“Sinis, are the gifts ready?” Powell spoke in a room dark as a dry well, the air thick as damp felt.

A young man sat where the shadow pooled like ink, his face erased by night. “We’re a little short,” he said, voice like wind through a reed bed, sinking straight into a listener’s chest. “We scraped together twenty-three thousand in total, but the supplies will suffice.”

“Twenty-three thousand…” Powell’s words stumbled like feet on loose gravel. “It’s enough to take this city, but the city guard has five thousand, and if the gate doesn’t fall…”

“Rest easy, Marquis,” Sinis replied, unhurried as moonlight over still water. “It’s already arranged. One more day, and even if that lord takes your authority, it won’t matter. With luck, before Lachesis opens, we’ll present the gift.”

That calm washed over Powell like warm wine, loosening a bowstring inside him. “Best that way… but are you sure you want to do this? The Eastern Nation is still…”

“Say no more, Marquis,” Sinis cut in, his tone smooth as a knife on ice. “Only a few of us hold the real picture, and truth lives in the hands of the few. You think Osnath ‘mercifully’ exiled us?”

“You’re wrong,” he said, each word a pebble dropped in a deep well. “Your king is filthier than you imagine. If not for the former—forget it, telling you changes nothing. Are the carrier pigeons and your tasks ready?”

Powell chuckled, the sound dry as paper burning. “Relax. They swallowed what they needed to, and I did what I had to. By the day after tomorrow, this place will be a dead city, right?”

“As for the pigeons, I released them under the pretext of reporting Emperor Aelius’s happy news,” he added, eyes flicking like minnows. “By now they’ve sunk without a trace.”

“Good,” Sinis said, a cold hum curling like smoke from his lips. “Aelius and Osnath are digging their own graves. A pity… a pity…” His gaze sharpened like a needle. “What do you think of those Sprite women?”

“Long hair, short sense,” Powell snorted, dismissive as a hand swatting a fly. “Aside from a bit of magic, nothing special.”

“Oh?” Sinis’s smile was thin as a blade’s edge. “My men say one of them is a bombshell with terrifying force, the kind who can split a ridge with a casual move. And the rumored Ironblood War Deity is there. I’m afraid…”

“Then rest easy,” Powell said, pointing toward the window where night pressed like wet cloth. “They only dabble in Wind Magic. In this age, what’s magic worth? Especially with tomorrow’s weather.”

“Mhm,” Sinis breathed, steady as a clock’s heartbeat. “Now we wait for tomorrow. Dawn. Don’t be late.”

“Don’t be late,” Powell echoed, his steps creaking like old stairs as he turned to go.

“Oh, Marquis,” Sinis called, the words drifting like a feather on air. “When this ends well, let’s share a drink.”

“If… if it ends well,” Powell said, not looking back, voice dim as a guttering candle.

Back home, Powell slid an envelope from a hidden slot in the bookcase, the motion quiet as a cat. A white dragon seal, already broken, gleamed like a dead moon. He studied the letter, his expression a tangle of thorns, then sighed long, like wind through pines, and fed it to flame until it curled into gray ash.

…

Inside the city, in a small bar tucked away like a sparrow’s nest, Delaia and his attendant lifted cups and traded easy words. It was noon bright as brass, yet the place still thrummed with bodies.

Waitresses in short skirts and low necklines wove between tables like swallows, while tipsy old-timers let out whistles that skittered like pebbles. The air smelled of meat, spice, and spilled ale.

“Little sister Nira looks beautiful today,” one red-faced uncle said, grin sloppy as spilled soup.

“Thank you, uncle, and you’re extra handsome today,” Nira answered, her voice like a deep spring pool, hollow and melodious.

“Tsk, tsk,” he chuckled, shoulders bobbing like buoys.

“But uncle, is that really okay?” Nira teased, eyes bright as fireflies. “If your wife finds out, you’re doomed.”

“Nira… why do this to yourself?” he sighed, reaching into his purse like a crab. “Here, uncle’s tip.”

“Mhm! Thank you, uncle!” she chirped, joy popping like a bubble.

“Lord Draela, interested in her?” Kasda asked, smile shaded like a folded fan.

Delaia shook his head, cool as a mountain stream. “I’m just thinking—people at the bottom still find a way to live bright and loud. I’m a little envious.”

“Careful with that,” Kasda said, lifting a spoonful of beef fried rice steaming like a small cloud. “If folks heard, it’d stir trouble. You envy them, yet they won’t touch a hair on your head.”

Delaia cut into a pork cutlet, the crust crackling like dry leaves. “Kasda, have you ever been happy?”

Kasda’s handsome face warmed with a smile, soft as lantern light. “Serving you as your attendant is my greatest joy—then and now.”

“Is that so…” Delaia smiled, the curve faint as dawn.

“Sir, your wine,” Nira said, setting down two brimming mugs that frothed like river foam.

“You’ve got the wrong table,” Kasda said, quick as a fox. “We didn’t order wine, and we’re not lords, we’re merchants.”

Nira put the cups down and hugged the tray to her chest, drawing a bold line of cleavage like a crescent. “Hmph! You can’t fool Nira. You two wear common clothes, but the handsome one beside you carries a presence like a drawn bow, and he speaks to you with deference.”

“You look plain at a glance,” she went on, eyes sharp as needles, “but your gaze shines like a starfield. Even your fork-and-knife work flows like water, and your cutlets are stacked neat as bamboo joints. That’s habit. Who here eats pork cutlet with such finesse?”

“With a personal aide at your elbow and an aura that fills the room like incense, you’ve got to be rich or noble.”

Delaia stared, stunned as a struck bell. He had never weighed these things; habit is a river you stop seeing while you cross it, and who notices their own stride?

“Come here,” Delaia said, smiling, the warmth smooth as silk.

Nira leaned in, then stood just behind his shoulder like a shadow at noon. “Are you familiar with this area?” Delaia asked, voice light as a fan’s breeze.

“Like the lines on my palm, sir,” Nira said, heart beating like a drum. “I can recite the map of Sia City front to back.”

“Good,” Delaia said, words even as stacked tiles. “Be my guide. You’ll be paid well. The job—”

“I’ll do it! I’ll do it!” Nira burst out, joy flaring like a spark. “I’ll quit right now!”

“Good. Oh, and don’t call me lord,” he added, tone gentle as rain. “Call me Mr. Delaia.”

“Mr. Delaia…” Nira repeated, the name ringing like a distant bell she couldn’t place.

After they ate, the two left with their new guide, content as cats in sun.

“Won’t you go straight to the marquis?” Kasda asked, worry drawing lines like ripples.

Delaia laughed, easy as wind through leaves. “Don’t rush. It’s rare we’re out. Better to watch the marquis in secret first. If we wrong him, that’d be unjust, no?”

“Sir… are you going to the marquis?” Nira ventured, her tone cautious as a hand on glass.

“Not yet,” Delaia said, eyes bright as polished steel. “Show me the best food and the best views first.”

“You’re terrible!” Nira huffed, glancing at the sky that flipped like a tossed cloak. “This weather changes in a blink. There’s a vantage point, tall as a spear into the clouds, where you can see the whole city, and there’s also—”

…

“Captain, when do we arrive?” Medith stared at a sky clogged with cloud like piled slate, worry tugging at her ribs like cold fingers.

“Earliest by tomorrow night,” the captain shouted, his words whipped by wind like flags. “But this weather won’t let us speed up. We can’t risk it!”

“No. Full speed,” Medith said, pouring power into the ship like oil into a lamp. “Not a moment’s delay.”

The captain grumbled, thunder under his breath, but he didn’t dare refuse, and the ship lunged forward like a hound straining at the leash.

No one knew why Medith’s panic burned like a fire behind her eyes.