Astris awoke to the scent of sandalwood and citrus, her head throbbing as if drummers from the Lower Ward's taverns had taken residence in her skull. The room sprawled around her—a chamber of contradictions. Cathedral ceilings arched high above, adorned with frescoes of wyverns mid-flight, their jeweled eyes glinting in the soft glow of mana-lit chandeliers shaped like inverted tulips. The bed was a monstrosity of mahogany and silk, its canopy draped in midnight-blue velvet that pooled on the floor like a starless sky. Her fingers brushed the sheets—dragon-spun silk, finer than anything in Lismore's palace.
She sat up slowly, her royal uniform, a tea-length gown—a fitted bodice nipped at the waist, its full skirt twisting around her legs. The fabric was Lismore's latest court fashion, but the cut was sharper, older, as if tailored by hands that remembered a different era. Her lace-up boots, discarded haphazardly by the bed, bore the scuffs of her last frantic sprint through the city.
The door creaked open. A figure glided in, masked in polished onyx, their black jacket and tapered trousers a stark contrast to the room's opulence—a servant in a gilded cage. They placed a silver tray on the bedside table: a crystal goblet of pomegranate wine, a note folded into a crane. Without a word, they bowed and retreated, the door locking with a click that echoed like a judge's gavel.
Astris staggered to her feet, the blood rushing from her head as she gripped the bedpost. Her reflection in a gilded mirror caught her eye—pale, her light hair mussed, the hourglass silhouette of her gown mocking her dishevelment. She tested the balcony doors, their handles cold and unyielding, then the shuttered windows, iron bars hidden beneath velvet drapes.
"Damn it," she hissed, sinking into a wingback chair upholstered in peacock brocade. The note lay untouched until curiosity overrode pride.
Drafter, welcome. The crystal will show you.
Her gaze snapped to the crystal orb on the escritoire—a sphere of dungeon-forged quartz, its surface swirling with smoky veins. She touched it hesitantly.
Images erupted: Saul, his broad shoulders hunched as he helped Julia rise from a velvet settee, her pregnant belly rounding beneath a rockabilly-style dress, its fit-and-flare skirt splashed with roses. Theo leaned against a tavern wall, bartering with a denim-clad adventurer over a fey gem. Knox, her father, laughed, silver hair gleaming as he repaired a music box for Eli's hospital.
"A threat?" Astris snarled, though her voice wavered.
The crystal darkened, then brightened to reveal a hooded figure, their features obscured by shifting shadows. "Drafter," the figure intoned, voice echoing as if from a deep well. "Revisions are required to the marriage contract. Only the original scribe may amend it. Others have tried… and failed."
The door unlocked. The masked servant returned, tray now bearing vellum scrolls, a feathered quill, and ink that shimmered like liquid starlight.
Astris crossed her arms, leaning back with forced nonchalance. "No quill of mine, no ink. Your problem."
The figure tapped the crystal. The image shifted: Julia, her hand resting on her belly, humming as she arranged sunflowers in a vase—a scene so ordinary it ached.
"Consequences," the hooded voice warned.
Astris's nails dug into her palms. "You think you can take them? My brothers?"
The crystal flickered. Knox's workshop, Eli's hospital, Saul's forge, Theon's tavern, Mile's in a dungeon, Collan on patrol—each location pulsed with a faint red haze.
"Try," Astris spat, but her bravado cracked as the image settled on Julia again, sunlight catching the gold in her hair.
The servant slid the contract forward, the parchment embossed with the Leclair wolf and Celestaviel's wyvern. The terms glowed faintly, clauses shifting like serpents under a layer of enchantment.
Astris gripped the quill, her hand steady despite the tremor in her chest. "And if I refuse?"
The crystal dimmed, plunging the room into silence. Outside, the distant growl of the Spire vibrated through the walls, a reminder that time—like ink—was a currency spent too freely.
*****
The air in Zaiden Leclair's office was thick with the scent of parchment and urgency, the Spire's distant growl vibrating through the onyx walls like the hum of a restless beast. Moonlight filtered through stained-glass windows depicting Lismore's monarchs, casting kaleidoscopic shadows over the cluttered desk where maps of the Midnight Trench lay strewn beside half-empty coffee mugs. Zaiden leaned against the edge, his tailored suit jacket straining over shoulders tense with frustration. Across from him, Cassis Voclain paced in her riding leathers. Her nipped-waist jacket hugged her frame, its buttons forged from dungeon steel, glinting faintly in the cerulean glow of mana-lit chandeliers overhead.
Vadim Zizilivakan slouched in an armchair, his weathered leather jacket and boots starkly contrasting the room's opulence. He tossed a dagger absently, its blade catching the light as he drawled, "Any ideas about who would want to kidnap a drafter?" The obsidian wyvern pendant at his throat—a twin to Cassis's bracelet—pulsed faintly, a silent echo of the bond they shared.
Zander Valin, a shadow in the corner, sharpened his blade with methodical precision. The rockabilly edge of his attire—rolled sleeves, a collarless shirt under a battered leather vest—belied the lethal stillness in his hazel eyes. "Someone who knows the bracelet doesn't come off unless she's dead or collared," he said, his voice a graveled rumble. "That narrows it to nobles, dungeon lords, or your fanatic aunt, Princess."
Cassis's knuckles whitened around the wyvern bracelet encircling her wrist, its bone-and-silver links cold against her skin. "Celisera's brood wouldn't dare. Not without my father's approval."
Zaiden's silver-furred familiar, Midas, leapt onto the desk, tail flicking. The cat's mismatched eyes—one amber, one milky—narrowed as Zaiden murmured an Echohold incantation, his scars glowing faintly. The room wavered, Midas's vision bleeding into his own: alleys slick with mana-storm residue, the flicker of cerulean streetlamps, nothing. Zaiden cursed. "She's too far. Or shielded."
Cedric Winifred, ever the portrait of professionalism in his crisply ironed shirt and pocket watch chain, cleared his throat. "Perhaps the Royal Legal Office could provide her last whereabouts? They track drafters' comings and goings like hawks." His fingers fluttered over a ledger, its pages filled with schedules as immaculate as his side-part hairstyle.
Zaiden and Cassis exchanged a glance—a fleeting truce in their thorny alliance—and bolted for the door. Cassis's leather soles padded against the marble, her braid swirling like a chaotic whip, while Zaiden's jacket flared behind him, the wolf pendant at his throat gleaming.
"Your Highness—!" Cedric called after them, clutching his ledger to his chest. "You can't just—! They'll demand an appointment!" His plea dissolved into the growl of the Spire as the pair vanished down the corridor, Vadim and Zander trailing like wraiths.
The Royal Legal Office hummed like a beehive dipped in starlight, its vaulted ceilings echoing with the clatter of typewriters and the rustle of silk. Mana-crystal chandeliers cast prismatic fractals over clerks in tea-length dresses—nipped waists cinched with dungeon-forged belts, full skirts swirling around legs sheathed in lace-trimmed stockings. Adventurers in grunge-smudged jackets leaned against mahogany panels, haggling over contracts with merchants whose suit pockets bulged with vials of glowing azure mana. The air smelled of bergamot ink, validation croissants, and the faint ozone crackle of overworked truth gems.
Gretchen Bloom looked up from her botanical-embroidered ledger just as the double doors burst open. Prince Zaiden Leclair stormed in first, his New Edwardian jacket—charcoal wool with a tapered hem—billowing behind him like a hurricane. The wolf pendant at his throat caught the light, its garnet eyes glinting. Princess Cassis Voclain followed, her wyvern-leather belt creaking as she adjusted the silver-and-bone bracelet on her wrist. It pulsed faintly, its wyvern skull snarling at the office's buzz.
"Your Royal Highnesses!" Gretchen stammered, nearly upending a pot of judgmental rosemary. Her Farspeak quill trembled in its holster. "To what do we—?"
Seth Guilladot emerged from his office, rolling up shirtsleeves that clashed gloriously with his plum waistcoat. A phantom gryphon illusion—leftover courtroom theatrics—fizzled above his shoulder. "Well, well. Palace rats in the paperwork maze. Here to audit our muffin budget?"
Evelyn Laveau tripped out behind him, rainbow-striped swing dress swirling. A cursed quill dangled beside her, its tip still smoking from etching a loophole mid-air. "Ooh, is this a surprise dress code inspection? Because I've got receipts!" She brandished a parchment scribbled with Codex 12.7.3: Pastel Florals Permitted on Thursdays.
Zaiden ignored them, his Echohold scars flickering as Midas, his silver cat familiar, wound through his legs. "Where's Astris Doran?"
Gretchen's charm bracelet tinkled as she fumbled with her ledger. "She—she hasn't come in today, Your Highness. We assumed royal drafting duties—"
"And you didn't think to tell anyone?" Zaiden's voice sharpened, echoing the Spire's distant growl vibrating through the floorboards.
Evelyn tossed her auburn curls. "Relax, princeling. She was here yesterday arguing with Lord Veyne over Kaufmann's leviathan tariffs. Something about 'void ore discrepancies' and 'ethically dubious collateral.'" She mimed Astris's signature eyebrow raise.
Seth leaned against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, "We parted ways at dusk. She mentioned lamb stew."
Cassis stepped forward, her wyvern bracelet's pulse quickening. "Where was this meeting held?"
"The Merchant's Guild," Seth drawled, summoning an illusory map that shimmered above his palm. "Third quadrant."
Zaiden was already striding toward the exit. "I know it."
"Wait—what's this about?" Gretchen called, clutching a scone like a talisman. "Is Astris in trouble?"
But the group was already sweeping into the corridor, Cassis's leather soles padding a rhythm against the marble.
They nearly collided with Collan Doran at the stairwell. The commander leaned against a pillar, arms crossed over his military uniform. Stepping out, he blocked their path, his broad frame draped in a military uniform tailored to his hulking frame—charcoal wool with silver-threaded Glowmarks pulsing faintly on his vambraces. The scent of bitter coffee clung to him, steam curling from the chipped mug in his hand. His hazel eyes, sharp as a hawk's, flicked between the royal entourage.
"Bit far from your gilded cages, aren't you?" he drawled, though the usual mischief in his voice was edged with suspicion. The Glowmarks on his armor flared brighter as Zaiden shouldered past him.
"Move, Doran."
Vadim started to slide by his leather jacket smelling of salt and dungeon moss. "We're hunting a drafter."
Collan's grin froze. His mug clattered against the marble floor, coffee pooling like spilled ink. "Drafter?" He seized Vadim's arm, fingers digging into leather.
"What's it to you?"
Zaiden's hand landed on Collan's shoulder, Echohold scars flickering beneath his sleeve. "Come with us. We'll talk on the way."
Cassis watched silently, her wyvern bracelet humming as she parsed the tension. Collan's gaze raked over her silver-and-bone pendant, the Celestaviel sigil, but recognition didn't dawn—only a soldier's wariness.
"That is my sister you're talking about," Collan growled, releasing Vadim. A muscle twitched in his jaw, the Glowmarks on his vambraces stuttering like fractured stars.
Vadim shrugged, retrieving his dagger from its sheath. "Then stop posturing and help us find her."
The group surged down the stairwell, their footsteps echoing off walls lined with tapestries of wyvern battles. Collan fell into step beside Zaiden, his Glowmarks casting jagged shadows over the prince's wolf pendant. "Start talking, Leclair."
Zaiden's voice was clipped. "Astris vanished last night. Cassis's bracelet—"
"—only breaks if she's dead or collared," Collan finished, his tone flat. The corridor's mana-lamps flickered, their cerulean light catching the scar that split his eyebrow—a relic of a dungeon skirmish he'd once laughed off as "goblin graffiti."
Vadim watched the group's interaction, noting any nuances that might serve him later. Cassis eyed Collan's rigid posture, the way his thumb brushed the strategy cards at his belt—a tic she'd seen in paranoid generals.
"Why would royals care about a drafter?" Collan muttered, more to himself than anyone.
Zaiden's jaw tightened. "She's drafting a treaty critical to both kingdoms, our…. marriage contract. If she's compromised—"
"—the Spire destabilizes, blah, blah." Collan snorted. "Save the politics. Who took her?"
Vadim tilted his head. "Someone who knew about the bracelet. Which means someone close."
Collan's Glowmarks flared crimson. For a heartbeat, his facade cracked—guilt, raw and volcanic, flashed in his eyes. Then he smirked, punching Vadim's shoulder. "Guess we're hunting nobles today. Try to keep up."
As they spilled into the Lower Ward's labyrinthine streets, the Spire's shadow loomed overhead, its ancient stones weeping mana-storm residue. Collan's laughter rang too loud, too sharp, as he quipped about "drafters and dramatics," but his Glowmarks pulsed erratically, betraying the storm beneath.
Cassis watched him, her bracelet's wyvern skull glinting. A brother's fear, she realized, masquerading as bravado.
The Lower Ward's labyrinthine streets coiled around the group like a serpent's den, the Spire's shadow staining the cobblestones with veins of faintly glowing mana residue. Collan Doran walked ahead, his Glowmarks flickering erratically as passersby ducked into alleys or averted their eyes—peasants in grease-smeared denim, merchants hawking dungeon-forged trinkets, all silenced by the wolfish glint of Zaiden's pendant and Cassis's wyvern-leather belt. The air reeked of charred spices and the metallic tang of recent mana storms, the clatter of carts and bartering swallowed by the Spire's low, grinding growl.
Vadim Zizilivakan nudged Collan, nodding to a cluster of children scattering like rats. "They recognize royalty. We're about as subtle as a goblin in a ball-gown."
Collan cursed, halting beneath a flickering mana-lamp. Its cerulean light caught the scar along his jaw. "This isn't working. Turn back."
Zaiden's hand tightened on his dagger. "We're close—"
"Close to starting a riot," Collan snapped, gesturing to a blacksmith's apprentice frozen mid-swing, hammer raised as he gaped at Cassis. "You think anyone'll talk with Celestaviel's princess breathing down their necks? Or you, Your Highness?" His mockery dripped with venom.
Cassis tilted her head, her bracelet's wyvern skull glowing faintly. "And you'd have us cower in the palace while your sister's trail goes cold?"
"I'd have us not be fools." Collan's Glowmarks flared crimson, mirroring the frustration in his voice. "Lower Ward rats don't sing for crowns. They sing for coin—or threats."
Vadim's eyes shifted about, scanning the narrow spaces as gazing commoners recoiled. "He's got a point, princeling. Even songbirds know when to hush."
Zander Valin materialized from the shadows, his rockabilly vest blending with the gloom. "Split up. Royals take the rooftops. We'll handle the gutter talk."
Zaiden opened his mouth to protest when a voice cut through the din.
"Brother!"
Miles Doran emerged from the crowd, his cloak frayed at the hem and reeking of dungeon moss. A fey-forged compass dangled from his neck, its needle spinning lazily. His dark, shaggy hair was half-tamed by a leather cord, and a scar—jagged, like a lightning bolt—cut across his left cheekbone. A falcon swoops down from overhead before perching on a streetlamp, preening its feathers.
Collan's posture stiffened. "Miles. What brings you slumming?"
Miles shrugged, placing a hand on his hip, his cloak billowing slightly. "Thought I'd tempt Astris to dinner. Her apartment's…" He trailed off, noticing the tension. "What's wrong?"
Collan's jaw worked silently before he spat, "She's missing."
The falcon screeched. Miles's playful demeanor dissolved, his hand instinctively closing around the compass. "Since when?"
"Last night," Cassis said, stepping forward. Her wyvern bracelet hummed, its pulse syncing with the compass's sudden, frantic spin.
Miles muttered a mangled proverb—"Don't teach a skeleton to fish"—and snapped his fingers. The falcon took flight, circling overhead as he pressed the compass to his palm. Fey magic rippled across its surface, casting jagged shadows over the cobblestones. "She was here," he murmured, pointing to a tavern sign creaking in the wind: The Gilded Goose, its paint peeled to reveal rusted steel beneath. "Last night. Smells like… lamb stew?" He wrinkled his nose. "And voidbloom. Dungeon stench."
Zaiden moved toward the tavern, but Collan grabbed his arm. "You stay. They see that wolf pendant, and every witness'll vanish faster than a goblin in daylight." He turned to Miles. "You and me. We'll play mercenaries. Less… shiny."
Miles snorted, adjusting his cloak. "Mercenaries don't quote Codex clauses, Commander."
"Then shut up and follow my lead." Collan stripped off his Glowmarked vambraces, tossing them to Vadim. "And try not to butcher any more proverbs."
As the brothers melted into the crowd, Cassis watched them—Collan's rigid stride, Miles's loose-limbed prowl. The Spire's growl seeped into the Lower Ward like a fever, its vibrations rattling the rusted sign of The Gilded Goose. The tavern's mana-lit windows flickered, casting jagged shadows over the group huddled in the alley. Zaiden paced, his wolf pendant catching the sickly green glow of voidbloom spores drifting from the gutter. Cassis leaned against a crumbling brick wall, her wyvern bracelet humming a dissonant tune, while Vadim mythologically flipped a coin in the air, catching it repeatedly. Zander, ever the ghost, melted into the gloom, his rockabilly vest blending with the patina of decay.
Miles and Collan emerged from the tavern's rear door, the scent of stale ale and charred lamb clinging to their clothes. Miles tossed a silver blood pendant to Zaiden—a delicate thing etched with sphinx runes, its chain snapped clean. "Found it just outside the entrance," he said, wiping his hands on his dungeon-stained trousers. "Someone's idea of a souvenir."
Cassis snatched the pendant, her bracelet flaring as she traced the engravings. "Truth-detection pendant with sphinx blood. This doesn't just fall off."
Vadim's fingertips traced the hilt of his dagger, grinning. "So she was here. Progress, princeling. Now we just need to find out who left with more than a full belly."
Collan scowled, his Glowmarks pulsing faintly beneath rolled-up sleeves. "We need Cora. She'll wring answers from this trinket better than we can."
Zaiden's scarred hand tightened around the pendant. "Cora's at the barracks?"
"Where else?" Collan jerked his chin toward the Spire's silhouette, its jagged peak piercing the clouded sky. "She's been tracking dungeon surges near the eastern quarries. But if I tell her it's for Astris…" He trailed off, the unspoken — she'll come — hanging in the air like a threat.
Miles' cloak swayed as he shifted his weight. "Cora's clairvoyance comes with a side of sarcasm. Fair warning."