[Emerald Castle, Prince Alden's Study]
Limon knocked. Got a sharp "Enter" for his trouble.
Prince Alden sat hunched over his desk like a clerk tallying debts. Eyes fixed on the grey folder: [The Rosewick Incident]. Letter from the Silver Star to the left. Report from the Arcanum, to the right. The grey dossier between them like a body neither side wanted to claim.
"Your Highness." Limon's voice fell flat in the air.
Alden kept writing. Nearby, a calendar showed today's date crossed out. Seven days from now, another date circled in red.
"Seven days?" Limon gestured at the mess on the desk. "The Ministers have been screaming at each other for a month."
"Time was agreed." Alden paused, lined up his quill just so. "Would be easier if I could just hand it to you like befo—"
He stopped. Jaw clenched.
"Like before?" Limon blinked. "But we've never handled the Inner Court—"
He stopped too. Alden was staring at him. Not at him. Through him. Looking for someone who wasn't there.
"Your Highness?" Limon's voice cracked like a boy's. He scratched his neck. "Something on my face?"
Alden looked back at his papers. Smiled. Or something resembling a smile.
"No. Nothing."
Limon exhaled, wiping a damp palm on his robe. He shook his head, the restraint finally snapping.
"The Empress's duties... it's suicide, Alden."
Neither of them corrected the missing title.
"Duke Helbart's already circling. I saw three ministers whispering outside the throne room today. They're waiting, Alden. Waiting for you to fail. You could have relied on the Emperor's favor—and you just tested it. Why?"
Alden continued reading the report. He didn't look up. He didn't even blink.
"The Silver Star and Arcanum are at each other's throats." Limon pressed. "You're walking into a crossfire. Would the world end if you waited a month or two?"
Alden's hand froze on the parchment.
Limon missed the warning. "It's not about getting cut, Alden. It's about bleeding out... They'll be the ones guiding the blade."
He shivered, hugging his chest. "And Consort Rosa... the woman makes my blood run cold. I heard she was asking about your schedule today. Avoid her, Your Highness. Don't even breathe the same air."
Alden continued to sort the stack. One sheet. Then another. He placed the Arcanum's report over the Silver Star's denial before finally raising his eyes.
"Your task. Report."
Limon sighed, fishing a crumpled envelope from his tunic. "Every inquiry sent." He slid it across the wood. "The Silver Star replied this morning."
Alden didn't reach for it. He just watched Limon's face.
Limon's throat felt dry. "They claim no record of a 'paralysis poison' matching your description. They were... offended. They asked you to respect their autonomy and stop the 'baseless accusations.'"
Alden took the letter. He traced the wax seal with his thumb, and then he smiled. It was a real one this time. Serene. Utterly captivating.
"Is that so?"
The words came out soft, almost a whisper.
Limon froze. His eyes darted around the room, searching for a blade he couldn't see.
"That will be all."
Limon opened his mouth to speak—to argue—but the silence crushed the words.
Shoulders slumping, he raised his hand to bow—and froze. His fingers were shaking. He clenched them into a fist, but the trembling spread up his arm.
[Duke Viremont's Capital Residence - Lady Emmelyne's Private Chambers]
Lady Emmelyne swept into her chambers and slammed the door.
A low, guttural growl rolled from the darkened corner of the room, answering the noise.
"Hush," Emmelyne murmured, though not to the maid. The growl subsided into heavy, wet breathing.
She stripped off her mourning gloves—those tedious black lies—and flung them at the mother-of-pearl table. Missed. Didn't care.
Her hand pressed against her chest.
Thump thump thump.
Her heart was hammering like she'd run up stairs.
She collapsed into the chaise.
Mina entered, skirting wide around the shadowed alcove, her eyes darting nervously toward the sound of chain links dragging against the floor. She approached Emmelyne with the ivory comb, her hands trembling slightly.
Emmelyne leaned back, closing her eyes.
There he was again. Those eyes. Dark. Fixed on her like she was the only thing in the world worth looking at.
She saw the tilt of his head. Heard his voice drop.
'I will.'
A shiver ran through her. She smiled before she could stop herself.
"His Highness is lucky," Mina whispered, pulling pins from Emmelyne's hair, her back stiff as she tried to ignore the heavy panting from the corner. "If he's not blind, he'll choose you instantly."
"Mm."
Noncommittal. Safe. But under the silk, her heart was racing.
'Calm down,' she told it. 'He's just a man. Just a prince. Just the most powerful unmarried man in the empire and your best chance at a crown.'
'Calm down.'
It didn't listen.
"You looked so beautiful today, my lady." Mina gave a little hop, making a frame with her hands. "He froze when he saw you. Completely froze."
Emmelyne opened her eyes. Looked at herself in the gilded mirror. Cheeks flushed. Eyes bright. Hair coming loose in golden waves.
'Perfect.'
"Oh, Mina." She waved a hand. Casual. Dismissive. But her gaze never left the face in the mirror. "He was just being polite."
"Polite?" Mina laughed, dragging the brush through her hair. "He looked like a starving man, my lady."
From the shadows, the sound of jaws snapping shut on empty air punctuated the silence.
'Good,' Emmelyne thought. 'It's not just me. Everyone saw that.'
The memory kept playing. His eyes. That look. Not polite. Not casual.
'Devouring.'
"You already carry yourself like an Empress," Mina said. "Who else could suit him?"
'Who else indeed.'
Emmelyne tilted her chin. Watched the lamplight catch gold in her hair.
Her father's voice surfaced from memory: 'When the Crown Prince comes of age, we send the proposal.'
Not if. When.
Outside, the sky was darkening. Inside, Emmelyne sat with her racing heart, her careful plans, and the rhythmic sound of heavy claws scratching against the floorboards.
She smiled at her reflection, then reached for the silver saucer on the low table. She tossed a raw, bloody strip of meat into the corner where the massive shadow waited.
"Eat well, Nero," she cooed as the mastiff's jaws snapped shut with a wet crunch.
Mina flinched, stepping back as the beast's yellow eyes fixed on her—hungry.
[Silver Star Tower—Upper Laboratory]
Tower Master Geralt pressed a hand to his spine. A vertebra popped.
He had been in this room for forty-eight hours, inhaling chemical smoke that tasted like copper. He'd slept in the wooden chair. The cot in the corner was unusable, buried under three heavy stacks of open ledgers.
He adjusted the flame under the crucible. The silver surface warped his reflection—his face, twisted and repeated a dozen times. Above, the Silver Star fresco covered the ceiling.
Across the table, Rhodri shifted his weight. His boots scuffed the stone.
"Master. Lord Limon sent another man." Rhodri's voice was thin. "I gave the reply exactly as you said. But... is this wise?"
Geralt didn't look up. He watched the dark fluid swirl in the beaker.
"The Prince's dog came sniffing again..." His voice was flat. "Why is the boy bothering us? His mother just died. He should be weeping into his wine, not playing inquisitor."
He watched Rhodri's reflection. The boy blinked. Swallowed.
"Can't we just let him look? We didn't poison her. We have nothing to hide."
Geralt stopped swirling. The liquid went still. Oily.
"You fool!"
The shout echoed off the stone. Geralt spun away from the crucible, marching on the boy. His heavy leather apron creaked—stiff with layers of old filth. Blood. Reagents. Stains that had been there for years.
"You think it ends with paralysis poison?" He stopped inches from Rhodri's face, lowering his voice to a slow, deliberate crawl. "Once they start digging, they don't stop. Look around you."
He jabbed a finger at the iron grate in the corner. The sealed floor. The darkness below.
Down where things still breathed.
'Or had finally stopped.'
"If he finds the Vault—if he sees what's under our floor—we're done. The Crown will drain our coffers to pay blood money. And once we're bankrupt, they'll hang us."
Rhodri's hand gripped the table edge, knuckles going white.
"The boy's looking for his mother's killer," Geralt continued, turning back to his work. "But for us?"
A low rumble rolled through the floor. The arcane engines deep underground were grinding away.
"He's waving a torch over a powder keg." Geralt picked up a pipette. "And we're standing in the middle of it."
The machinery groaned. The floor vibrated beneath their boots. From the darkness of the grate, a sound drifted up—a wet, rhythmic slapping. Like meat hitting stone.
"Understood, Master," Rhodri said, bowing his head so low his chin touched his chest. "I was... shortsighted."
"You were." Geralt pulled on fresh gloves, the leather snapping against his wrists. "This Alden is a child playing with a new toy. We refuse. He pouts. Then he moves on to a softer target."
He picked up a scalpel.
'And if he doesn't... well, accidents happen in the darker corners of the palace.'
"But Master..." Rhodri trailed him to the storage cabinets, watching Geralt select a jar of preserved eyes. "His personal invitation... he's the sole heir. What will you do?"
Geralt turned.
"If I went, he'd never stop summoning me." He snatched the parchment from the table, flicking the edge with a thumb. "Does he have real authority yet?"
Rhodri adjusted his glasses. "Technically... no. He hasn't come of age."
"Exactly." Geralt tossed the scroll into the waste bin. "A prince's request isn't an order. He can't command me to abandon my work."
He paused, the jar of preserved eyes still clutched in his gloved hand.
"Send Feroz. Tell them I'm busy with delicate work." He turned away, robes dragging. "And if the boy keeps trying to peek into our business..."
He smiled. Watched a vial swirl into ash-grey mist.
"We'll make sure the court finds reasons to want a different heir."
Rhodri froze. "Master... you mustn't."
"We warned him. If he doesn't listen, that's on him." Geralt's voice was tired. "What's the success rate on the latest batch?"
"We achieved control... for a minute or so. Variability depended on the subject's resistance." Rhodri's voice was thin. "But they all died within a day. Every one."
"Then start over. Log the decay. I want to see when the compliance breaks." Geralt shoved papers aside. "Now—the last delivery. Who got it?"
"Mudok's turn. But he hasn't come back..."
"That drunk." Geralt spat. "Probably in some tavern while the Bavarium sits in a crate. If that core destabilizes, I will use him next."
'Empty threat. Mudok was too useful.'
But fear kept men obedient.
"I'll find him." Rhodri backed toward the door.
'Still soft,' Geralt thought. 'Still flinching. He'll learn. Or he'll die.'
'Usually both.'
"Rhodri. Double-lock the South Archives. If anyone looks at that door, I want to know."
Rhodri nodded and fled. The door sealed with a heavy thud.