No one knew how long it had been; time dripped like wax, and Nira had curled on the table like a tired cat before their three-way talk truly began.

“So you’re saying Powell most likely betrayed Sia City and his king, and opened the gates to bandits?” Medith’s heart clenched like a fist; she’d had a soft spot for that paunchy, bearded man.

During the flood, he’d stood like a rock in black water, shouting orders, and he’d emptied his coffers like rain for the homeless.

“Whatever the case, facts are facts.” Delaia’s voice was a cold stone dropped in a well.

Medith rarely frowned, but now her brows knotted like twisted rope. “I don’t think it’s that simple. If treason had been in his heart, why pour out his wealth for the people, even risk his life to pull them from the waves?

“If it’s for money, the math breaks—dead men don’t spend, and he was already rich as a warehouse full of grain.

“If it’s for fame, he was a marquis. Sia City adored him, and even the city guard praised him like a chorus. With both in hand, what’s the point of rebellion?”

Delaia and Kasda fell quiet, thoughts circling like crows over a field. After a beat, Kasda said, “Some people don’t need a reason to rebel—fire doesn’t explain itself to dry grass.”

Delaia’s brows drew tight, as if something deeper tugged from below the water. “By that measure, something else is odd. Prince Paris met me in private on October 20. His Highness said a secret letter warned of anomalies with Marquis Powell. Sia City sits at a choke point, and the marquis is beloved. We couldn’t smear him lightly, yet we couldn’t look away. So he begged me to investigate in secret—this was a matter where fewer eyes meant clearer water.”

“Begged?” Medith seized the word like a hook. So even a prince couldn’t simply command the Crown Guard—power was a blade wrapped in silk.

Delaia seemed to grasp it too. “I thought we were in calm years—fields green, roads safe. With the prince himself asking, it was hard to refuse. On October 21 I sailed with my adjutant, Kasda. We took a small merchant ship, shadows on the tide. The sea flipped its mood like an iron sky, and we lost a few days. We reached Sia City on October 29, and we investigated for ten days straight.

“All we heard was praise, buzzing like a hive around Marquis Powell’s name. People trusted him, they loved him. After the tsunami, his renown burned like the noonday sun. Even the city guard’s vigilance sank to the valley floor.

“His outings were clockwork. Whenever he went out, he passed through the market, and he’d buy small trinkets from hawkers at high prices—coins falling like warm rain—so he could help the people in plain sight.

“A man like that, it’s hard to call traitor. We planned to linger two more days, share a cup with him, then sail home. We didn’t expect…”

Medith sifted the words like sand through her fingers. “A prince… a private talk… treason… Powell…”

She felt it then, an invisible thread lacing everything together, tight as a snare. Coincidences lined up like stars on a winter night, and together they drew today’s cruel pattern.

If Prince Paris hadn’t received that letter and asked Delaia for help, Delaia wouldn’t have left the Royal Capital. If Paris hadn’t told her the Eastern Nation’s history that day—delaying her by a day—and if she hadn’t seen those pigeons drop dead like scattered ash, she might never have reached Sia City tonight. Her coming felt like a blessing tossed into a burning house.

It was all too uncanny, like a puppeteer tugging strings behind a silk screen. A chill slid down Medith’s spine like cold rain. If a hand did weave this net, whose hand was it, and how sharp were its claws?

She didn’t dare follow that thought into the dark. In all her days, no one’s scheming had run this deep. She’d rather believe in coincidence—countless small pebbles piling into a landslide.

Kasda shattered that fragile hope like glass. “The suspected rebel leader, Erig, claims he’s the fourth-generation Commander of the Dike Guard. And he knew Lord Draela must be inside the city.

“He also said, ‘Why do you think we chose tonight to attack?’”

Medith and Delaia shuddered in unison; their teacups slipped, and hot liquid lapped the rims like a rising tide. Gooseflesh prickled and wouldn’t smooth down.

Delaia stared at Medith, eyes wide as storm lanterns; they were standing on the same thought.

Medith’s voice quivered like a taut string, fear or shock thrumming in it. “I can’t confirm they’re rebels, but I’m sure of this—they’ve received help, and not from shadows. Someone in the Eastern Nation, a powerful noble, is feeding them. The Iron Cavalry Legion. Impado. Heavy cavalry. Heavy-armor fighters. Weapons as clean as new snow.

“By their moves, they likely even know about Lachesis. They’ve already begun siege work, haven’t they? This is absolutely…”

“Rebellion…” Delaia breathed the word out like smoke. Since the dawn of crowns, rebellion has been the Empire’s reverse scale—touch it, and blood runs like rivers, empires crack like ice. How many states have destroyed themselves?

Look at the Eastern Nation, and you’ll see such days are rare as phoenix feathers. Ogathas carved out peace with a blunt blade; the last king’s bones have only just turned white. Will the wheel grind back to the same ruts?

“We can’t judge yet… not without ironproof,” Medith said, and let the rest die. Either way, the ground shakes—the Empire’s roots feel the quake.

At the lightest, morale wilts like frost-bitten grass. At the worst, it’s a cliff with no bottom.

“Ha. Suddenly I think it’d be better if Powell were dead.” Delaia’s smile was a cracked mask, half grief, half grim humor.

Medith and Kasda held their tongues. It sounded like a joke, but it was also a blade. If he were dead, suspicion would wash away like chalk in rain. If he stood on their side…

Medith’s eyes turned hard, knife-bright. The candle didn’t just flicker in the gale sneaking through the shutters; it painted Medith’s face in a foxfire glow. “I don’t think Marquis Powell’s suspicion can be washed clean.

“At least not until we find him, or his body.

“The walls fell too easily. Infiltration ran like dye through cloth. Marquis Powell can’t shrug that off.”

“Mm…” Delaia let the word sink like a stone and said nothing more.

Kasda spoke, heavy as a drum. “Tomorrow. What do we do?”

“Ah… tomorrow…” Medith stared into the candle like it was a small sun. Sleep pressed on her lids like snow, heavier, heavier… and the room drifted into quiet.