The clatter of shoes on polished stone was muffled by thick carpets and heavy curtains, but Silja still walked quickly, tray in hand, letters tucked neatly beneath the folded napkin. Breakfast delivery wasn’t usually her job, but when both a royal seal and a Kentarian crest arrived within the same hour — one envelope heavy with wax and weight, the other lighter but no less ominous — the steward had called for someone “trustworthy.”

  Which, naturally, meant her.

  And since it was nearly breakfast time — and the West Tower’s sole current occupants had certain... habits — she had been dispatched with the tray, the documents, and the unspoken hope that she wouldn’t be forced to avert her eyes too quickly.

  The walk to the tower was long enough to overhear a few things, as always. Palace life never lacked for whispers.

  Two laundry girls huddled near a window were giggling about the rings again — the ones that had appeared like magic (which, with that man, was probably not even a figure of speech) on the Duchess and her advisor’s left hands. Same finger. Same timing. One silver, one silver with a sapphire. No explanation. No announcement. Just… there.

  “Maybe it’s for the ceremony,” one girl whispered.

  “What ceremony?”

  “You know, that ceremony. The one they won’t admit to. Winter’s a strange season for weddings, isn’t it?”

  “Do you think she made him swear on the cats?”

  Silja passed them with the dignified silence of someone who had seen enough to understand the correct amount of gossip — and that two letters and a breakfast tray might soon feed more of it.

  The next corridor was worse.

  “...and I swear, the advisor jumped behind the chair like a squirrel,” one of the stewards said, laughing with a footman. “Just stood there, bare as the day he was born, trying to hide himself with a map of the duchy!”

  Silja kept walking.

  She reached the base of the West Tower stairs, balancing the tray on one hand as she opened the narrow door with her elbow. The handle clicked. The air inside was cooler — quieter, older. Stone walls and spiral steps had seen centuries of secrets, and probably more than one disgraced noble clattering down them in the dark.

  By the time she reached the upper level, she paused outside the door. Listened.

  No broken glass. No creaking mattress. No yowling cats — a good sign, since the smaller one had developed a habit of knocking over ink pots for fun.

  And no silence, either.

  Voices — calm ones.

  Silja exhaled, knocked twice, and entered at the sound of the Duchess’s familiar “Come in.”

  The chamber was well-lit, sunlight spilling across a low table cluttered with scrolls, teacups, and a single white lily in a cracked ceramic vase. The bed was a disaster — typical — but at least both occupants were dressed.

  More or less.

  Her Grace sat on a stool near the window, sleeves rolled up, a ribbon between her lips as she absent-mindedly braided her own hair. The advisor — him — was perched nearby, trying to persuade a sullen ginger cat to relinquish a stolen quill with promises of a future involving trout and eternal praise.

  Silja curtsied, set the tray down, and cleared her throat.

  “Letters, Your Grace. One from Velarith. One from Kentar.”

  Fran removed the ribbon from her mouth, tying off the braid. “How lovely,” she said drily. “Two bundles of joy before breakfast.”

  Gale stood, the cat still clamped to his forearm like a small and furry gauntlet. “They don’t even have the decency to let her eat first,” he said, looking at the letters like a dog looks at rain.

  Silja said nothing — just smiled.

  She’d leave the tray there, as instructed. Eggs, cheese, honey, bread, and fruit — enough for one, officially. Enough for two, realistically. The third serving had been silently dropped from the routine once it became clear the cats would not be invited to share anything warm or edible.

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  As she turned to go, she caught one last snippet of their conversation.

  “...and I’m still telling you: a winter ceremony is madness,” Gale was saying. “Flowers wilt. Guests freeze. Mages sulk.”

  “Mages sulk no matter the season,” Fran replied.

  “True, but in winter they do it with cold feet and ruined curls.”

  Silja closed the door behind her, biting her lip to keep from laughing aloud.

  Then she hurried back down the stairs, tray empty, gossip full, ready to let the others know: no one had died, no one was naked, and the Duchess still smiled when the mage made her laugh.

  All was, for now, suspiciously well.

  By the time Silja’s footsteps faded beyond the spiral stairs, the west tower was already filled with warm morning light and the faint smell of butter and citrus peel. Fran had not touched the bread yet. Gale, seated with one leg hooked around the arm of the chair in a posture wholly unbefitting a councillor, had already devoured half the cheese.

  He reached for a slice of dried pear, then paused as Fran broke the seal on the heavier of the two letters.

  The wax crumbled in flakes onto the table. The parchment beneath was crisp, the script severe and unmistakably royal — stamped with the weight of Velarith’s courts.

  Fran read in silence. Her eyes narrowed.

  Gale waited. He had seen that particular tension in her jaw often enough to guess the tone of the contents: not tragic, but not good either.

  “Well?” he asked, when she didn’t speak.

  She passed the first page across.

  The court’s formal tone was familiar by now — paragraphs layered in hedging legalese that seemed to apologise for existing while also threatening half the kingdom.

  “…Considering the evidence gathered and confirmed during the hearings held at Vartis in the presence of appointed magistrates, and following the Royal Decree of the 14th day of Bloomingfall 866, the court finds Vos Harnen guilty of sedition, corruption, and conspiracy to defraud the Ducal Authority. Sentence: twenty years confinement in the mines of Halvenreach, forfeiture of title and estate, and permanent disbarment from public office...”

  Another page followed. Then another.

  “Vannor Desim: guilty of conspiracy, extortion, obstruction of ducal inquiries, and contempt of court. Sentence: fifteen years hard labour at Highfort Bastion, loss of noble privileges, assets to be seized by the state…”

  And then:

  “Avessa Marnel: guilty of corruption, treason, and conspiracy against the Ducal Authority of Foher, with additional charges under Article XVII of the Royal Arcane Edict for unauthorized portal creation within ducal lands. Sentence: thirty years in Velarith’s central penitentiary, under continuous arcane restraint. Expulsion from the Velmoran Society of Arcane Sciences. Magical license permanently revoked…”

  Gale winced. “They didn’t hold back.”

  “They never do. Not when they want to send a message.” Fran frowned, flipping through the appended transcripts. “Listen to this: ‘Our operation began with trade opportunities from the east. Kentar had needs; we had influence. Everything else followed naturally.’”

  Gale reached for the next sheet, scanning quickly. “Vos says the same. So does Vannor. ‘Kentar started it.’”

  Fran’s mouth was tight. “Of course they did.”

  She dropped the papers and reached for the second envelope.

  The wax was darker, glossier — the Kentarian seal. A serpent biting its tail.

  She broke it without ceremony and skimmed the lines, her expression darkening with each one.

  To Her Grace the Duchess of Foher,

  In light of your continued requests concerning affairs allegedly connected to the city-state of Kentar, the Council finds it necessary to reiterate the standing terms of Kentarian sovereignty, as outlined in the Concord of the Crescent Coast.

  Further inquiries of this nature will henceforth be considered an infringement upon Kentar’s autonomous governance and will be treated accordingly, up to and including legal reprisal.

  The Council reminds Her Grace that Kentar remains a Free City, bound only by trade law and mutual defence accords — not subject to the investigative authority of any provincial court, including the Duchy of Foher.

  Respectfully,

  The Council of the Free City of Kentar

  Fran tossed the letter onto the table.

  “They dare speak of legal reprisal when three different nobles have just named them outright? We ask for information, for records, and they send this?”

  Gale picked up the letter, reading it again with a tilted smirk.

  “They’re scared. Or very sure of themselves.”

  She rubbed her forehead, the gesture almost weary. “It’s like chasing smoke. Everything leads to Kentar, and they shut every door we try to open.”

  “Then maybe,” Gale said, leaning back, “we try a door they can’t see.”

  Fran eyed him.

  “I mean an unofficial door,” he clarified. “No seals. No titles. Just someone curious, well-connected, inconspicuous enough to pass for a nuisance at worst.”

  “Inconspicuous?” she repeated, dryly.

  He offered a humble shrug. “I can try.”

  “No, Gale. It’s too risky. This is exactly the kind of breach they’re hoping for — something they can use as proof of overreach.”

  “So I’ll be careful. I’ve done this before.”

  “That was here. In Vartis. You were backed by a council, by documentation. You knew the terrain.”

  “I know Kentar too,” he said. “I was born near there. And my brother—”

  “Your brother is a risk in himself.”

  “Ezaryon can be managed.”

  Fran shook her head. “No. You’re valuable here. We need you here.”

  He didn’t say anything — just folded the letter and set it down gently, like that would soften the argument.

  But then: “We’ve hit a wall, Fran. You said it yourself. If no one acts, nothing changes.”

  She looked at him. He met her gaze with the kind of quiet, unshakeable certainty that made compromise feel like defeat.

  “…You’ve already decided.”

  “I’ve already considered every other option.”

  A long silence.

  Then she reached across the table and took his hand — not gently, not lightly, but as if anchoring something.

  Her grip was tight.

  “Just promise me,” she said, voice low, “that you’ll be careful. And that you’ll come back in one piece.”

  He smiled — the real kind, the one that always twisted her stomach slightly.

  “I’ll come back in several, if it’s faster.”

  She glared at him.

  He lifted her hand and kissed the back of it, solemn as a knight swearing fealty.

  “One piece,” he murmured. “I promise.”