Per the latest summon, the nobles who still possessed the luxury of celebration had already begun preparing for the first grand ball of the month.
From above, the city looked almost festive.
Silks in unfamiliar hues drifted through the streets like migrating birds.
Attendants hurried with measuring tapes and bundles of fabric tucked under their arms; noblewomen sent servants back and forth between tailors and jewelers, already arguing over cuts, colors, and how much skin could be revealed without offending tradition. Even the air smelled different less of iron and damp stone, more of perfume and coin.
Merchants were thriving. Shopkeepers smiled too widely as they ushered patrons inside, eyes gleaming with the unmistakable hunger of profit. Three months of continuous festivities meant three months of spending, and they intended to drain every purse dry.
All of it looked normal.
Which was precisely why Cashim did not trust it.
He stood by the tall window of his residence, one hand resting idly against the frame, gaze fixed on the moving crowd below. From this height, people resembled pieces on a board orderly, predictable, unaware of how easily they could be overturned.
"Still nothing?" he asked quietly.
Behind him, his assistant Mazi hesitated before stepping forward, a folded letter in hand. "There was movement," he said carefully. "The only heir of Duke Yushon had a private meeting with His Majesty."
Cashim's eyes narrowed slightly.
"And?"
"They later appeared at the banquet," Mazi continued. "But they left earlier than you. Witnesses reported that the Duke and Duchess appeared… unsettled. They were said to have dragged their son into the carriage."
Dragged.
Cashim turned away from the window. "And since then?"
"No assassinations. No arrests. No purges."
Mazi shook his head. "Nothing."
Nothing.
The word rang hollow.
Cashim leaned against the windowsill, fingers tapping softly against the wood. His mind drifted not to the palace, but to the forest beyond the city walls.
To maps spread across candlelight. To crude sketches of stone and root and shadow. To the cave.
While tracing the terrain, studying elevation and distance, he had come to a troubling conclusion: there was a strong possibility that the girl had been using the cave as a route. Not merely as shelter but as passage.
Back and forth.
Between palace and outside world.
It had taken him money. Men. Discretion bought at the cost of silence. Discovering the hidden passage was not something anyone stumbled upon by accident.
He had arrived at the forest mere hours after she vanished.
Hours too late.
The girl had been careful. Too careful for a child. Her tracks were faint, deliberately broken—but to trained eyes, absence was as telling as presence. Something had disturbed the undergrowth in a consistent pattern. Something had been moved, placed, removed.
A mechanism.
Or at least a tool.
Yet when he entered the cave, there was nothing. No markings. No residue. Nothing that explained how stone had opened for her.
Which meant—
"I should take another look," Cashim murmured.
Mazi remained silent, sensing his master's thoughts.
Destroying the cave was an option. An easy one. But too crude.
"No," Cashim decided aloud. "We retreat for now. Focus on the banquets."
Mazi nodded. "To avoid suspicion."
"To gather information," Cashim corrected. "And to remind them I exist."
He smiled faintly.
For now, it was enough that he knew where the child stayed or at least where she might pass through. A possible hidden route was worth more than gold. The Imperial Faction would kill for such knowledge. Those lunatics who worshiped Adiand royalty as if blood alone made them divine.
"When does the auction begin?" he asked.
"The last day of the week."
"Perfect."
There was also that item to secure. And the lingering investigation into Oram Valley.
"Hah," Cashim scoffed under his breath. "To think I almost believed a child."
As if such a thing could truly happen.
Mazi glanced at him. "Does that mean you'll change your mind? Our young patron said the arrangement was optional."
"No," Cashim said smoothly. "Leave it as it is. Let those men consider it a vacation."
He penned a short note no more than a few lines then tied it carefully to a pigeon's leg before placing the bird inside its cage.
"At night," he murmured, eyes softening, "you'll be free. Endure for now."
The pigeon tilted its head, uncomprehending, then fluttered its wings.
Cashim smiled. "That's right. Most people move more freely at night."
He returned to his chair, reclining like a resting panther. His fingers drummed against the armrest in a slow, thoughtful rhythm.
"Really," he muttered, "shouldn't the Emperor be sealed away by now? What just happened?"
Then—
"…Mazi. I need to expand my power."
Mazi stiffened. "Openly? Against your brothers?"
Cashim laughed quietly. "They are no brothers of mine. I'll take everything myself."
He needed authority. A title strong enough to pierce palace walls.
"Prepare the scandal."
Mazi froze. "That will implicate you."
"I know how to play my role."
"…Now?"
"After the banquets," Cashim decided. "Let the masks come off first."
"Three months, then."
"Mm."
He waved a hand. "That's all. I'll rest."
Mazi bowed. "As you wish, Sire."
Once alone, Cashim exhaled slowly.
If only bribing a maid could breach palace walls. If only recommendation alone sufficed. But the palace had been sealed for a decade—no new blood, no mistakes.
Tsk.
***
Far north, in the Garth Duchy, winter clawed its way into bone and marrow.
The meeting hall was silent.
The Duke of Garth sat at the head of the table, unmoving. The cold outside seemed to answer him, thickening the air, pressing inward.
Bam.
The table shook.
No one dared breathe.
"Veralis," the Duke said slowly, voice sharp enough to cut steel, "what in Adiand's tarnation have you done?"
Veralis, seated several chairs down, rose and bowed deeply. "It was my arrogance," he said steadily. "My failure to observe what stood behind me. If my death will appease the family—"
Steel sang.
"What are you doing?!" someone cried.
Veralis had drawn his sword, its tip angled toward his own chest.
"Elder Brother, stop!" Azel leapt to his feet.
He was all brightness and heat—hazel eyes wide with panic, a face too honest for this room.
"Father, please," Azel pleaded. "You know him. He never intended this!"
The Duke snarled. "Intent does not matter! Even if he dies, they will still come. The incident happened inside the Imperial Palace. And you saw something you were never meant to see!"
He slammed his fist down again. "I hate politics."
A dangerous aura flooded the room.
"…I will forgive you," the Duke said at last, "because the information you brought is valuable."
Deadly, too.
"Thank you, Father."
"What gratitude," the Duke scoffed. "So. The Emperor has another blood relation."
Excitement flickered—brief, sharp.
"And younger," he added. "More deceitful."
No wonder the Noble Faction trembled.
"What shall we do?" someone asked weakly.
"Veralis will go."
A gasp.
"But if the heir enters the palace as a—"
The Duke's glare froze the speaker.
"Slave?" he repeated coldly. "The Sons of Garth kneel only to swords."
The man fled.
"If anyone thinks Adiand's princess has placed a leash on us," the Duke warned, "I will remove their head."
Silence answered.
"Father," Azel said suddenly, "I can go."
"No."
Veralis spoke first. The Duke echoed him.
"You're kind," the Duke said bluntly. "Too kind."
"…Did you just call me stupid?"
Veralis sighed. "Azel, I must go. If I don't, she will see deception—and she will tighten her grip."
Azel clenched his fists.
"Please," Veralis said softly. "Let me bear this."
It was decided.
As winter pressed against stone, Duke Garth surveyed them all like an eagle.
"Speak of this to no one," he warned. "Especially your wives."
"Yes, Duke!"
"And if you drink and babble—"
"We understand!"
"Dismissed."
"Veralis," he added. "Stay."
"Yes, Father."
The door closed.
And the cold remained.
"Hah… how vexing."
The Patriarch pressed his fingers to his temples, slow and deliberate. "Of all sides… why did it have to be ours?"