Weeks had passed since the crate with the red seal slipped ashore at the eastern docks of Vartis, unnoticed by any official record. In that time, the city's gossip had grown more fragrant than its spring blossoms.

  Master Dekarios had been seen at three dinners and one garden luncheon, had accepted two fine rings and a miniature portrait of the host’s daughter — all without protest. The rings now sat in a velvet pouch beneath a loose floorboard in the west tower. The portrait had been used to prop open a drafty window.

  Meanwhile, Her Grace received reports from Sheriff Vendess like clockwork: terse, efficient, and precise. Names repeated. Crates vanished. And certain members of the ducal council were mentioned far too often to be innocent.

  Now, as the air in Vartis turned warm and green things crept up stone walls again, the council convened beneath the painted ceiling of the western chamber. Outside, the birds called. Inside, the knives gleamed.

  The chamber buzzed with careful conversation — the kind sharpened by wine and suspicion. Silver clinked against ceramic; someone stirred tea too loudly. Fran sat in the high-backed chair carved with ivy and stags — Alric’s old seat, though she’d had the velvet replaced.

  She wore no jewels, no diadem. Just a muted gown of slate grey with a charcoal sash, and the signet ring. It was enough.

  Across the table, Vannor poured himself another cup of wine and gave Gale a slow, deliberate smile.

  “I confess,” Vannor said, lifting the cup, “we’ve grown quite fond of Master Dekarios. A sharper mind than most of us put together. And far easier on the eyes.”

  Chuckles rippled through the chamber. Vos leaned forward, already pink from drink.

  “Oh, come now, it’s not his eyes we admire.” He grinned, crooked and pleased with himself. “It’s what happens when he whispers into hers.”

  Silence spread like a stain.

  Thalyra Velgrin blinked and turned a page in her ledger. Rhyve coughed, a short, dry sound. Avessa Marnel’s lips curved faintly but offered no words.

  Fran’s expression didn’t shift. She reached for a sealed letter, opened it, and began to read — as if Vos hadn’t spoken at all.

  Behind her, Gale raised one brow — not insulted, but mildly amused, as if filing the moment away.

  “Lord Vos,” Fran said, eyes still on the letter, “I do hope your tongue is not your most useful asset in council. It would explain the lack of meaningful contributions.”

  A few throats cleared. Someone coughed. Vannor laughed under his breath, while Vos stared into his wine with a too-wide smile.

  A breeze stirred the open windows. A gull cried in the distance. Spring was here, and nothing could be hidden for long.

  Fran folded the letter shut. “Now. About the discrepancy in the Ilvarra customs report. Master Dekarios, you had thoughts?”

  Gale stepped forward. “I did, Your Grace. It seems the manifests for four river barges differ significantly between the recorded weights and the toll paid. Either someone’s found a way to make riverwood lighter, or—”

  “Or someone is paying the wrong people,” she finished.

  “Quite.”

  She didn’t look at him, but a small smile touched her mouth.

  Vos said nothing for the rest of the meeting.

  The stone corridor beyond the council chamber was quiet, steeped in sunlight and shadows. Dust motes danced in the air. From somewhere outside came the distant clang of forge-work, the flutter of pigeons, a child’s laughter far too innocent for politics.

  Fran walked without urgency, but each step was precise. She didn’t look back.

  But the footsteps caught up.

  “Master Dekarios,” she said calmly.

  “Your Grace.” Gale’s voice held a thread of mischief. “I come bearing news.”

  “Is it another crate of wine with Vos’s seal on it?”

  “Not this time. Just a compliment. From Vos himself. Apparently I’m yours.”

  “Only Vos would confuse competence with possession.”

  “He’s not alone. They used to call me your lapdog.” He offered a lopsided smile. “Now that I’ve taken their bribes, they think I’m theirs.”

  Fran exhaled through her nose. “Poor things. No wonder they drink so early.”

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  They turned a corner, the corridor widening toward the gallery. Vines of jasmine curled over the arches outside, their scent drifting in — clean, sharp, green. The city was breathing again after the long cold.

  Gale walked beside her now, pace matched, hands behind his back. He glanced sidelong at her.

  “You handled them well.”

  “I tolerated them,” she replied. “With a knife under the table.”

  “And that,” he murmured, “is why they’re terrified of you.”

  “No,” Fran said, pausing just before the next turn. “That’s why they pretend not to be.”

  Their eyes met — a flicker longer than it needed to be.

  A breeze stirred the hem of her gown, brushing against his hand. Gale didn’t pull away. She didn’t apologize.

  They walked on together in silence. Then: “You know,” he said, tone low, “if I truly were your lapdog…”

  She didn’t glance at him. “You’d be far better trained.”

  “…and far more spoiled.”

  “Mm. But not fat. I’d have you exercised.”

  “Daily, I hope.”

  “Twice,” she said, turning briskly down the next corridor. “And no treats unless earned.”

  He smiled — not his usual one. And this time, she saw it.

  The docks didn’t sleep — they only whispered lower after dark.

  Sheriff Tarl Vendess had learned that years ago. He moved without haste, oil lamp in hand, his boots scuffing the edges of puddles that glistened like molten tin. No uniform. No badge. Just an old cloak, a knife in his belt, and a good sense of where not to step.

  Two guards trailed behind at a respectful distance. Trusted ones. Young, but sharp-eyed.

  They passed a narrow wharf where crates were stacked two high and roped down like sleeping beasts. At the end of the plank, a man leaned over a parchment, scribbling with his thumb instead of ink. No dockmaster seal on the manifest. No badge on the arm. Just a too-clean ledger, a name scratched hastily across the top:

  Marnel.

  Vendess slowed. Not enough to raise suspicion — just enough to let the breeze carry the sound to him. That name again. On a barge supposedly bound for Velarith, carrying nothing but grain… and guarded by men who looked like they’d never lifted a sack in their lives.

  He watched the dockhands offload a second crate, smaller, marked with no trade symbol. One of the guards offered coin in exchange for silence — but the dockhand didn’t ask for it.

  That was the thing. The silence was already paid for.

  Vendess moved on. By the time he reached the lantern-lit steps near the Tiler’s Guild, he had the words arranged in his mind.

  Later that night, in his modest office above the City Watch, Vendess sat at his desk with his boots off and his knees aching. The chair creaked. He took out the wax, sealed the parchment, and wrote on the back in plain hand:

  For the Duchess alone. No copies made.

  — T.V.

  The door creaked as Fran stepped into the west tower chamber.

  It wasn’t a guest room. It had never been meant for anyone important. The steward had offered it the morning Gale arrived in Vartis, assuming he’d leave within hours. She hadn’t corrected him. And Gale, for reasons never stated, had simply stayed.

  The room was narrow, stone-walled, and always cold. One crooked window overlooked the valley; the other faced the palace grounds. A bed was pushed against the far wall, blankets layered in stiff folds. A writing desk sat under the window, sagging beneath tomes, parchment, and half-filled inkwells. The fire had long since surrendered, but the lamp still burned.

  It was not a place for comfort. And yet, it had become his.

  He didn’t look up when she entered. He was standing by the desk, fingers stained with ink, coat hung over the back of the chair, sleeves rolled halfway. The sharp lines of his concentration softened only slightly when she closed the door behind her.

  “I should be insulted you never invited me,” she murmured, glancing around. “You’ve been hiding the true heart of the palace all along.”

  He reached for a scroll. “It was locked. For your protection.”

  “Generous.”

  A smirk ghosted across his mouth, but he didn’t look up.

  She walked slowly toward the desk, eyes grazing the clutter. “You do know there are better rooms. Warmer ones. Ones with actual beds.”

  He shrugged. “This one has character. And no upholstery. Less risk of spontaneous fire.”

  “Of course.”

  She leaned against the edge of the desk, close enough to read the open documents.

  “These are new,” she said.

  He nodded. “Vendess’ report came in this morning. Two more of Avessa’s barges altered their cargo manifests mid-transit. No cause given. No inspection logs. The ports just waved them through.”

  She frowned. “Why?”

  “According to the Watch, someone’s been bribing the inspectors directly. But the bribes aren’t being handed over in Vartis.” He tapped a map beside the report. “They’re making the payments further upriver. Away from our eyes.”

  “And yet the money passes through here.”

  “Not just money,” he said. “People. There's a ledger from last spring — a merchant registered under a false name booked river passage to Candlekeep twice in two months. I traced the name. It matches someone reported dead five years ago. In the Eastern Barony.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “So they’re smuggling people out as well.”

  He met her gaze. “Or moving them into place.”

  Silence fell between them. The lamp hissed quietly. A paper shifted in the draft.

  Fran spoke first. “Any news from Vos?”

  “He sent a bottle of mead and a compliment about my diction.”

  She raised a brow. “How thoughtful.”

  “I haven’t dared taste it. Might be poisoned. Or worse — laced with flattery.”

  She chuckled — briefly. Then her gaze returned to the documents.

  “You're doing well,” she said. “They trust you.”

  He smiled, faintly. “That’s what concerns me.”

  Another silence passed, lighter this time. Then she tilted her head and gave him a curious look.

  “Do you ever think about it?”

  He glanced up. “About what?”

  “Orveil.”

  He blinked, then laughed once. “Which part? The dance, the public disgrace, or the hair brushing?”

  “You forgot the part where we slept together, fully clothed, on top of the covers.”

  “Oh, that part.”

  She gave a half-shrug. “It was a simpler time.”

  “We were pretending to fall in love,” he said dryly. “Now we’re pretending not to know who’s bribing who while counting dead men with false names.”

  “Romantic,” she said.

  He stepped closer, folding his arms. “I still have the coat from that night.”

  She looked at him. “I still have the comb.”

  A beat passed. Not quite laughter — not quite silence.

  Then she softened. “They still think you’re my weakness.”

  He said nothing.

  “But you’re not,” she added.

  Still, he said nothing.

  “You’re the one I trust to see this through.”

  The admission hung in the room, quiet and bare.

  Then, gently — not teasing, not sharp — he said: “Be careful, Fran.”

  The name landed between them like a dropped stone in still water.

  She heard it. Of course she did.

  She didn’t speak.

  But she lingered a moment too long, brushing her fingers lightly along the table as she stepped back. She took the papers, folded them precisely, and moved to the door.

  She paused at the threshold.

  “Goodnight, Gale.”

  And then she left.

  He stood still in the cold, silent tower. The door clicked shut. The lamp flickered.

  And softly — to no one at all — he said: “Goodnight, Fran.”