The carriage grinds to a halt, wheels biting into loose gravel, and for a moment nobody moves. The rain, which never really stopped, is a cold drill through the seams of Gai’s jacket. The horses are already steaming, their breaths pale in the lanternlight, and every man in the escort—their number has doubled since the palace—moves with the silent, twitchy obedience of soldiers waiting for a shot that never comes.

  The street outside is not the main thoroughfare, but a cut-through behind the west wharf, the sort of place that never saw a cab or a councilman before now. The air stinks of river mud and spilled ale, but someone’s made an effort: the door to the tavern is flanked by burning braziers, and a runner with a royal armband stands under the awning, ready to hustle the party inside.

  The tavern is wrong in small, immediate ways. Every surface has been scrubbed raw, every window heavy with drapery, every scrap of wood polished to a sticky sheen. Heat hangs in the air—too even, too carefully kept. Each table is set for four, identical down to the steaming jugs and platters stacked with bread, cheese, and spiced sausage. The noise never quite rises above a murmur, boots shifting, mugs clinking softly. And the crowd does not match the room: not dockhands or barmaids, but fully armoured city guards, a few house staff Gai half-recognizes, and several sharp-eyed, too-clean men who look as though they have not laughed in years.

  The moment Elle steps through the door, the whole place hushes. It’s not the silence of deference, not really. More the tight inhale of a room waiting to see if the last rumour was true.

  The staff runner meets them at the threshold, eyes flickering over Elle, Gai, then Raimondis. His bow is deep, but not quite low enough for a princess. “Highness,” he says, and to Gai’s shock, his voice is rough, provincial. “You’ll be in the private room. This way, please.”

  Elle follows, chin up but not seeing anyone. She walks as if she’s somewhere else entirely, a ghost in her own body, and the set of her shoulders dares anyone to remind her she’s alive. Gai falls in behind her, and Raimondis takes up the rear, silent but so keyed up he vibrates in the corner of Gai’s vision.

  The runner steers them to the back of the tavern, through a narrow hall lined with wool tapestries—bad imitations of the palace’s own, but new enough to still stink of dye. The private room is a repurposed parlour: wide enough for six, a round table in the middle, a hearth blazing with fresh logs, and a trio of high-backed chairs pulled close to the flames. There’s no view, no window at all, just four walls and a single, low door. The illusion of comfort is perfect, except for the pair of guards posted right outside, and the slot cut into the door’s centre “for safety.”

  Inside, the air is thick with heat and the sweetness of overripe fruits. The table is already set for a meal, the plates covered with heavy ceramic domes. There are three chairs, and Gai knows without looking that every other seat in the building has been claimed or removed. There’s a chessboard in the corner, the pieces mid-game, as if someone got up in a hurry and left them locked in combat.

  Elle moves to the hearth, hands pressed to the brick, eyes fixed on the flames. She doesn’t sit. Gai hesitates, unsure what’s expected, so he waits by the table, arms crossed tight against his chest. Raimondis circles the perimetre, all nerves and hard angles, eyes never resting for more than a second on any object or person.

  The runner bows again, deeper this time, and sets a folded note on the table. “Orders from the General,” he says. He looks at Elle, then at Gai, then back to the floor. “No visitors. No communication with the outside, until further notice. You may ring for whatever you require—food, fire, fresh linens.” His voice softens, just a hair. “We are sorry for your loss, Highness.”

  The runner bows out, closing the door with a snick. The noise outside is barely a whisper; the walls are either thicker than they look, or some sort of ward is eating the sound. Gai wonders if they’re being watched, or if the entire room is designed for that single purpose.

  For a long minute, nobody says a word.

  Elle doesn’t leave the fire. Her shoulders shake, once, then lock up so tight Gai wonders if she’ll shatter. He wants to say something, anything, but the words pile up and die before they reach his lips.

  Raimondis is the first to move. He paces the length of the room, once, twice, then stops behind Elle, but far enough back that he could intervene if anyone tried to reach her. The effect is more bodyguard than friend, and Gai clocks the message at once: no one gets close unless the blond says so.

  He decides to sit. The chair is heavy, overstuffed, and low enough that it makes him feel like a child in a grown-up’s court. The bracers on his wrists are hot against his skin, the blue lines now faded to near nothing. He sets his hands on the table, palms down, and tries to breathe slow and even.

  Elle turns, at last, and faces the room. Her eyes are raw, and the skin around them is still smeared black from the library, but her mouth is set and steady.

  “We’re not to be separated,” she says, voice hoarse. “Not even for sleep.” She glances at Gai, then at Raimondis, then back to the hearth, as if the fire might answer. “It’s a safety protocol, but also—” She doesn’t finish the thought.

  Gai wants to ask Elle if she’s alright, but it feels like the wrong question—so far past useless he can’t bring himself to insult her with it.

  Instead: “Did you know Sheh’zar was dead?” The words come out blunt, but at least honest.

  Elle’s jaw trembles, once, and Gai wishes he could take it back. “I guessed when I saw the blast pattern. She always stood between the library and the suite. It was…” Her voice thins, then resolves. “It was how she wanted to go, I think. Defending her charge. She lived by protocol.”

  Raimondis doesn’t scoff, but he shifts his weight, arms folded so tightly his knuckles blanch. “The Princess was never the target. They waited until she was gone because they needed the ground clear. Whatever they were there for, it wasn’t her—and it wasn’t Sheh’zar.”

  Gai wants to tell him he’s wrong, but the memory of the alley attack, the way the hooded woman taunted and tormented before moving in for the kill, silences him.

  He says: “Who do you think did it?”

  Raimondis doesn’t hesitate. “Northern agents, or a traitor from the palace. Maybe both. The new General is a threat to every old scheme in the city, and the Princess is a coin that can buy a dozen futures. I’d look to the court, not the gutter.” He levels a glare at Gai, the implication sharp as a knife: You, of all people, should know how power works.

  Elle interrupts, gentle but final. “No more tonight. Please.” Her hands rub at her forearms, seeking warmth the fire can’t give. “We have to last until sunrise. After that—” She lets the rest dangle.

  Gai stands, unsure whether to move toward her or give her space. He settles for standing between her and the table, hands loose at his sides.

  “Do you want food?” he asks. “Or water?”

  She shakes her head, eyes distant. “I don’t think I could keep it down.”

  Gai looks to Raimondis, who shrugs, then slides into the seat closest to the door, always the sentinel. “You might as well eat, squid. I’ll take first shift.”

  Gai peels back the ceramic dome covering his plate. The smell is heavenly, but the sight of the food—roast duck in honey, root vegetables glazed and stacked—makes his stomach roll. He forces a bite, then another, more out of obligation than hunger. The food is as good as any he’s ever tasted, but it could be sand for all the joy it brings.

  He watches Elle, her profile carved by firelight. She stares into the flames, unmoving, the blue book still clutched to her side. Her whole body is a study in holding still: if she moves, the spell might break and the world could end.

  The hour crawls by. Nobody talks. Occasionally, the crack of a log or the pop of a coal breaks the silence, but otherwise it’s just breathing and the slow, endless churn of the mind.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  A maid appears once, eyes wide and round as coins, bringing more water and a fresh pile of towels. She doesn’t look at anyone, doesn’t linger. Elle thanks her with a voice so soft it seems to echo, and the girl flees as if she’d been burned.

  When sleep comes, it does so by force. Gai’s eyes grow heavy, and he lets himself drift, head cradled in his arms at the table. He can feel Elle’s presence at the hearth, and Raimondis’s fixed, suspicious stare, but these are constants now, the new poles of his universe.

  The last thing he hears before the black is the sound of a poker scraping coals, and the soft click of a lock engaging from the outside.

  Gai wakes to the kind of cold that only exists indoors—manufactured, thorough, meant to flush out the residue of smoke and nightmare. There’s no light at first, just the pressure of a wool blanket against his face and the memory of the last twenty-four hours pressing into his skull like a spike. He blinks, sits up, and registers the shift: he’s still at the round table, slumped over an armful of papers and the congealed remains of last night’s dinner. Someone’s draped a second cloak over his shoulders, probably Elle, though it could just as easily be the cleaning staff.

  He’s not alone. The first sound he hears is a scraping, rhythmic and sharp: a knife moving over wood, over and over, as if someone is trying to carve the table down to nothing. Raimondis sits across the room, one boot propped on the low window ledge, a paring knife in hand and a pile of apple peels curling from the blade to the floor. The blond’s face is a sculpture of patience, eyes half-lidded, but every muscle is primed as if waiting for something to go off.

  Elle is nowhere in sight, but her presence hovers: the faintest tang of her perfume, a damp towel on the rack by the fire, a trail of white-blonde hair on the collar of Gai’s borrowed cloak.

  It’s early, too early for most of the city to be awake, but the walls of the tavern throb with the pulse of activity. Gai can hear staff setting up for breakfast, the measured tramp of guards changing shift, and—through the walls—what sounds like a wagon unloading kegs and sacks onto the back steps.

  The fire is already lit, though the logs are black and slow-burning, more for show than for heat. Someone has swept the table clean except for the chessboard, now reset to starting position. Gai sits back, lets his fingers trace the edge of the board, and tries to decide if it’s a threat, a challenge, or just the staff’s idea of hospitality.

  He doesn’t have long to wonder. The door clicks open and a woman in house livery steps through: not one of the old palace maids, but a stranger—tall, rawboned, with hands that look like they’ve never been soft. She carries a tray piled with bread, cheese, and a carafe of what might be tea or coffee, sets it on the table, and bows with a stiffness that is more wariness than deference.

  “Breakfast,” she says. “Compliments of the General. Lady Elle will be along directly.”

  Raimondis glances toward the door, then back at Gai. “You’ve been out longer than you think. The General has kept Lady Elle with him for the past hour or so, and she was due for her ablutions afterward. This”—he inclines his head toward the tray—“is what passes for consideration.”

  The woman ignores him, but her eyes slide to Gai and rest there a second longer than necessary. “If you want more, ring the bell. Otherwise, we’re to disturb you only for emergencies.”

  Gai nods, but she’s already gone, closing the door behind her with the same careful motion as before.

  He helps himself to a crust of bread, chews in silence, and watches the apple peels grow. “Sheh’zar would have had the day already laid out,” he says, mostly to the air. “Briefings stacked, appointments shifted, no allowances made—injured or not.”

  Raimondis stops mid-slice. “Sheh’zar isn’t here,” he says. His voice is even, but there’s a catch in it, just at the end.

  Gai wonders if he should offer something—condolence, or maybe a memory. Instead, he just says, “Sorry.”

  The blond shrugs. “Save it. We’re all replaceable.”

  He’s halfway through the carafe of tea before Elle enters, the staff woman in tow. Elle’s hair is wet, slicked back in a severe knot, and she’s changed into a fresh robe—same deep blue, but this one heavier, stitched with a pattern of stormclouds that would look ridiculous on anyone but her. She’s awake, but not present: her eyes move over the room like she’s reading every flaw in the plaster, every crack in the table.

  The staff woman walks ahead, places a new log on the fire, then stands aside, waiting for orders. Elle doesn’t give any. She drifts to the table, sits with an elegance so automatic it’s almost a reflex, and begins sorting through a stack of papers and books that weren’t there last night.

  Raimondis watches her, but says nothing. He’s shifted his chair so that he can see both the door and Elle, and Gai gets the impression that if anyone even looked like trouble, the blond would have a knife in their neck before they could finish their first sentence.

  Elle’s first words are not directed at either of them. “Can we trust her?” She nods at the staff woman, who stands at parade rest just inside the door.

  Raimondis answers. “She was in the kitchens the night it happened. Vouched for by Maric himself. If she’s a spy, she’s the world’s worst.”

  Elle nods, just once, and turns to the woman. “Thank you. That will be all.” Her voice is soft, but there’s a layer of steel under it.

  The woman bows—deeper this time—and vanishes, closing the door with the same soundless control as before.

  Only then does Elle look at Gai. “You sleep?”

  “Like a dead man,” he says, because anything else would be a lie.

  She almost smiles. It’s the closest she gets to warmth all morning. “You have that look,” she says, “like you expect an ambush every time you put a bite in your mouth.”

  He shrugs. “Old habits.” He glances at Raimondis, then at the closed door, then back at Elle. “What’s the plan?”

  Raimondis answers, again. “We wait for the General’s word. Nobody in or out until then. Our turn with him comes when it comes—until then, we remain.”

  Elle rubs her hands over her face. “Gods, I hate waiting.” Her fingers linger on her cheekbones, pressing until the skin blanches.

  She sets about unpacking her case—if it can be called that. Every movement is precise, as though she’s counting the seconds between each item: a stack of letters, a pocketwatch, a thin-bladed letter opener, a gold-and-glass box with a single blue feather inside. She lays them out in a grid on the table, her eyes tracking every line and angle, making a map of her own displacement.

  Gai wants to help, or at least to be near, but the thought of standing over her while she’s this brittle feels wrong. Instead, he pours tea for the table, slides a cup to her side, and sits back down.

  After a while, Elle stands, fetches a towel, and begins to dry the inside of each tea cup, one by one, even though Gai’s already poured. She takes particular care with hers, running the cloth around the rim until it shines.

  The blond can’t take it any longer. “You’re making us crazy,” Raimondis says, knife clattering on the table. “You want to pretend everything’s fine, but it’s not. We all saw what happened yesterday. You can’t fix it by making everything neat.”

  Elle looks at him, and for the first time that day, there’s a pulse of actual anger in her face. “What would you have me do, Raimondis?” She gestures at the chessboard, the stack of letters, the grid of objects.

  The silence after is sharper than any insult. Raimondis picks up the knife and starts peeling another apple, slower this time. “You trust him?” he says, nodding at Gai.

  Elle doesn’t blink. “With my life.”

  Raimondis stares at her for a full beat. Then, at Gai: “Not sure if I envy you, or pity you, squid.”

  Gai smiles, just to show he still can. “You can do both.”

  A soft knock at the door. The staff woman again, this time carrying a folded note.

  “From the General,” she says. She sets it down on the table, bows, and waits.

  Elle picks up the note and reads, lips moving just enough for Gai to guess she’s sounding out every word. She hands it to him when she’s done.

  He reads:

  To my son,

  Meet me in the study.

  Come alone.

  The signature is a glyph, sharp and angular, but the intent is clear.

  Elle looks at him, steady and level. “Be careful,” she says.

  He stands, tugs the sleeves of his coat down to hide the bracers, and heads for the door.

  As he passes the staff woman, she meets his eyes. “They’re watching you,” she says, voice low.

  Gai nods, then steps into the hallway, the warmth of the fire trailing after him like a leash. He walks the short hall to the study, boots whispering on the thick new rug. At the end, a pair of guards in royal blue nods him through with no challenge, and the door swings shut behind him with the softest of clicks.

  Lionel stands behind the desk, hands braced on the battered oak, gaze fixed on a single spot on the wall as if trying to burn a hole through it. The study is all precision: maps lined edge to edge, ink bottles capped and squared, a dozen pens in a row as sharp as scalpels. On a side table, a decanter of something that glows amber even in the watery morning light. No glass poured, though. Just the bottle and a pair of heavy cups, waiting.

  He turns when Gai enters, but not all the way, as if he’s still calibrating the difference between visitor and intruder.

  “Sit,” Lionel says, voice as rough as gravel but pitched low. He gestures to a chair on the far side of the desk, a battered thing with upholstery long since given up. Gai sits, feeling the chill of the wood seep through his uniform.

  Lionel doesn’t bother with preamble. “We’re safe for now, but that will last only as long as the city’s spine does. Which—” a grimace, “—may not be long.” He picks up a pen, twirls it, sets it down again. “The attack was surgical. The aim was to break morale, not just kill.”

  Gai waits, unsure if this is meant for him or if Lionel’s just thinking out loud.

  Lionel glances at him, eyes sharper than the rest of his face. “You performed well in the arena,” he said. “You won.”

  Gai shrugs. “It was a show fight. Mack went easy on me.”

  A slow shake of the head. “Not what I saw.” Lionel allows himself the ghost of a smile. He leans forward, elbows creaking the wood. “You’ve made a mark, Gai. That is both good and dangerous.”

  Gai wants to joke, to say something about finally being noticed for the right reasons, but the words taste bitter in his mouth. He looks past Lionel, to the wall of blueprints and battle plans, the life his father built from ashes. “You wanted to see me?”

  Lionel holds the gaze for a long second, then shifts to the practical. “You’re here because you’ve become valuable. Not just to me.” He gestures at the bracers, half-visible at Gai’s sleeves. “They’ll start wondering why you’re still breathing. You’ve made enemies just by surviving.”

  Gai feels the weight of it, the way his own story has slipped out of his control. “What happens now?”

  The General finally sits, folding his hands in front of him. The posture is relaxed, almost casual, but Gai can see the tension in the corded muscles of his forearms. “Now, you do nothing. You watch, you listen, and above all, you don’t draw attention unless I ask for it.” He fixes Gai with a look that would strip paint. “You remember what I taught you about hiding in plain sight?”

  Gai nods, automatic.

  Lionel’s voice is gentler than Gai expects. “Good. It may be the only thing that keeps you alive until this is finished.”

  They let the silence hang, the only sound the slow burn of logs in the study’s grate. Lionel pours two fingers of the amber liquid into a cup, then slides it to Gai. “It will burn,” he warns.

  Gai takes a sip. It’s like swallowing a live wire, but the warmth spreads quick, tamping down the residual tremor in his hands.

  Lionel drinks, then sets the cup down with a click. “Did you see anything? Anything at all that might help us track who did this?”

  Gai remembers the blast, the taste of char in the air, the way the shadow-magic felt like a thumb pressed into the world’s eye. “It was the same as before,” he says. “Like in Old Town. Same dark power, same… feeling.”

  Lionel’s face goes flat. “Animatrix?”

  Gai nods, his voice barely a whisper. “The Animatrix is Myrkenna, Father. Zephyrian’s apprentice. I’m sure of it.”

  Lionel closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them, the look is pure calculation. “Thank you. That’s all I needed.”

  Gai stands, half-expecting to be dismissed, but Lionel’s hand catches his wrist as he passes. The grip is iron, but the touch gentle.

  “You did good,” Lionel says, and for a second, he’s just a father again, not a legend, not a wall between Gai and the world. “Better than I ever hoped.”

  Gai doesn’t know what to do with the words. He nods, and Lionel lets go, the moment folding away as quickly as it came.

  “Stay sharp, son.”

  Gai slips out, the taste of the liquor still sparking on his tongue.

  The corridor is empty, the guards at the end standing just as before. The world outside the study is unchanged, but the air feels heavier, like the whole building is waiting for a verdict that might never come.

  He heads back toward the private room, mind already spinning with what to tell Elle and what to keep to himself. Behind the study door, he hears the scrape of a chair, the scratch of a quill on parchment, the quiet, lonely labor of a man who can’t afford to show fear—even when it’s stalking his own blood.