The cobbled streets of Lismore's Lower Ward glistened under the faint silver glow of the moon, still veiled by wisps of cloud but swelling toward fullness. The air carried the mingled scents of damp stone, sulfur from the nearby alchemy shops, and the faint metallic tang of dungeon ichor—a reminder of the kingdom's lifeblood, mined from the depths of the semi-sentient labyrinths beneath the city. Astris Doran adjusted the strap of her satchel, heavy with legal scrolls and ink-stained drafts, and exhaled sharply. The weight of the week pressed on her shoulders like a leaden cloak.
For the first time since she started, she had taken an entire weekend's reprieve from the Royal Legal Office, where the ceaseless demands of betrothal contracts, trade disputes, and the ever-looming Frostbane Festival deadlines had left her fingers cramped and her mind frayed. The streets were quieter now, the usual clamor of merchants and adventurers dulled by the late hour. Only the occasional flicker of mana-lit lanterns—enchanted orbs humming with captured dungeon energy—cast pools of blue-tinged light across her path.
Then, the cat appeared.
A sleek, silver-furred creature with one milky eye and one of molten amber, it trotted beside her with unnerving purpose, its tail flicking like a metronome. Astris clenched her jaw. The prince's familiar. A spy.
"Shoo," she muttered, waving a hand. The cat ignored her, matching her stride with eerie precision. Its mismatched eyes gleamed with something too knowing, as if it could taste the secrets coiled in her chest.
Astris quickened her pace, her boots scuffing against the uneven stones. The cat kept pace effortlessly, weaving between her legs with a purr that vibrated like a low-grade spell. She gritted her teeth. Let Zaiden watch. Let him see her trudge home exhausted, her hair frazzled, her sleeves smudged with ink. It didn't matter.
What mattered was the grimoire.
The thought of it sent a thrill through her—a spark cutting through the fatigue. Tucked beneath the loose floorboard of her cramped apartment above Briar & Bane Apothecary, the wyvern-leather-bound tome pulsed with forbidden knowledge. Mana Siphon: The Art of Life-Force Crystallization. Stolen from the university's black archives, its pages whispered of rituals to bind dungeon cores, of soul anchors and the Voidwell's hunger. And tonight—tonight the moon was nearly full.
She glanced upward. The clouds parted briefly, revealing the celestial body hanging heavy and luminous, its craters like scars. Cybele's eye, the priests called it. Astris's lips curled. The Great Mother's gaze mattered little to her. What mattered was the alignment, the thinning of the Veil, the convergence the stolen star chart had marked in three weeks' time. But tonight… tonight she could practice. A small ritual. A test.
The cat meowed, sharp and insistent, as if chastising her thoughts. Astris scowled. "Go lick the prince's boots," she snapped, turning down the narrow alley that led to her building. The apothecary's sign creaked overhead, its painted herbs faded by time and mist. The stairwell beyond reeked of wilted rosemary and something darker, something like the breath of the dungeons themselves.
Her fingers itched for the grimoire's cold leather, for the weight of the ritual dagger Miles had gifted her—an heirloom forged from a dead man's oath, its edge sharp enough to sever lies. She could almost feel the glyphs stirring in the dark, the dungeon cores humming in response beneath the city's foundations.
The cat followed her to the door, its tail twitching. Astris ignored it, her heart pounding with something fiercer than weariness.
Tonight, she would dance with the abyss. And let the prince watch if he dared.
The stairwell groaned under Astris's weight as she ascended, each step echoing like the tired sigh of the building itself. The apothecary's sulfurous stench clung to the walls, mingling with the faint, herbal ghost of rosemary—a futile attempt by the shopkeeper below to mask the dungeon ichor seeping through the cracks in the foundation. Her hand brushed the door's tarnished brass handle, engraved with fading runes meant to ward off vermin. Useless, she thought, as the silver cat slipped past her ankles and into the room before she could shut it out.
"You," she hissed, glaring at the creature now perched atop her splintered writing desk. The cat blinked its mismatched eyes—one clouded like frosted glass, the other gleaming with predatory gold—and began meticulously licking a paw, as if to underscore its indifference. The apartment was as she'd left it: parchment towers teetered precariously near the cracked mirror, quills jutted from chipped mugs like arrows in a battlefield, and the wyvern-leather grimoire lay hidden beneath a floorboard warped by decades of mist-laden air.
But the window—Cybele's teeth—the window was ajar. The sash, warped by humidity, had been nudged upward just enough for a determined feline to slither through. A cold draft carried the distant growl of the palace's dungeon cores, their vibrations humming through the city's bones.
"Out," Astris commanded, pointing to the night beyond the glass. The cat yawned, revealing needle-sharp fangs, and leapt onto her threadbare settee, tail flicking a stack of legal scrolls onto the floor.
Grumbling, she strode to the oak wardrobe carved with wyvern motifs—a gift from her brother Saul. Inside hung her "casual" attire: fitted trousers of shadow-weave silk (practical for blending into alleyways), a high-collared tunic reinforced with spider-silk threads, and boots of supple dusk-wolf leather, their soles etched with grip-enhancing runes. She swapped her ink-stained office robes for the ensemble, the clothes settling against her skin like a second layer of resolve.
The grimoire called to her. Kneeling, she pried up the loose floorboard, the wood creaking in protest. The book lay nestled in its hiding place, its cover icy to the touch, the wyvern scales shimmering with faint, malevolent glyphs. She tucked it into her satchel—an enchanted relic from her university days, its seams stretched far beyond physical limits to accommodate maps of cursed labyrinths, vials of fey hair, and Miles's dagger. The blade, forged from a dead man's oath, hummed softly as she secured it at her hip, its edge catching the moonlight like a sliver of vengeance.
The cat growled, low and resonant, its fur bristling as she slung the satchel over her shoulder. "Oh, now you object?" Astris snapped. She snatched a moth-eaten blanket from the settee, lunging to trap the creature. The cat darted sideways, knocking over a mug of cold tea. Brown liquid splattered her star chart—the stolen parchment now adorned with a Rorschach blot over the Convergence date.
"Filthy little spy!" She vaulted over the desk, blanket flapping like a battle standard, but the cat leapt onto a sagging bookshelf. A precariously balanced tome titled Tax Codes of the Eastern Barony toppled, narrowly missing her head. The cat stared down, its tail twitching with what could only be amusement.
"Fine. Stay," she spat, strapping on her rapier, its hilt worn smooth by generations of Doran hands. She flung her cloak—a gift from Theo, woven from nightshade fibers that blurred her silhouette—around her shoulders and stomped toward the door.
The cat followed, its purr a mocking crescendo as she descended into the mist-choked streets. Above, the moon hung like a polished silver coin, Cybele's watchful eye indifferent to the woman stalking toward the central square, a grimoire of forbidden secrets in her satchel and a prince's familiar on her heels.
The mist coiled around Astris's boots as she approached Lismore's central square, its cobblestones slick with dew and the residue of a hundred passing spells. The community portal dominated the space—a colossal ring of polished obsidian etched with Celestial runes, its surface a rippling pool of liquid silver. Guild workers in indigo tunics bustled around it, their hands glowing with mana as they calibrated destinations. Above the portal loomed a statue of Cybele, her stone eyes gazing judgmentally at the mortal transactions below.
Astris joined the queue, the silver cat weaving figure-eights around her legs. A lumber merchant ahead of her bartered with a clerk, arguing over the toll to ship razorleaf timber back from Thornbrook. "Venom-tongue goblins raided our last caravan," the merchant grumbled, jabbing a finger at the clerk's ledger. "Your guild's protection fees ought to cover actual protection."
The clerk, a gangly youth with ink-stained fingers, sighed. "Dame Briarwood's militia handles goblins. We handle portals. Take it up with her."
When Astris's turn came, the clerk didn't look up. "Destination?"
"Thornbrook," she said, tossing a mana-crystal shard onto the counter. The clerk's quill paused mid-scrawl.
"Thornbrook?" He eyed her rapier and satchel skeptically. "Loggers and goblin-fighters, that way. No sightseers."
"I'm drafting a timber trade amendment for the palace," she lied smoothly, tapping the guild insignia on her cloak. The cat chose that moment to leap onto the counter, batting a vial of ink into the clerk's lap.
"Hey—!"
"Not mine," Astris said, snatching the cat by the scruff. It went limp, purring mockingly.
The clerk scowled, scribbling a rune into the air. The portal's silver surface shimmered, then deepened into an emerald-green vortex, reflecting Thornbrook's razor-leaf forests. "One hour. And keep the vermin leashed."
"With pleasure." She dropped the cat and strode forward, boots sinking into the portal's gelatinous surface. The magic hit like a plunge into an icy river, her bones humming with the dissonant choir of a thousand displaced atoms. For a heartbeat, she hung between worlds—then Thornbrook's crisp pine air slapped her face, laced with the tang of freshly cut lumber and distant woodsmoke.
The cat landed beside her, fur crackling with static, and promptly bolted toward a stack of timber.
"Oh no you don't." Astris lunged, her satchel swinging wildly. The cat zigzagged past a lumberjack hefting a razorleaf log—its edges serrated like dragon teeth—and skidded beneath a cart piled with goblin skulls, trophies from the last raid. She dove after it, cloak snagging on a nail, and collided with a barrel of pine resin. The sticky substance oozed over her boot as the cat pranced atop a nearby fence, tail aloft in triumph.
"Spawn of Echohold shadows," she muttered, scrubbing her boot with a handful of moss. Around her, Thornbrook's fortified walls rose like a wooden crown, their spikes dripping with goblin deterrent—a noxious brew of crushed venom-tongue glands and fermented mushrooms. Lumberjacks in reinforced leathers sharpened axes at communal fires, their laughter rough and weary. High above, Dame Corinne Briarwood's watchtower loomed, its windows lit with the warm glow of oil lamps and the cold glint of crossbows.
Astris adjusted her satchel, the grimoire's weight a silent promise, and turned toward the forest. The razor-leaf trees stood sentinel, their silver bark glinting in the moonlight, leaves whispering secrets in a language older than Lismore. The cat fell into step beside her, its mismatched eyes gleaming with mischief—or prophecy.
Together, they vanished into the shadows, the dungeon's growl echoing beneath their feet and the stars wheeling toward Convergence.
*****
The Leclair family's dining hall was a symphony of vintage opulence: vaulted ceilings draped with tapestries depicting Cybele's lionesses prowling through celestial fields, mana-lit chandeliers casting a sapphire glow over the onyx table, and platters of roasted duskwolf haunch glazed with honeyed dungeon moss—a delicacy as perilous to harvest as it was rich in flavor. King Einar Leclair, silver-haired and sharp as his ceremonial dagger, presided at the head of the table, his laughter a low rumble as Queen Nayeli recounted a courtier's latest blunder.
"He tripped over his own ceremonial sash and spilled aetherium wine all over the Galli envoy," Nayeli said, her voice lilting with mischief. She twirled a lock of her flowing silver hair around one finger, the amethyst rings on her hand glinting. "The man looked like he'd been baptized in liquid starlight."
Zaiden Leclair, Crown Prince of Lismore, stabbed at his meal with forced nonchalance. His mind lingered on the silver cat he'd sent to tail Astris Doran—until the vision struck.
It came as all Echohold intrusions did: a prickling at his temples, then a flood of sensation. Her cramped apartment, reeking of sulfur and desperation. Astris, hair half-unbound and sleeves smudged with ink, lunging for the cat with a moth-eaten blanket. The creature evaded her effortlessly, knocking over a mug of tea that splattered her stolen star chart. Zaiden's lips twitched. Pathetic, drafter. Even your chaos is predictable.
"—Zaiden?"
His sister Inaya's voice sliced through the vision. He blinked, the hall's opulence swimming back into focus. Eight pairs of Leclair eyes pinned him—curious, amused, assessing.
"You're staring at the pheasant like it owes you taxes," said Jace, the second prince, his lanky frame slouched in a chair adorned with wyvern carvings. A half-finished sketch of storm clouds lay beside his plate, his fingers smudged with charcoal.
Zaiden shrugged, feigning boredom. "Merely contemplating how dull it must be to dine without the threat of venom-tongue goblins."
"Ah, yes," Einar said dryly, swirling his wine. "The thrill of garrison rations. How we miss it."
Nayeli tilted her head, her sapphire eyes narrowing. "Your mind is elsewhere, Zirana," she murmured, using the old endearment—little spark. "Something—or someone—has lit a fire in your thoughts."
Zaiden stiffened. Before he could deflect, Inaya piped up, her voice soft but needle-sharp. "Was it the sparring match with Collan Doran? The one where he disarmed you with that ridiculous feint?"
The table erupted in laughter. Even Einar chuckled. Zaiden's jaw tightened. It was just the other day he'd crossed blades with Astris's brother in the palace lists—a spontaneous clash born of Zaiden's irritation. Collan had fought like a man unconcerned, his glowmark-lit strikes a blur, until Zaiden had withdrawn. "Stalking my sister's shadow?" Collan had teased, "That girl's been outsmarting dungeon traps since she could walk."
"Disarmed?" Zaiden drawled. "I let him believe he'd won. It's kinder that way."
"Kinder?" Jace snorted. "Since when do you do kind?"
The vision flickered back. Astris now stomping through Thornbrook's square, pine resin gumming her boot, the cat taunting her from a fence. Zaiden's laugh escaped before he could stifle it—a short, sharp sound.
Silence fell.
Nayeli set down her goblet. "Darling," she said, sweet as poisoned wine. "Do share the jest."
Zaiden schooled his face into neutrality. "A trifle. One of the palace hounds tried to bury a mana-crystal in the gardens. The gardener's face was… memorable."
Inaya squinted. "You hate the hounds."
"And you're a terrible liar," Einar added, though amusement glinted in his steel-gray eyes.
Nayeli rose, her opulent gown shimmering like liquid night. She rounded the table, her steps eerily silent—a relic of her Vesselbond training, which allowed her to merge with shadows. "Come," she whispered, gripping Zaiden's shoulder. Her touch was cold, her rings biting into his skin. "What game are you playing?"
He met her gaze, their faces inches apart. She knows, he realized. Not the details, but the scent of secrets.
"No game, Mother," he said, smiling his most infuriating smile. "Merely… observing the board."
Her nails dug deeper. "See that you don't lose your pieces."
As the family's chatter resumed, Zaiden leaned back, the cat's mismatched eyes lingering in his mind. Where are you going, drafter? The answer hummed in his bones, a tune as old as the Spire's growl.
Somewhere forbidden.
Somewhere fun.
*****
Thornbrook's razorleaf forest closed around Astris like a living vault, the trees' serrated leaves glinting like daggers in the moonlight. The air thrummed with the low, resonant hum of ancient magic, a sound deeper than the growl of the palace dungeons—older, wilder. The silver cat trotted ahead, tail flicking with insolent grace, its mismatched eyes catching the glow of bioluminescent fungi clinging to the bark. Astris tightened her grip on her satchel, the grimoire's weight a solemn counterpoint to the cat's antics.
"Stay close," she muttered, though she knew the creature would heed nothing but its own whims. True to form, it darted off-path, batting at a luminescent moth with comical ferocity. The moth fluttered just out of reach, leading the cat into a tangle of razorleaf saplings. Astris groaned as the feline yowled, its fur snagged on thorns. "Serves you right," she said, yanking it free. The cat hissed, then promptly leapt onto her shoulder, digging its claws into her cloak like a spiteful parrot.
The forest floor sloped upward, the trees thinning until she stumbled into a clearing. Moonlight pooled in the open space, illuminating a ring of moss-crowned stones—a forgotten altar, its surface etched with runes worn smooth by centuries. The air here tasted metallic, charged with latent energy. Perfect.
Astris shrugged off the cat, which immediately began stalking a shadow that flickered at the edge of the stones. She knelt, unshouldering her satchel, and withdrew the grimoire. Its wyvern-leather cover pulsed faintly, glyphs writhing like trapped serpents. Beside it, she laid out her tools: a vial of fey hair (plucked from a sprite's bribe), Miles's oath-forged dagger, and a pouch of crushed mana-crystal dust—stolen from the Royal Observatory's stores.
The cat pawed at the dagger. "No," Astris snapped, swatting its nose. It recoiled, then retaliated by knocking over the fey hair vial. The iridescent strands spilled into the dirt, shimmering like liquid starlight. "Cybele's tears!" She scrambled to salvage them, the cat watching with an air of detached amusement.
Undeterred, she traced the ritual circle with the mana-crystal dust, the powder igniting into faint blue flames where it met the ancient runes. The grimoire's pages fluttered open to Siphon the Unseen, instructions detailing how to channel dungeon essence into a temporary ward. But as she chanted, the cat sauntered into the circle, its tail brushing the glyphs. The flames flared violet.
"Get out!" She lunged, but the cat leapt onto the altar, dislodging a stone. The runes warped, their harmony fracturing. The ground trembled, the clearing's air thickening with ozone. Astris's voice faltered as the circle's energy inverted—a sickening lurch, as if the world itself had hiccuped.
From the twisted glyphs rose a figure: small, hunched, and glowing faintly green. Its eyes were bulbous, its fingers elongated and tipped with claws. A venom-tongue goblin specter—or something worse. The creature blinked, then burped a plume of acrid smoke.
The cat arched its back, hissing theatrically, but the specter merely tilted its head and chirped, "Snack?" in a voice like rusted hinges.
Astris drew the rapier's blade humming with dormant enchantments. "Stay back," she warned, though the specter seemed more curious than hostile. It floated toward her, sniffing the air, then fixated on the cat.
"Snack!" it repeated, lunging. The cat yowled and bolted, the specter giving chase in a zigzagging game of spectral tag. Astris stared, torn between dread and disbelief. The grimoire lay open, its pages now displaying Summoning the Hungry Dead: A Cautionary Tale.
"Of course," she muttered. The cat shot past her, the specter close behind, its claws raking through the air. Astris intercepted with a sweep of her rapier, the blade passing harmlessly through the specter's form. It paused, then giggled—a sound like shattering glass—and phased through a tree.
The cat, now perched atop the altar, licked its paw with exaggerated calm.
"This is your fault," Astris growled, sheathing her blade. The specter reappeared, clutching a glowing mushroom it had plucked from the forest floor. It offered it to the cat, who sniffed it disdainfully.
As the moon dipped toward the horizon, Astris slumped against a stone. The ritual was a farce, the specter a nuisance, and the grimoire's warnings now blared in her mind. Yet, amid the chaos, she couldn't ignore the flicker of kinship between the two troublemakers—one corporeal, one not.
"Fine," she sighed, tossing the specter a mana-crystal shard. It devoured the offering, belched, and vanished in a puff of green mist. The cat meowed, as if demanding a treat for its "help."
"Dream on," Astris said, gathering her supplies. Somewhere in the distance, the Spire's growl deepened, its hunger echoing her own restless ambition.