!"
"Your 'routes' let a fey cartel waltz past the border guards!"
"Because your brilliant ordinance required 'non-lethal deterrents'! Now the guards are armed with confetti cannons!"
The silver cat leapt onto Astris's desk, knocking over a vial of phoenix ink. She caught it before it shattered, her eye twitching.
Gretchen hummed a lullaby to her ferns. "Maybe they're stalling the wedding on purpose? I heard Princess Cassis keeps a dungeon serpent as a pet. Zaiden's allergic."
"Irrelevant," Seth snapped.
"Strategic," Evelyn countered. "If they marry, Lismore inherits Celestaviel's wyvern fleet. No more smuggling—if the terms hold."
"If the terms hold," Seth mimicked, pitch-perfect. "Meanwhile, the Drowned Quay's underwater by dawn, and Kaufmann's sipping wine in Parliament."
Astris froze. The shard flared, its heat searing through leather. A memory of The Drowned Quay flashed though her thoughts.
Seth's mana-lantern had barely pierced the fog before Kaufmann's voice oozed from the shadows. "Punctual as ever, Guilladot. A shame your decorum outweighs your sense."
Noah stood shackled between the mercenaries, his truth-seeker's monocle cracked. Lucy's acid vials hissed in her grip, but Seth's raised fist froze her mid-lunge.
"Sign the dissolution," Seth snarled, slamming the dossier.
Kaufmann sipped his wine, unblinking. "Why dissolve when I can… repurpose?"
The estuary erupted. Tentacles slick with bioluminescent slime lashed the boathouse as infernal contracts combusted in Harvy's hands. Noah's voice cracked—"I rerouted the tithes for the hospital!"—and Seth's resolve splintered.
Retreat tasted like bile.
Memory dissolved, "The Quay's gone," Astris said quietly.
The office fell silent. Even the carnivorous fern stilled.
Evelyn's quill dimmed. "What?"
"Kaufmann's using the Spire's shards to drain the temples." Astris opened her palm, revealing the aetherium fragment's pulsing glow. "He's not smuggling. He's rebuilding. And the High Priest's helping him."
Seth's jaw tightened. "Speculation."
"The shards sync with the Spire's frequency. Track their energy signatures, and you'll find Kaufmann's vaults." She tossed the shard to him; he caught it, his fingers brushing the jagged edge. "Or don't. Let the city drown."
The silver cat batted a stray muffin wrapper toward Gretchen, who eyed it like a pending invoice.
"We prioritize the Quay," Seth said at last.
Evelyn's laugh was razor-edged. "Of course. Why defend the future when you can chase the past?"
She stormed out, her quill leaving a trail of glittering spite.
Night fell, thick and suffocating. Astris lingered at her desk, the cat curled in her lap as she replayed the day's fractures. The shard's pulse had quieted, soothed by the creature's rhythmic purring.
Gretchen paused at the door, her charm bracelet jingling. "Need a ride home?"
"No."
"Suit yourself. But feed the cat. It likes salmon."
Alone, Astris glanced down. The cat stared back, its milky eye reflecting the shard's glow.
Not a cat, she realized—a familiar.
*****
The moment the chamber doors shut behind him, Zaiden Leclair's performative scowl dissolved into a grin sharp enough to slice silk. He strode down the corridor, his boots clicking a lighter rhythm now, the wolf pendant at his throat swinging like a pendulum of mischief. By the time he reached his private office—a vault of mahogany shelves, celestial maps, and a perpetually steaming carafe of spiced coffee—the echoes of Cassis's stifled laughter had faded, replaced by the crisp order of Cedric Winifred's domain.
His attendant stood at attention beside an ironwood desk, its surface immaculate save for a single parchment scroll, a plate of lemon-glazed pastries, and a silver cat curled atop a draft of the Frostbane Festival seating chart. The creature blinked lazily, one amber eye and one moon-pale, its tail flicking inkwells with practiced disregard.
"Well?" Cedric asked, his tone as polished as the damascene paperweight he'd "borrowed" from the treasury. "Did the drafter survive?"
Zaiden slouched into his chair, propping his boots on the desk. The cat yawned, displaying needle-like teeth. "Barely. She's allergic to bullshit. Nearly suffocated."
Cedric's lips twitched. "A tragic flaw in this line of work."
"A refreshing one." Zaiden reached out, fingers grazing the cat's spine. A faint shimmer rippled beneath his touch—Echohold, the barest whisper of his consciousness seeping into the creature's keen senses. The cat stiffened, pupils dilating as the prince's magic threaded through its instincts. "Though I suspect she'll recover. With the right… motivation."
The cat stood, arching its back in a stretch that seemed to defy the ordinary limits of feline anatomy. For a heartbeat, its shadow pooled too darkly on the floor, shaped less like a cat and more like a crowned serpent. Then it leapt onto the balcony railing, vanishing into the dusk with a flick of its tarnished tail.
Cedric raised an eyebrow. "Sire."
"Yes, yes, I'll feed it later." Zaiden waved a dismissive hand, though his gaze lingered on the balcony. "What's next? Petty grievances? Trade disputes? A thrilling review of sewer budgets?"
Cedric unrolled the scroll, his voice dry as desert parchment. "The High Priest requests an audience regarding the 'desecration' of the Argent Fissure dungeon. Again."
"Tell him I'm communing with Cybele's sacred snails. Indefinitely."
"The Naramore envoy has lodged seventeen complaints about Princess Inaya's 'inflammatory' festival decorations."
"Remind them that polka dots are a neutral pattern."
"And Lady Voss demands restitution for the, ah, 'incident' involving your wyvern and her prize peacocks."
Zaiden grinned. "Send her a crate of confetti cannons. With my compliments."
Cedric scribbled a note, his quill flashing with the faintest hint of exasperation. "Shall I also draft an apology for the peacock feathers embedded in the royal chapel's stained glass?"
"Only if you phrase it as a divine omen. Cybele's newfound fondness for… ostentatious plumage."
The balcony doors creaked open on a gust of wind, carrying the distant clatter of the Lower Ward and the tang of mana-forged steel. The cat was gone, but Zaiden's grin remained—a blade sheathed in velvet.
Three streets away, the silver cat padded soundlessly over rain-slick rooftops, its mismatched eyes fixed on a figure trudging below. Astris Doran turned a corner, her briefcase clutched like a shield, the glow of streetlamps gilding her hunched shoulders. The cat leapt to a crumbling gargoyle, its claws etching faint runes into the stone.
Echohold hummed in its veins, a silent symphony of the prince's curiosity.
Somewhere in the palace, Zaiden leaned back in his chair, coffee cup raised in mock salute to the night.
"Run along, little drafter," he murmured. "The game's just begun."
The cat followed.
*****
Astris stalked through the Lower Ward's labyrinthine alleys, past taverns belching sour ale and mana-forges spitting emerald sparks. The creature kept pace, its tarnished fur blending with the shadows, milky eye glinting like a shard of moonlit ice. When she paused at a dumpling cart, its steam curling into the damp night, the cat leapt onto the counter and snatched a fish cake in its teeth.
The vendor swore, jabbing a skewer at it. "Yours?"
"Unfortunately," Astris muttered, slapping coins onto the greasy wood. The cat purred around its prize, tail curling around her wrist as if to say thank you.
"Hazard pay," the vendor grumbled, pocketing the silver. "That thing's got thief's eyes."
"And your dumplings have sawdust filler," she shot back, snatching the cat by the scruff. It dangled limply, fish cake still clamped in its jaws, radiating smugness.
By the time they reached her apartment above Briar & Bane Apothecary, Astris's patience had frayed to a thread. "You're a menace," she hissed, nudging the creature off her boot for the fifth time. It chirped, trotting ahead up the splintered stairs as though it owned them.
Her room was as she'd left it—a hurricane of parchment, quills, and disappointment. The cat immediately claimed her desk, batting a stack of dungeon tax reports into the abyss beneath her bed.
"Out," she ordered, shrugging off her ink-stained coat.
The cat blinked, then pawed open her star chart, its claws pricking the constellation of the Voidwell.
Astris froze.
The chart was old, stolen from the Royal Observatory's restricted archives. Cybele's lions snarled at the margins, their manes etched in gold leaf, but the center was a void of swirling ink—a map of the Shattered Spire's core, annotated with dates, angles, and a single phrase: "Convergence: When the Veil thins."
The cat mewed, tapping a claw on a date three weeks from now.
"Nosy," Astris muttered, shoving it aside. But her hands trembled as she unlatched the false panel in the floorboards, retrieving the grimoire. Its wyvern-leather cover pulsed faintly, reacting to the shard in her boot.
The cat watched as she spread the contents of her contraband: vials of dungeon ichor, a lock of fey hair sealed in glass, and a dagger forged from a dead man's oath. Her notes sprawled across the floor, a spiderweb of desperation.
Soul anchors require threefold alignment—stellar, mortal, divine.
The Void-well's sentience cannot be bargained with. Only harnessed.
Sacrifice must be willing. Or unaware.
The cat leapt onto the grimoire, its weight pinning a page detailing the Mana Siphon ritual. Astris glared. "Move."
It yawned, stretching a paw toward her scar—the one beneath her collarbone, pale and puckered.
She flinched. "That's none of your business."
But the creature's milky eye glowed, and for a heartbeat, the room flickered. The walls dissolved into star-streaked void, the grimoire's glyphs writhing like serpents, and Astris saw herself reflected in the cat's gaze—not as she was, but as she might become: a silhouette wreathed in dungeon fire, the Spire's shard burning in her fist, Kaufmann's empire crumbling at her feet.
The vision shattered. The cat licked its paw, indifferent.
"Whose familiar are you?" she whispered.
It offered no answer, only a trill before leaping to the windowsill, where dawn's first light stained the sky corpse-gray. Astris turned back to the star chart.
In three weeks, the alignment would peak. The Veil between mortal ambition and dungeon sentience would fray.
And she would be ready.
Beneath the apothecary, a cauldron hissed. Somewhere in the walls, the rats fell silent.
The cat watched as Astris dipped her Phoenix Quill in aetherium ink and began to write her terms—not for a marriage, but for a war.
*****
Zaiden Leclair's office was a study in controlled chaos. Maps of Lismore's mana veins plastered the walls, annotated with crimson ink and sardonic doodles of wyverns gnawing on parliamentary seals. Cedric Winifred stood at his elbow, reciting the day's obligations in a tone drier than the High Priest's sermons.
"—approve the Frostbane Festival budget, veto Lady Voss's peacock restitution plea, and endorse the revised trade tariffs with Naramore." Cedric slid a parchment across the desk, quill poised. "Sign here, here, and… here."
Zaiden scrawled his name with a flourish, the ink bleeding like a fresh wound. His mind, however, was elsewhere. A flicker—Echohold's whisper—flared behind his eyes.
Vision: Astris Doran hunched over a star chart, her apartment choked with contraband. A grimoire pulsed on her desk, its pages alive with forbidden glyphs. A silver cat—his cat—pawed at a map of the Shattered Spire, its milky eye reflecting her determination like a fractured moon.
Zaiden's quill stalled mid-stroke.
Well, well, well.
Cedric cleared his throat. "Sire? The tariffs require your seal."
Zaiden ignored him. The vision sharpened: Astris dipping a phoenix quill into aetherium ink, her fingers steady but her gaze feral. The star chart glowed, constellations aligning with the Spire's labyrinthine heart. She's plotting a path to the Voidwell. Admiration curled hot in his chest.
This just got interesting.
"Sire." Cedric's voice hardened. "The envoy from Naramore awaits your—"
"Reschedule them." Zaiden tossed the quill aside, leaning back with a grin that promised chaos. "And send a crate of confetti cannons to Lady Voss. With a note: 'Compliments of the Divine Peacock Omen Society.'"
Cedric pinched the bridge of his nose. "That's not a real organization."
"It will be by dawn."
The attendant sighed, sweeping the signed documents into a leather folio. "Shall I also inform Parliament you'll be 'communing with sacred snails' again?"
Zaiden's attention drifted to the balcony, where the silver cat now perched, licking aetherium dust from its paws. His dust. His spy.
"Tell them I'm auditing dungeon tax allocations," he said, still smiling. "Personally."
Cedric paused. "You haven't audited anything since the Great Wyvern Wine Incident."
"Then it's overdue." Zaiden rose, snatching an apple from the fruit bowl and tossing it to the cat. The creature caught it midair, its purr vibrating with secrets. "Oh, and Cedric?"
"Yes, sire?"
"Cancel my evening engagements. I'll be… researching."
Cedric's eyebrow arched, but he bowed and retreated, the door clicking shut with the finality of a vault.
Zaiden crossed to the balcony, the cat weaving around his boots. Below, the city sprawled like a living thing—smoke and splendor, greed and grandeur. Somewhere in its guts, Astris Doran was stitching a rebellion with ink and audacity.
He stroked the cat's spine, Echohold humming beneath his fingertips. "Keep watching, little drafter," he murmured. "And I'll keep learning."
The cat blinked up at him, its mismatched eyes reflecting a future ripe with fire.
For the first time in years, Zaiden Leclair felt awake.