The Royal Legal Office hummed with the weary satisfaction of survivors. Morning light filtered through grime-streaked windows, casting golden pools over desks cluttered with half-empty mugs of willowbark tea and parchment mountains. Astris sat at her station, her rapier propped against the wall and Miles' dagger laid beside an open tome of marital clauses. A bandage peeked from beneath her sleeve, its edges stained with dried blood and soot, but her quill moved steadily. Across the room, Lucy regaled Noah with exaggerated tales of the previous night's inferno, mimicking the leviathan's roar so convincingly the carnivorous fern recoiled.
"And then—whoosh!—the whole damn barge lit up like Cybele's birthday candles!" Lucy crowed, nearly upending Ally's muffin basket.
Harvy snorted, scribbling revisions to an infernal contract with a bandaged hand. "You missed your calling as a street performer."
Gretchen hummed as she arranged a vase of venomous orchids on the reception desk, their petals still dripping with fresh nectar. "Such a productive evening. We should host more bonfires."
The silver cat lounged atop a filing cabinet, one ear singed, its tail flicking in rhythm with the ticking clock.
Then the door slammed open.
Jack Kaufmann filled the doorway like a stormfront, his tailored coat splattered with estuary mud, his eyes twin coals. The orchids hissed, their petals curling.
"Good morning!" Gretchen chirped, unflappable. "Would you like a honey cake? Freshly baked. Mostly non-lethal."
Kaufmann ignored her, his gaze raking the room until it landed on Seth, who leaned casually against his office doorframe, arms crossed.
"You," Kaufmann spat, "think you're clever."
Seth raised an eyebrow. "I think I'm under-caffeinated. But do go on."
"Last night. My leviathan. My cargo." Kaufmann's voice dropped to a venomous purr. "You'll regret that little stunt."
Seth pushed off the doorframe, his grin sharp. "Stunt? You'll have to be specific. My team specializes in stunts. The exploding tariffs of '78? The cursed ledger fiasco? Classic."
Kaufmann's knuckles whitened. "Don't play the fool. I know it was you."
"Prove it." Seth shrugged. "Or better yet—let's discuss it over lunch. I hear the Siren's Grin has a lovely eel stew. Very restorative after… maritime mishaps."
For a heartbeat, the room held its breath. Kaufmann's jaw worked, his rage a living thing. Then he forced a laugh, cold and hollow. "You'll need more than petty sabotage to stop me. The temples are miner. The Spire's heart will be mine. And when it is—"
Astris's quill snapped.
The sound was a gunshot. Kaufmann's gaze snapped to her, lingering on the dagger at her elbow. "Ah. The drafter. How's the wedding planning?"
She met his stare, her voice ice. "Thrilling. I'm penning a clause about annihilating leviathans. For romance."
Kaufmann's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Delightful. Do send my regards to the happy couple." He turned to leave, then paused. "Oh, and Seth? Sleep lightly. Even storms can be… diverted."
The door slammed.
Gretchen sighed, plucking a wilted orchid. "Such a sore loser."
Seth clapped his hands. "Back to work, kids. We've got a wedding to crash and a tyrant to bankrupt."
Astris dipped her quill, the shard in her boot humming as the cat leapt onto her desk. It batted at the marriage contract, smudging fresh ink.
"Not now," she muttered, but her lips twitched.
Somewhere in the palace, a prince smirked.
The Royal Legal Office was a vault of shadows and gilded light, its vaulted ceilings lost in a haze of incense and mana-crystal smoke. Astris Doran sat at a desk carved from obsidian, the surface littered with parchment, quills, and the faintly glowing shard hidden in her boot—a secret pulse beneath her skin. Across the room, waterfalls thundered beyond arched windows, their mist seeping through cracks to pool on the floor like spilled secrets. The silver cat perched on the desk's edge, one milky eye fixed on the marriage contract, the other reflecting the cold blue flame of Astris's Phoenix Quill.
"Clause 17-D," she muttered, tracing the inked lines with a gloved finger. "Three Emerald Labyrinth cores as dowry." The words shimmered, the phoenix flame in her quill's barb flickering as it purified the ink of hidden falsehoods. Her truth-detection pendant—a teardrop of sphinx blood—lay heavy against her collarbone, its warmth a silent warning. Danger here.
The contract was a labyrinth. Appendix Six forbade Celestaviel from accepting "volatile or sentient dungeon artifacts," yet Clause 17-D demanded cores mined from the Labyrinth, whose shifting walls and feral mana were legendary. Contradictions coiled like serpents through every paragraph, their venom subtle. Intentional.
"Evelyn!"
The door swung open, admitting a whirlwind of pink silk and citrus perfume. Evelyn Laveau, Royal Lawyer Extraordinaire, floated in with a tray of honey cakes balanced on one hand and a cursed quill tucked behind her ear. Her spectacles—etched with truth-serpent runes—slid down her nose as she grinned. "Darling! You've been scowling at that parchment for hours. Have a muffin! It's laced with cinnamon and pragmatism."
Astris didn't smile. "The terms are incompatible. The Labyrinth cores violate Celestaviel's own treaties. Who drafted this?"
Evelyn's laugh tinkled like broken glass. "Both parties agreed, sweetling. Prince Zaiden's council, Princess Cassis's advisors—everyone signed." She plucked the contract from Astris's hands, her quill darting to underline a clause. "See? 'Volatility' here refers to political instability, not dungeon magic. Standard loophole stuff!"
The pendant at Astris's throat flared. Lie.
"Standard?" Astris stood as the chair screeched against the floor. "The Labyrinth's cores are semi-sentient. Harvesting them violates Cybele's edicts. If the Galli discover this—"
"The Galli," Evelyn interrupted, "are busy pacifying a dungeon breach near the dam. They won't notice a few shiny rocks in a princess's dowry." She winked, but her fingers tightened on the tray. A crumb trembled.
The silver cat stretched, its tail sweeping a vial of ink onto the floor. Astris caught it mid-air, her reflexes honed by years of fencing and training with her brothers. The creature trilled, unrepentant, its claws pricking the contract's margin—right beside Zaiden's seal.
Of course.
Astris's jaw tightened. She'd seen the prince's smirk in the echoes of her shard, felt his presence in the cat's too-knowing gaze. Echohold magic—fragments of his consciousness clinging to objects, spies woven into the mundane. The quill, the ink, the damnable cat.
"Tell me," Astris said softly, "did the prince insist on these terms? Or did Cassis?"
Evelyn's smile faltered. She adjusted her spectacles, their lenses flickering as her cursed quill twitched. "The contract serves both kingdoms. Lismore gains access to Celestaviel's wyvern-mounted armies. Cassis secures her throne."
Half-truth. The pendant burned hotter.
Astris leaned forward, the Phoenix Quill's flame casting jagged shadows over the parchment. "And if the cores corrupt her court? If the Labyrinth's sentience stirs?"
"Then we renegotiate!" Evelyn chirped, though her knuckles whitened. "That's what Appendix Nine-C is for. Probably."
The cat batted at the quill, its milky eye gleaming. Somewhere beyond the palace walls, the clock tower chimed—seven mournful notes that shivered in Astris's bones. She glanced at the window, where moonlight gilded the palace's cascading balconies. Zaiden was out there, watching, laughing. Always laughing.
"They're using her," Astris realized aloud. "Cassis. She's a pawn to legitimize the cores' trade."
Evelyn's breath hitched. For a heartbeat, her mask slipped—revealing exhaustion, fear, the weight of complicity. Then she twirled, her silk skirts swirling like poisoned candy. "Oh, don't be dramatic! It's just politics. Now eat the muffin before it weaponizes your melancholy."
The door slammed.
Alone, Astris sank into her chair. The cat leapt onto her lap, purring as its claws pricked her thigh. She didn't push it away.
"Whose game are we playing, hm?" she murmured, stroking its singed fur. The shard in her boot hummed, its resonance syncing with the grimoire's whispers in her locked chest. Soul anchors. Sacrifices. The Voidwell's hunger.
She unrolled the contract again, the Phoenix Quill poised. If the terms were a trap, she'd rewrite them. If Zaiden sought to manipulate Cassis—and by extension, Celestaviel's dragons—Astris would ink a counterstroke.
But first, she needed answers. The cat's ear twitched.
The ink had dried into jagged veins across the parchment, the Phoenix Quill's flame reduced to a sullen ember. Astris drummed her fingers against the desk, her gaze flicking between the contract's labyrinthine clauses and the silver cat sprawled atop a tower of tax ledgers. Its tail twitched in time with the clock tower's distant chimes—a metronome of mockery.
"Gretchen!"
The door creaked open, admitting a gust of rosemary-scented air. Gretchen Bloom, the palace's unflappable receptionist, floated in with her songbird-feather quill poised over a floating scroll. Her hair was woven with living ivy today, the leaves trembling as if sharing her perpetual state of politely suppressed panic.
"Miss Doran," she chirped, her smile brittle. "How may I—?"
"Schedule a meeting." Astris didn't look up. "Prince Zaiden and Princess Cassis. Tomorrow morning. Their earliest availability."
Gretchen's quill froze mid-scribble. "Oh, darling. The prince's schedule is tighter than a goblin's purse. He's got a wyvern inspection at dawn, a trade summit by noon, and a literal firewalk with the Galli at dusk. Perhaps next—"
"He'll make time." Astris finally met her gaze, the Phoenix Quill flaring in her hand. "Unless he'd prefer Parliament to review Appendix Nine-C of this contract. The one detailing his creative interpretation of Celestaviel's dragon-mounted patrols."
The ivy in Gretchen's hair wilted slightly. "That sounds… vaguely threatening."
"It's a clarification." Astris leaned back, boots propped on the desk, and fixed her stare on the cat. Its milky eye gleamed. "A necessary clarification. One that could delay the union by months. Maybe years. Such a shame, with the Frostbane Festival so close…"
Gretchen's quill darted across the scroll like a spooked hare. "I'll… see what I can finesse."
As the receptionist retreated, Astris turned her full attention to the creature. It stared back, unblinking, its fur catching the sickly glow of the mana-lanterns.
"You're a terrible spy," she informed it. "Tell your master that subtlety isn't served by growling at pastries."
The cat yawned, revealing needle-like teeth.
Minutes dripped by. The shard in Astris's boot pulsed, its rhythm syncing with the grimoire's whispers in her locked chest. Sacrifice. Convergence. Three weeks. She traced the scar beneath her collarbone, the puckered flesh a relic of her first lesson in celestial bargains.
The door burst open.
"A miracle!" Gretchen trilled, her ivy now studded with anxious buds. "A sudden cancellation in His Highness's schedule. Tomorrow, tenth bell, the Amber Solarum. Princess Cassis has already confirmed."
The cat's tail lashed. A low, rumbling growl seeped from its throat—a sound too deep, too resonant, for such a small creature.
Astris smirked. "How fortuitous."
When Gretchen vanished, she leaned forward, the Phoenix Quill's flame rekindling. "Run along now," she murmured to the cat. "Tell him to bring his best ink. We'll need it."
The creature hissed, its amber eye flashing like a struck match, before melting into the shadows beneath the desk.
Alone, Astris unspooled the contract once more. The words twisted under her gaze, clauses slithering into new configurations. She dipped the quill, its fire scorching the parchment as she scrawled a single phrase in the margin—a provocation, a promise: All debts come due.
The Amber Solarum's meeting loomed like a storm on the horizon, but for now, Astris allowed herself a moment of stillness. She capped the Phoenix Quill, its flame dimming to a smolder, and watched as the words: all debts come due seared themselves into the parchment's edge. The silver cat observed from the shadows beneath her desk, its mismatched eyes glinting with something akin to approval—or menace. She couldn't decide which.
She stood, rolling the stiffness from her shoulders, and reached for her cloak. The garment hung heavy with hidden compartments—vials of truth serum, lockpicks, a flask of something stronger than tea. As she fastened the clasp, the door swung open, and Gretchen breezed in, her arms laden with scrolls and her ivy-strewn hair quivering with urgency.
"One last thing, darling!" she trilled, depositing the stack on Astris's desk with a thud that stirred the cat into a hiss. "The Royal Guard's armory renovation contract revisions. First bell tomorrow, right after your… clarification with the prince and princess."
Astris froze, her hand halfway to the doorknob. "Harvy was handling that."
"He was." Gretchen's smile tightened. "But he's come down with a rather convenient case of dungeon lung. Nasty business. All that black mold in the archives, you know."
Astris closed her eyes. Dungeon lung. Of course. Harvy's talent for vanishing during inconvenient negotiations was as legendary as his ability to forge infernal clauses. She inhaled slowly, the scent of ink and wilted rosemary sharp in her nostrils. "Let me guess. He coughed pathetically. Fluttered his lashes. Promised he'd 'try to rally.'"
"Oh, he theatrically fainted into a potted fern on his way out. Very convincing."
The cat snorted—a sound too human to ignore. Astris shot it a glare before turning back to Gretchen. "Reschedule it."
"Can't. The Guard's smiths are threatening to strike if the mana-crystal allotments aren't settled by week's end. Something about 'not forging swords in the dark like common bandits.'" Gretchen shrugged, though her gaze flicked nervously to the shard's faint pulse visible beneath Astris's boot. "You're the only one left who speaks their… colorful dialect."
Astris's jaw tightened. The Guard's contracts were a special kind of hell—pages of blustering demands about blade quotas and "dignified hazard pay," all scrawled in handwriting that could charitably be called barbaric. She'd rather negotiate with a goblin horde.
The cat leapt onto the desk, tail flicking across the renovation scrolls. Its claws snagged on a clause about reinforced dragon-steel hinges, and it purred, low and taunting.
He's enjoying this, she realized. Zaiden's echo in the creature's gaze was unmistakable now.
"Fine," she bit out. "But tell the smiths if one of them mentions 'the sanctity of their anvils' again, I'll repurpose their mana crystals into paperweights."
Gretchen beamed. "I'll phrase it diplomatically!"
As the receptionist fluttered out, Astris snatched the top scroll from the pile. The ink blurred as she skimmed—crude diagrams of barracks, demands for "flammable-proof" storerooms, a footnote insisting the Guard's latrines required gold filigree handles ("For morale!"). She tossed it aside with a groan.
The cat nudged her elbow, its head cocked.
"Don't," she warned.
It blinked, slow and deliberate, then batted a paw at her dagger where it rested on the sill. The blade wobbled, its hilt catching the light—a gift from her brother Miles, etched with dungeon runes. Aim for the kneecaps, his voice echoed in her memory. Slows 'em down long enough to lecture them about tax law.
Astris smirked. Perhaps the smiths would appreciate his philosophy.
She tucked the scroll into her satchel, the weight of it joining the marriage contract and the grimoire's silent hum in her chest. As she extinguished the mana-lanterns, the cat trailed her to the door, its tail brushing her ankle like a challenge.
"Run back to your master," she said, not bothering to look down. "Tell him to enjoy his firewalk. I hear the Galli's flames bite this time of year."
The creature yowled—a sound that might have been laughter—before dissolving into the dusk-shrouded hall.
Alone, Astris stepped into the night. The clock tower chimed, its notes swallowed by the roar of the palace's artificial waterfalls. Somewhere beneath the din, the shard's rhythm quickened.
Three weeks, it seemed to whisper. Three weeks until the Veil thins.
She adjusted her satchel, its contents a symphony of obligations, and turned her face toward the Lower Ward. There was still a bottle of fig wine in her apartment, a half-finished star chart, and a bed she wouldn't sleep in.
But first, she had contracts to haunt.