The clock chimed once, at 19:10.
Rafael Rosenroth took a breath that did absolutely nothing to calm his nerves and everything to remind him that the lace threaded through his back was alive. Or at least, enchanted. Possibly cursed.
The shirt Gloria had insisted on, a soft, obsidian-black thing with a barely-there sheen and open-backed lace designed to shimmer like liquid ink, felt both dangerously flattering and like a diplomatic risk. The trousers were elegant and white, flowing and long enough to cover his black leather shoes. And over it all, a deep black cloak rested across his shoulders, fastened only at the neck, fluttering slightly as he stepped out under the palace arch.
The car was waiting.
But it wasn't just a car.
It was a piece of Gregoris Frasner's very specific brand of subtle theater: a long, sleek obsidian beast of a machine with deep violet undertones when the light hit right, polished to the point that Rafael could see the reflection of the palace light gleaming along the door frame. The tires were silent and the ether-powered motor purred while waiting for him. The shadows stationed at each rear door were not palace personnel but Frasner's own, wearing formal uniforms with high collars and steel-gray embroidery in a wolf's fang pattern. Not quite military. Not quite ceremonial. Definitely armed.
Gregoris's crest, an abstracted bloodhound fang and crown, was carved faintly into the center of the rear panel, etched with spell-gilded silver so expensive Rafael felt the money humming off of it. It wasn't subtle. It wasn't diplomatic.
It was luxury, and Gregoris wasn't hiding that he liked it.
He paused at the final step.
"I can still turn around," he muttered, just loud enough for Alexandra, who had followed him to the entrance like a proud general sending off her most glamorous soldier, to hear.
"You won't," she said smugly, arms crossed, jade eyes gleaming. "Not after Gloria installed those shimmer runes on your spine. If you back out now, she'll hex your wardrobe and every hemline for the next year."
Rafael grimaced. "That woman sewed ambition into my seams."
"And made you a walking siren call." Alexandra tilted her head. "Honestly, if he doesn't lose his composure in under five minutes, I'll be offended."
The Shadow opened the car door with a crisp motion.
Rafael stepped forward.
Inside, the car smelled faintly of smoked bergamot and cold steel. The seats were black leather, yes, but not the kind made for comfort. The kind made for superiority. Everything gleamed, from the subtle violet trim to the embedded rune-chill panel designed to keep the air inside exactly three degrees cooler than outside. A crystal decanter was secured in the center console, filled with rare spring water from somewhere pretentious. Next to it was a glass already poured.
For him.
Rafael slid into the seat, cloak rippling behind him like a second shadow, and crossed his legs with slow, deliberate grace. His fingers brushed the chilled glass, but he didn't lift it yet. Instead, he let his gaze rest on the empty seat across from him.
Gregoris wasn't inside yet.
Of course not.
Gregoris arrived. And when he did, it would be perfectly timed. No more than two minutes late. Enough to prove control. Enough to make Rafael wait.
The door shut with a whisper of a seal.
Outside, the Shadows moved into position.
Inside, Rafael stared at the empty seat across from him, spine still too aware of the lace shimmer threading through his back, the enchantments crackling like restrained fire.
He exhaled slowly.
"I should have brought the files," he muttered to himself, bitter and betrayed. "Shouldn't have let Alexandra set them on fire."
He didn't know which side she was on anymore, his or Gregoris's.
Maybe both.
Worse: maybe neither.
—
The car moved like a creature with purpose, silent on the polished streets of the Capital. It didn't jolt or bump. It glided like it knew its passenger couldn't afford to look rattled.
Rafael kept his eyes on the empty seat across from him, refusing to fidget, refusing to let the silk-trimmed luxury of the interior lull him into a false sense of comfort. He'd worked for half the inner court by now. He'd been in meetings with Gabriel and in war councils with Damian. But this… this was worse. This was personal.
The ether-suspended glass beside him clinked once as the car slowed.
Then stopped.
The violet lights under the chassis dimmed to a soft pulse as the vehicle settled into its place in front of the restaurant.
Rafael didn't move.
Not yet.
The door on his side remained shut. But through the tinted glass, he saw the reason for the crowd gathered at the entrance.
Gregoris Frasner was already there.
He stood under the crystalline awning of the Imperial Sector's most exclusive restaurant, The Talon's Edge, like he owned not just the building but the laws of physics that held it up. Dressed in matte obsidian formalwear with a blood-red lining barely visible at the sleeves, his cloak hung like a statement of power itself, high-necked and clipped at the shoulders with the steel insignia of House Alamina.
His black gloves were off. That was the first warning sign.
The second was the faint smile.
It wasn't charming. It wasn't friendly, but… lethal.
A quiet, calculated curve of the lips that warned, You came to me. And I'm going to enjoy every second of that fact.
The Shadows outside opened Rafael's door with crisp elegance.
And immediately people stared. Hard.
Every nearby head turned. The subtle hum of conversation on the terrace dulled as if someone had reached out and pulled ether from the air. Even among nobles, this kind of entrance wasn't normal. Gregoris wasn't a man who did normal.
Rafael stepped out slowly, letting the cloak fall just right, letting the enchantments stitched into his seams catch the light. He could feel eyes crawling across his spine, drawn to the uncommon sight.
And Gregoris, gods, Gregoris was watching him like a man who already had the first line of a classified report memorized and was ready for the next five pages.
"Secretary Rosenroth," Gregoris said as Rafael reached him, voice rich and smooth, like dark velvet stretched over a blade. "You're on time."
"Duke Alamina," Rafael replied, composed but sharp. "So are you."
Gregoris's eyes flicked down, then up, taking him in.
Then he smiled. This time, it was worse than lethal. It was genuine.
"I would've come earlier," Gregoris murmured, leaning in just enough to make the nearby diners tilt their heads, "but I wanted to make sure the lighting hit you perfectly when you stepped out."
Rafael did not choke.
He did not blush.
But his right hand twitched toward where his nonexistent files should've been.
Damn Alexandra.
Damn Gloria.
Damn Gregoris most of all.