Selene's response to Noella's counter-proposal arrived not by scroll, but in person. She swept into the council chamber, her gown a more practical but still elegant navy wool, her smile knowing.
"A proof of concept. How delightfully mercantile," she said, accepting a cup of watered wine. "You wish to see the quality of the goods before signing the long-term contract. I admire the pragmatism."
"Efficiency requires verification," Noella replied.
"Then consider it verified. The seed shipment"—she gestured, and a servant placed a small, heavy locked chest on the table—"one hundred pounds of saltpeter, refined to my personal alchemist's standard. The sulfur follows in three days, delayed by a storm in the Channel." She produced a slim vellum case. "And the intelligence. A Tombsrose logistical convoy. Two wagons, ten guards, a lieutenant. Carrying forged iron brackets, rivets, and three sealed barrels of lamp oil. A mundane haul. Route: the old Bleakway, skirting the southern marshes. They'll be at the Willowford crossing tomorrow, two hours past noon. Light guard because the route is considered 'secure' behind their lines."
Noella took the vellum. The details were precise: guard rotations described, the lieutenant's name given, even the brand of the wagon axles noted. It was either impeccable spy work or an exquisite fabrication.
"Why this convoy?" Noella asked. "Its value is marginal."
"Its loss is marginal," Selene corrected. "A test should not start a war. A missing wagon of brackets is an embarrassment, not a casus belli. It proves my network can find a needle in a haystack. It proves your Ghosts can retrieve it. A low-risk, high-information transaction."
It was logically sound. A perfect first test. That, in itself, was suspicious.
"We will evaluate," Noella said.
"Of course." Selene rose. "I shall await the results with interest. Oh, and Princess? Try not to get your fascinating Guardian melted by lamp oil. He'd be terribly difficult to replace."
After she left, Noella convened Volsei and Kael. Lieutenant Dorn, citing his mandate to observe doctrine in application, requested to accompany the mission. Noella approved. Let him see the Ghosts in live action. Let him report on their efficacy.
"The Bleakway is a gut of mud and despair," Kael grunted, looking at the map. "Willowford is the only solid crossing for miles. Ambush there is obvious."
"So we don't ambush at the ford," Noella said. Her finger traced a spot half a mile before it. "Here. The road is flanked by peat bogs. Firm enough for a wagon, but the shoulders are slurry. We collapse the road under the lead wagon. The rear wagon blocks the retreat. In the confusion, the Ghosts neutralize the guards. Priority is the lieutenant for interrogation and the cargo for seizure. Volsei, you are overwatch. Eliminate any who break for the marshes to raise an alarm. Dorn, you will observe from Kael's position. You do not engage unless directly threatened. Is that clear?"
Dorn nodded, his pale eyes alive with focus. "Clear, Your Highness."
"The convoy is too light," Volsei said, his voice quiet. He had been staring at the crystal he'd brought from the Ether, turning it over in his fingers. It lay on the table now, a small, malevolent jewel. "Ten guards for three barrels of oil and some iron? Either the oil is worth more than she says, or the guards are worth less."
"A variable we account for with heightened caution," Noella said. "We proceed. But we plan for the outlier."
\\-\\-
The Bleakway deserved its name. It was a ribbon of sucking mud between two vast, mist-shrouded bogs that smelled of decay and lonely death. The willows were skeletal hands clawing at the grey sky.
The Ghosts were in position two hours before the predicted time. They were not hidden in the trees—there were none. They were of the bog. Mud-smeared, shrouded in grey netting studded with reeds and peat, they lay submerged in the icy water at the road's edge, breathing through hollow reeds. Only their eyes were above the surface, unblinking.
Kael and Dorn watched from a slightly higher, firmer mound fifty yards back. Volsei was a rumour in the mist, somewhere to the north.
Noella observed from a distance of three hundred yards, through the telescopic sight Selene had gifted. The monocular brought the bleak scene into painful clarity. She watched Rylan's reed, counting the slow bubbles of his breath. She watched Elara, perfectly still, a knot of roots.
Right on schedule, the sound of groaning axles and plodding hooves echoed through the mist.
The convoy appeared. Two covered wagons, as described. Ten guards on foot, looking miserable and cold. A lieutenant on a shaggy garron. It was all exactly as Selene's intelligence had promised. The banality of it was anticlimactic.
The lead wagon rolled over the marked spot in the road. Beneath it, Fen, buried in the muck, pulled a lever.
The mechanism was simple: a wooden plank, pivoted on a stone, held up by a tensioned rope. Cut the rope, and the plank snapped downward. The road here was a thin crust over a waterlogged pit. The plank's collapse broke the crust.
The left front wheel of the lead wagon plunged into the hidden hole. The wagon lurched violently, tipping. The driver shouted. The lieutenant's horse shied.
On cue, the Ghosts erupted from the bog.
They came not with shouts, but with the hiss of wet cloth and the soft thud of bodies hitting mud. They targeted the rear guards first, silencing the escape route. Blunted knives found kidneys, throats were pressed in a chokehold, knees were kicked out from behind. It was swift, wet, and brutally efficient.
The lieutenant saw the chaos, drew his sword, and opened his mouth to bellow an order.
A stone, launched from Elara's sling, took him in the temple with a dull crack. He slumped from his saddle.
The whole engagement lasted less than a minute. Ten guards were down, unconscious or incapacitated. Two Ghosts had minor injuries. The wagons were theirs.
Noella lowered the monocular. Efficiency rating: 94%. Acceptable.
Then Volsei's voice, low and urgent, sounded in her ear—he had realm-walked to her position. "The oil barrels. They're wrong."
They approached the captured wagons. The guards were being bound and gagged. The lieutenant was alive, groaning. Kael was checking the cargo.
The barrels were standard oak, branded with a Tombsrose cooper's mark. But Volsei placed his hand on one. "Not oil." He rapped it with a knuckle. The sound was dull, solid. "Too heavy. And cold. Metacold."
Noella motioned for a crowbar. Fen pried the lid off the first barrel.
It wasn't oil.
It was a dense, granular black sand, faintly glittering in the diffuse light. It radiated a cold that had nothing to do with temperature—a sucking, hollow chill that made the breath fog thickly above it.
Volsei's face hardened. "Ether-ore. Processed. This isn't for lamps. This is for binding. Or feeding."
Selene's intelligence had been wrong. Not about the convoy, but about its cargo. This was no marginal haul. This was a shipment for something tied to the demonic alliance. And they had just stolen it.
Dorn was staring at the black sand, his professional composure cracked by confusion and dawning horror. "What in the name of the Stone is that?"
"A new variable," Noella said, her mind racing, recalibrating the entire equation. Selene had either been deceived by her own network… or she had known exactly what was in those barrels and wanted it in Eden's hands. A gift? Or a curse designed to draw a specific kind of attention?
"Load it," she commanded, her voice flat. "Every grain. And the lieutenant. We're leaving. Now."
As the Ghosts hurried to transfer the barrels to their own drays, Noella looked back down the Bleakway, towards the lands Silverveil claimed. The first invoice had been paid. But the price, and the product, were nothing she had agreed to.
The alliance was already a hall of mirrors. And she had just taken possession of a shadow.