Morning came gray and thin over Bondrea, like a sheet stretched too tight over a restless body. The city had not slept. It rarely did anymore. Night after night, unrest simmered through its alleys the way fever clings to a sick village, soft at first, then inescapable, then defining. The shadows under the eaves had taken on a permanent quality, as if even the darkness was too exhausted to lift itself away.

  From the barracks window, Lukas Drier watched the courtyard below while rubbing the lingering ache in his forearm. Another night with little sleep. Not that exhaustion mattered; it was a companion he had learned to live with long before Bondrea. Down in the yard, a line of soldiers jogged in formation, boots pounding the stones in a steady, disciplined rhythm. Their breath rose in pale clouds, fading into the cold morning air.

  He felt a small, private satisfaction settle in his chest. These men, Bondrea’s men, had been nothing but soft bodies and empty eyes when he first arrived. Farm boys, traders’ sons, dock workers. Barely even soldiers. He had carved discipline into them day by day, chipped away their hesitation, burned the farm dust out of their bones. He had taught them how to march, how to hold a pike without trembling, how to look a man in the eyes when giving an order.

  They were still the enemy’s dogs, technically. Alexander’s. But Lukas couldn’t deny the pride that stirred watching them move as a single unit, heads high, steps sharp, their formation slicing the fog like a knife.

  If Jacobo had sent him to infiltrate, then he would infiltrate well.

  But he would also build something worthy, even if it wasn’t his. Duty demanded as much. And Lukas, for all that he had done and all that he planned to do, had never known how to do anything halfway.

  His gaze drifted past the courtyard, beyond the stone walls that held what remained of Bondrea’s order. Morning fog clung low to the city’s narrow, sloping streets, turning the world into gradients of gray. Even blurred, Lukas could make out thin silhouettes gathering in the alleys, gaunt faces, hollow cheeks, shoulders hunched with cold and hunger. Angry faces.

  Every day the crowds grew larger. Every day more fists pounded against the gates demanding food. Bread lines stretched farther than the barracks yard now. Children wailed in corners. The smell of smoke from burned-out shops never fully dissipated, no matter how much water the guards threw on the embers.

  Bondrea was cracking.

  And Alexander knew it.

  Lukas strapped on his sword belt, the leather stiff and worn at the edges, and exhaled sharply through his nose.

  If the old lord doesn’t do something soon, hunger will swallow this place whole.

  He stepped into the hallway, boots scuffing the stone floor, and made his way to Alexander’s living quarters. As he did every morning, he carried under his arm a bundle of letters, sealed with ribbons, wax, and occasionally perfume. Alexander’s daily correspondence. A task Lukas had taken over months ago, partly out of necessity, partly out of control, partly out of… something else he refused to name.

  Traitor as the man was, Lukas had developed a reluctant appreciation for him. Alexander possessed a sharp mind, sharper than most priests Lukas had served under. He was manipulative, slippery, secretive, but fascinating. A man who could move through a crowd without ever stepping on the same stone twice. A man who could play a dozen roles without blinking.

  You cannot help but admire anyone who moves so elegantly through lies, Lukas thought with a bitter smile. Even if one day you may have to kill him.

  He pushed open the door to Alexander’s main hall.

  The room was dim, lit only by a sliver of daylight sneaking through the tall eastern windows. Shadows stretched long across the rug, pooling around the carved furniture. Alexander sat at a polished table, quill in hand, finishing a document with fluid, confident strokes. He was dressed impeccably even at this hour: a dark coat, gray vest, sleeves rolled just enough to suggest diligence without carelessness. His black hair was tied loosely behind his head. He looked tired (truly tired) but composed. Always composed.

  “Your morning correspondence,” Lukas announced, lifting the stack.

  Alexander looked up and offered a polite, weary smile. “Thank you, Lukas. As always.”

  Lukas placed the letters on the table and stepped back, arms crossing of their own accord.

  “You’ll read them aloud,” he said. “All of them.”

  Alexander’s jaw flickered with amusement. “Still don’t trust me?”

  “I trust you to try something,” Lukas said flatly. “And the life of your brother is on the line. I will not risk you slipping hidden messages past me.”

  Alexander’s smile vanished like it had been wiped off with a cloth. “Do not speak of Phillip.”

  Lukas blinked once. “It is a fact.”

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  “It is a threat,” Alexander corrected softly, dangerously. “And if you use his name lightly again, we will have a problem.”

  Their eyes held for three full seconds. Bondrea’s silence pressed in around them.

  Then Alexander exhaled shakily and reached for the first letter.

  He cracked the wax seal and read aloud:

  “My lord Alexander,

  Your invitation was most unexpected, but I would be delighted to meet you for tea tomorrow at midday.

  —Lady Miren of Vasta.”

  Lukas lifted a brow. “Tea invitations?”

  Alexander opened the second.

  “I received your letter and would be honored to visit Bondrea within the week.

  —Lady Fenra Vars.”

  The third.

  “Your proposal intrigues me. My steward will accompany me to discuss details.

  —Lady Kalira Hest.”

  Letter after letter. All variations of the same theme.

  Women. Wealthy women.

  Lukas stared at him. “You’re sending courting letters?”

  Alexander tapped the stack neatly against the table. “Not courting. Negotiating.”

  “With half the noblewomen in the region?”

  “With the richest half,” Alexander corrected pleasantly.

  Lukas frowned, suspicion tightening like a band around his ribs. “You will forgive my bluntness, but this smells like another ploy. You are not exactly the romantic type.”

  Alexander laughed, a short, sharp, unexpectedly genuine sound. “Correct. I am not. That’s why this works.”

  He stood, stretching his back slowly, like a man preparing for a performance.

  “Bondrea is falling apart,” he said. “The people are hungry. The soldiers need pay. The merchants are abandoning the city. And I cannot keep borrowing coin from shadows that wish me dead.”

  Lukas scowled. “So you intend to… marry your way out of bankruptcy?”

  “Precisely.”

  Lukas blinked, stunned by the bluntness. “You truly expect me to believe that?”

  Alexander gestured around the room, at the threadbare edges of the rug, at the window with its missing latch, at the shelves where half the books had been discreetly sold months ago. “Look at this place. Look at Bondrea. What other option do I have? The Valval Priesthood controls the food routes. Jacobo cut my resources. And now Phillip is held hostage. I need leverage. Wealth. Stability. A marriage alliance is the fastest solution.”

  “And if your future bride discovers you’re planning a rebellion?”

  Alexander’s expression sharpened. “Then I will choose one who either cannot afford to say no, or one who does not care so long as she profits.”

  “That is…” Lukas hesitated, searching for a word strong enough. “…remarkably cold.”

  “That is survival,” Alexander replied quietly.

  Lukas studied him then, not through suspicion, but through something that felt dangerously close to understanding. There was always a lie woven through Alexander’s sentences. Always. And yet here, in this brief moment…

  He looked sincere.

  “So you’re truly planning to marry some noblewoman for coin,” Lukas said slowly.

  “Yes.”

  “For the sake of Bondrea.”

  “For the sake of Bondrea,” Alexander echoed, but Lukas heard it. The layered meaning. The unspoken and for myself.

  Lukas rubbed his jaw. “Jacobo will not call off his suspicions because you take a wife.”

  “I’m aware.”

  “He will still watch you. Every step.”

  “I’m aware of that as well.”

  “And Phillip…”

  Alexander slammed his hand on the table, hard enough to rattle the ink pot. “I said do not speak of him.”

  The anger was real. Raw. A rare thing for Alexander.

  Lukas straightened. “…Very well.”

  Alexander inhaled slowly, gathering the shards of his composure like a man sweeping glass. “Lady Stephanie will arrive shortly. She is the wealthiest widow in three provinces. If I can win her favor, Bondrea may yet stand another year.”

  “Win her favor,” Lukas repeated dryly. “You mean charm her.”

  “Charm,” Alexander said, smoothing his sleeves, “is simply influence in softer clothes. And she is pleasant enough. Far more tolerable company than priests, soldiers, or spies.”

  Lukas snorted. “You realize I will need to be present during your meeting.”

  “Of course,” Alexander said. “You must ensure I am not writing hidden messages on my napkin.”

  “That isn’t funny.”

  “It wasn’t meant to be. It was meant to be accurate.”

  Despite himself, Lukas’s lips twitched.

  Alexander gathered the letters into a neat bundle and tied them with a black ribbon.

  “Now,” he said, brushing dust from his shoulders, “if you would not mind stepping aside, I need to change into something more respectable. Lady Stephanie expects a lord, not a hunted animal.”

  “You are a hunted animal,” Lukas murmured.

  Alexander smiled thinly. “Precisely why I must look like a lord.”

  Lukas lingered in the doorway, watching Alexander move: graceful, precise, every gesture measured. Manipulative. Charming. Dangerous. And yet, against all common sense, Lukas felt that same strange admiration swell again.

  There is something wrong with you, he told himself.

  Finding affection for the man you are meant to bleed.

  But then again… this was Alexander of Dromo.

  A man who could convince a viper to uncoil.

  A man who could plan a rebellion in one hand and a wedding in the other.

  A man who, for all his sins, refused to let Bondrea die quietly.

  Lukas cleared his throat.

  “I will wait outside.”

  Alexander nodded without looking back. “Do. And when Lady Stephanie arrives, please try not to frighten her. We cannot afford to lose this one.”

  Lukas rolled his eyes, stepped out, and closed the door behind him.

  Outside, the halls of Bondrea were cold and dim, the torches sputtering low. Faint tremors from distant crowds vibrated up through the stones, a reminder that the city was groaning under its own hunger.

  Lukas took his post, arms crossed.

  And he couldn’t help wondering:

  Which was more dangerous at this point: the famine rising in the streets?

  Or the man preparing himself just beyond that door?