The council chamber was as it had always been — cold, formal, and infested with half-truths.

  Even after months at its head, Frances Elarion still had to remind herself to breathe the moment she stepped inside. The long table, the panelled walls, the quills and parchment, the overlapping voices — all of it conspired to make her feel like a guest at her own tribunal.

  Today was no different.

  Arguments bloomed and withered over tax reforms for the northern farms, water rights along the Thirel, and whether or not the customs rates for luxury imports should be adjusted “to better reflect the Duchy’s recent… changes.” That one came from Councilor Veran Dael, with a thin smile aimed directly at her.

  She didn’t rise to the bait. Not yet.

  Instead, she listened. More than that — she studied.

  One by one, she observed them. The way Councilor Vannor leaned forward a little too eagerly whenever coin was mentioned. How Avessa pretended to be bored until the word inspection came up. How Dael always paused before giving numbers, as if checking them not against records, but a personal scale of risk and gain. How Thalyra Velgrin kept her silence, eyes sharp as pins beneath her grey lashes.

  Behind them all, seated off to the side — not officially part of the council, as he would remind anyone who tried to suggest otherwise — sat Gale Dekarios.

  He hadn’t spoken at all during the first hour. Just leaned back in his chair, spinning an inkwell lid between his fingers with one hand, his other elbow resting lazily on the armrest.

  But Fran had known him long enough to recognize the signs.

  The narrowed eyes.

  The twitch at the corner of his mouth.

  The sharpening silence.

  He was growing irritated.

  So when two minor lords — old men with too many estates and too few manners — started squabbling over a shipment of wines diverted from the Ilvarra road, it was Gale who finally spoke.

  “Fascinating,” he said, voice crisp. “It’s been nearly five minutes and not one of you has managed to finish a sentence without correcting yourself.”

  The chamber fell briefly quiet.

  Gale smiled, polite as ever. “I wonder, Your Grace,” he said, turning to Frances with disarming calm, “what is your opinion on the proposed rerouting of trade through the eastern baronies?”

  She blinked once. He had given her the opening. Now she took it.

  Calmly — perhaps too calmly — Fran straightened her papers and began to speak.

  This time, she didn’t falter. She referenced the drought reports from the southern border. The recent congestion near the Ilvarra docks. The suspicious absence of any updated numbers from the eastern granaries. By the end of her brief assessment, the two quarrelling lords looked more baffled than insulted.

  As the council adjourned and chairs scraped back on stone, most members filtered out in their usual pairs and clusters, cloaked in murmurs and self-importance. Fran remained at the table, still seated, flipping through her papers with quiet precision. Gale took his time gathering his things — slower, as if distracted — then made his way toward the back of the chamber.

  He was nearly to the exit when a soft voice called to him.

  “Master Dekarios.”

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  He turned. Vannor was waiting near one of the tall windows, just out of earshot from the dais. The late afternoon sun cast long slats of light through the glass, gilding the folds of his deep violet cloak. Behind him stood a younger aide, carrying a leather scroll tube and a velvet-covered case.

  “I was wondering if I might have a moment of your time,” Vannor said.

  “Only one?” Gale replied, folding his notes. “I’m flattered.”

  A quiet chuckle. “Always sharp. Good — I like a man who values wit as much as wisdom.”

  He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice just enough to suggest discretion, not secrecy.

  “There’s a piece in my collection I’ve long thought might interest you. An artifact from the border isles. Old, unstable, but... fascinating. No records on it, of course. The sort of thing that never survives customs. But I thought — perhaps you'd care to see it?”

  Gale didn’t move, not quite yet.

  “Does the Duchess know you’re showing smuggled trinkets to her advisors?” he asked, lightly.

  Vannor’s smile didn’t falter. “Let’s not call it smuggling, Master Dekarios. Let’s call it… preservation. Some things are too beautiful to rot in vaults.”

  He extended a hand toward the velvet case in his aide’s arms — not offering it yet, just a promise.

  “I’m hosting a small dinner in two nights’ time. Nothing formal. A few colleagues. Good wine, better conversation. If you happen to be free... I’d be delighted to have you. And I’ll show you the piece.”

  There was a pause — long enough to feel like a hinge turning.

  Gale’s gaze slid to the velvet case, then back to Vannor’s eyes.

  “I’ll come,” he said. “If only to see whether it’s truly the artifact that’s fascinating — or just the hands holding it.”

  Vannor’s smile sharpened, but he said only, “Splendid. My man will send the address.”

  The aide stepped forward and passed a thick envelope into Gale’s hand — heavy paper, expensive wax, and a scent of something faintly spiced.

  When they left, Gale turned the envelope once in his fingers, then tucked it into his coat.

  He didn’t need to open it to know what it meant.

  The bait had been offered.

  And he had taken it.

  The council chamber emptied slowly, like a goblet of stale wine — all lingering sediment and too much aftertaste. Courtiers filed out, draped in velvet and smugness, still murmuring about tariffs and titles and which orchard now belonged to whom.

  Fran did not move.

  She stood just outside the carved wooden doors, her expression unreadable, save for the subtle tension along her jaw.

  Gale appeared at her side with all the subtlety of a summer breeze — too quiet, too calm, entirely aware of his timing.

  “Well,” he said, his voice pitched just for her, “I seem to have earned myself a dinner.”

  She glanced at him. “Was that a threat?”

  “No,” Gale replied, “but the host might be.”

  That earned him a sideways look. “Who?”

  “Lord Vannor. He extended the invitation himself. Said he wished to discuss a few matters in a more... relaxed setting.”

  “Ah.”

  The pause between them stretched.

  “Will you go?” Fran asked, eventually.

  “I think I’d be rude not to.”

  Another pause. Then, with dry composure: “If I’m not back by dawn, do try to avenge me.”

  She didn’t smile — not quite — but something near her mouth twitched.

  “If they poison you,” she said, “I’ll make them regret it.”

  He bowed his head slightly, then vanished into the crowd.

  She watched him go. Said nothing.

  And turned back toward the archive wing.

  The residence of Lord Vannor was as ostentatious as expected — a sprawling villa in the noble quarter of Vartis, all gilded edges and imported stone, where the lamps glowed too bright for any real shadows to survive.

  Gale arrived precisely on time, his coat crisp, his expression mild.

  He was greeted by a steward and led into a private dining salon. The room was all excess: velvet curtains, crystal goblets, a table groaning with rich foods no one would touch for the first hour.

  At its head, Lord Vannor stood waiting. Middle-aged, thickset, with a smile like oiled parchment.

  “Master Dekarios,” he said warmly. “What a pleasure.”

  “And a curiosity,” Gale returned, with equal poise.

  Vannor chuckled, motioned to a seat. “Please. Join us.”

  Gale noted the others in the room — three men and a woman. All nobles. All familiar from the council. And at the table, languidly sipping from a wineglass, sat Dalen Vos.

  Vos was already a few drinks in, cheeks flushed, eyes lingering far too long on the serving girl adjusting the wine tray.

  Gale took his seat, noting the precise curve of hospitality: too perfect. This was not a dinner. This was a presentation.

  Courses arrived — each more elaborate than the last. Wine flowed freely. Conversation drifted from arcane curiosities to border policy to the various ‘burdens’ of the ducal seat.

  “You must find it strange,” Vannor said casually, “serving someone so... new to the game.”

  Gale tilted his head. “I’ve always enjoyed puzzles.”

  Laughter. Too loud.

  “Puzzles,” said another noble, “can become very profitable, when solved.”

  A beat.

  Vos leaned forward, swaying slightly. “Dekarios. We should introduce you to Avessa Marnel. Bright woman. Very... invested in the Duchy’s future.”

  He laughed to himself. No one joined him.

  The girl poured more wine. Gale did not drink.

  Instead, he smiled — just enough to be polite, not enough to promise.

  They wanted something. Influence. Power. Access.

  And they were prepared to offer the world.

  All he had to do was say yes.