The Royal Legal Office hummed with its usual dissonance—scratching quills, the clatter of mana-crystal lamps flickering under overloaded circuits, and the occasional hiss of an over-steeped herbal brew meeting its demise. Astris Doran hunched at her desk, the marriage contract revisions spread before her like a battlefield. The silver cat sprawled in a sunbeam nearby, belly-up, one paw twitching as it dreamt of whatever cats dreamt of: conquests, salmon, or the downfall of mortal empires.
Evelyn Laveau exploded into the room first, her rainbow quill sparking like a firework. Ethan Fetters loomed behind her, his shadow swallowing the doorframe, monocle glinting with its usual judgmental sheen.
"Explain," Evelyn demanded, slamming a copy of the original marriage accord onto Astris's desk. The cat startled awake, rolling onto its feet with a disgruntled mrrow. "Why are we redrafting clauses they approved? Are Prince Drama and Princess Perfect suddenly allergic to their own signatures?"
Astris didn't look up, her phoenix quill dancing across a clause about wyvern fleet jurisdiction. "Because their 'approval' was a performance. The Emerald Labyrinth cores were a decoy. Appendix Six contradicts Clause 9-G, which nullifies the military oversight terms unless—"
"Unless what?" Ethan cut in, leaning over her desk. His breath smelled of bitter coffee and burnt parchment. "This is Celestaviel's oldest trick. Ambiguity as armor. You're playing scribe to their theatrics."
"I'm ensuring their theatrics don't torch the Lower Ward." Astris finally met his gaze, her truth-detection pendant cold against her collarbone. "Unless you'd prefer Kaufmann's leviathan to swallow the docks whole?"
The cat leapt onto the desk, batting at Evelyn's quill. She swatted it away. "Focus. What's actually changing?"
Astris tapped the parchment. "Joint oversight becomes conditional oversight. No wyvern deployments within ten leagues of Lismore's mana dams. And the Frostbane deadline shifts to align with the star—"
The door crashed open. Seth Guilladot stood silhouetted in the frame, a dossier clutched in one hand and a half-eaten caramel muffin in the other. "Conference room. Now."
Evelyn whirled. "We're in the middle of—"
"Kaufmann's funneling aetherium shards through the Temple of Cybele. The High Priest's implicated. This"—he shook the dossier, sending crumbs flying—"takes precedence."
Evelyn's quill flared neon-pink. "So do the trade routes I negotiated! If Celestaviel pulls their wyverns—"
"Then you'll draft a counterattack after we survive the week." Seth's glare could've frozen lava. "Move."
Evelyn opened her mouth, fury crackling in the air, but Ethan gripped her shoulder. "Pick battles, Laveau. Not wars."
She shook him off but stormed out, muttering curses that made the cat's ears flatten. Astris gathered her notes, the revised contract hastily rolled and tucked under her arm. The cat trotted after her, tail aloft like a banner.
Seth eyed it. "Since when do we have a mascot?"
"Since it decided theft is a civic duty," Astris said, dodging as the cat swiped at her scroll.
The conference room was a crypt of tension. Maps of the Shattered Spire's labyrinth glowed on the walls, mana-crystal projectors humming. Harvy slouched at the table, infernal contracts smoldering in his grip, while Ally nibbled a muffin, her gaze darting between Seth and the door.
"Kaufmann's using the temples to sanctify his shard shipments," Seth began, slapping the dossier open. "We trace the conduits, cut the routes, and—"
Astris's mind snagged on a detail—a star chart overlay in the Spire's core, its alignment three weeks out. The cat leapt onto the table, pawing at the projection, its milky eye reflecting the Voidwell's coordinates.
Soon, she thought, her boot's hidden shard pulsing in agreement.
Evelyn slammed into the room, her quill now dripping acid-green ink. "If we're done with the coup de théâtre, I have tariffs to salvage."
The cat yawned, as if bored by mortal squabbles. But its gaze lingered on Astris, sharp and knowing.
The conference room crackled with tension, mana-crystal projections of the Shattered Spire's labyrinth casting jagged shadows over the assembled faces. Seth Guilladot stood at the head of the table, his caramel muffin reduced to crumbs under the weight of his glare. The silver cat perched atop a filing cabinet, its mismatched eyes tracking every twitch, every flicker of doubt.
"Kaufmann's using the temples to legitimize his shard shipments," Seth said, jabbing a finger at the dossier. "We cut the conduits, freeze his assets, and expose the High Priest's complicity. Questions?"
Lucy leaned forward, her acid vials clinking. "Cut how? The temples have divine immunity. We can't just raid their vaults."
"We don't raid," Harvy interjected, flipping through infernal contracts. "We audit. Every tithe, every offering—track the mana flow back to Kaufmann's warehouses. Burn him with his own paperwork."
Ethan snorted, adjusting his cracked monocle. "Audit the temples? They'll bury us in celestial red tape before we find a single ledger."
"Then we bury them first," Ally said, brushing muffin crumbs off her blouse. Her tone was light, but her eyes hardened. "Leak the High Priest's 'donations' to the orphanages. Let the court of public opinion gut him."
Noah winced, his truth-seeker's monocle fogging. "The orphans need those funds. If we expose the transfers, Kaufmann will retaliate. They'll starve."
"And if we don't, everyone starves," Lucy snapped. "Or did you miss the part where he's got a pet leviathan?"
Gretchen hummed softly, pruning a carnivorous fern on the windowsill. "We could… redirect. Feed Kaufmann's greed somewhere harmless. A fake vault, a decoy shipment. Let him devour himself."
Enzo, hunched at the far end of the table, scribbled furious notes in his ledger. "The fake vault would need a credible lure. Aetherium shards. Or better yet, something he thinks is valuable. Like the High Priest's correspondence."
"Blackmail?" Seth raised an eyebrow.
"Leverage," Enzo corrected, tapping his cursed pocket watch. "Kaufmann's loyalties are transactional. Threaten his profit, and he'll turn on the temples himself."
Astris stayed silent, her fingers tracing the edge of the star chart hidden beneath her notes. The Voidwell's coordinates glowed in her mind, three weeks away. The cat leapt onto the table, its tail brushing her wrist—a silent prompt.
"We're missing the root," she said quietly.
All eyes turned to her.
"Kaufmann's power isn't in his gold or his leviathan. It's in the Spire." She tapped the projection, where the labyrinth's heart pulsed like a diseased star. "He's harvesting its sentience. Corrupting it. Sever that, and his empire crumbles."
Harvy smirked. "Ah, the classic 'stab the monster in its metaphorical soul' approach. Simple. Suicidal. I like it."
"How?" Noah asked, leaning forward. "The Spire's guarded by temple zealots and Kaufmann's mercenaries. We'd need an army."
"Or a distraction," Lucy said, rolling a vial of acid between her palms. "Something flashy. Like a wyvern stampede through the Lower Ward."
"Or a wedding," Evelyn drawled from the doorway, her rainbow quill dripping venom-green ink. She held up a scroll sealed with Celestaviel's wyvern crest. "The Frostbane Festival's been moved up. Zaiden and Cassis's union is now a priority."
The room groaned.
"Perfect," Seth muttered. "Because what this disaster needs is more polka dots."
Astris's gaze locked with the cat's. Its milky eye winked.
Soon, the shard in her boot seemed to whisper.
"We'll need a team inside the Spire," she said, rising. "Someone to destabilize the core during the festival chaos."
"Volunteering?" Seth asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.
The cat purred.
"No," Astris said. "I'll need a decoy. Someone Kaufmann won't suspect."
Harvy raised his infernal contracts. "I'll drown him in litigation. He'll be too busy signing his soul away to notice a knife in his back."
"And I'll sweeten the trap," Gretchen added, plucking a bloom from her fern. Its petals dripped nectar that sizzled on the table. "A little poison in his wine never hurt."
"Figuratively," Noah clarified, paling.
"Obviously," Gretchen said, smiling.
As the room erupted into plans and counterplans, Astris slipped the star chart into her bag. The cat followed her to the door, its tail flicking with approval.
The meeting dissolved into the clatter of chairs and the rustle of parchment as the team scattered to their tasks. Lucy pocketed her acid vials with a predator's grace, muttering about "flammable distractions," while Harvy vanished in a swirl of infernal contract smoke, cackling about subpoenaing a leviathan. Enzo lingered, scribbling equations on his cuffs, until Noah dragged him out by the elbow, arguing over the ethics of decoy vaults.
Gretchen remained by the windowsill, humming to her carnivorous fern as it snapped lazily at drifting mana-motes. The silver cat leapt onto her desk, batting at a stray paperweight shaped like a snarling wyvern.
A soft chime cut through the residual chatter—a crystal prism hanging above Gretchen's desk flared to life, projecting ripples of cerulean light. She tilted her head, listening as the prism pulsed in rhythmic, coded bursts. Her smile sharpened.
"Message for you, dear," she called to Astris, who stood near the door, her bag heavy with star charts and resolve.
Gretchen plucked a leaf from her fern, its edge glinting like a blade, and scribbled across it in luminescent ink. The symbols shimmered—a serpent coiled around a spire, a crescent moon pierced by a dagger—before she handed it to Astris.
"From our friends in the Lower Ward."
Astris scanned the leaf, her lips curling into a smirk. The message was succinct: Kaufmann's leviathan docks at moonrise. Cargo: aetherium shards. Crew: three, hungover.
Beneath, Gretchen had added her own annotation: 🐟🍷
"The Siren's Grin," Astris murmured. A notorious tavern where Kaufmann's lackeys drowned their paranoia in cheap rum and cheaper secrets.
Gretchen winked. "I took the liberty of reserving you a table. Dress code: incognito."
The cat trilled, leaping onto Astris's shoulder, its tail coiling around her neck like a conspiratorial scarf.
"Try not to burn the place down," Gretchen added, adjusting a charm bracelet that jingled with tiny dungeon keys. "Unless it's thematic."
Astris folded the leaf into her pocket, the shard in her boot humming in anticipation. "No promises."
As she slipped into the hall, the cat's mismatched eyes gleaming with mischief, Gretchen called after her:
"Do remember to have fun, darling. It's not every day you get to sink a tyrant's dreams before dessert."
The door clicked shut. Somewhere in the city, a clock tower chimed.
And the game tilted, ever so slightly, in their favor.
*****
The prince's office was a tableau of controlled chaos. Maps of Lismore's labyrinthine mana veins sprawled across the walls, their edges pinned beneath ceremonial daggers and faded star charts. Zaiden Leclair slouched in his high-backed chair, boots propped on the desk, twirling a caramel wrapper into a spiral. Cedric Winifred stood opposite, reciting the evening's agenda in a tone drier than the ink on the unsigned trade accords stacked between them.
"—finalize the Frostbane Festival security protocols, review the High Priest's petition for increased temple guard funding, and approve the—"
A flicker.
Zaiden's fingers stilled. The wrapper drifted to the floor.
Vision: Astris Doran, cloaked in shadow, slipping into the dim glow of a tavern. The silver cat darted ahead, its tail flicking like a metronome. Gretchen's fern-leaf message glinted in her palm, the kraken sigil of Kaufmann's cargo manifest burning like a brand. The cat's milky eye flashed—knowing, mocking.
"Sire?" Cedric's voice cut through the haze.
Zaiden blinked, the afterimage of the Siren's Grin clinging to his retinas. His pulse quickened. She's moving tonight.
"Cancel the rest," he said abruptly, rising and snatching his cloak from the back of the chair.
Cedric frowned. "The High Priest's petition requires your seal by dawn. And the festival security—"
"Defer it. All of it." Zaiden fastened the cloak's clasp, shadow-thread weaving through the fabric to blur his silhouette.
"Might I ask why?" Cedric's gaze sharpened, lingering on the prince's gloved hands—always a tell when he was hiding something.
"You might not." Zaiden flashed a grin devoid of humor. "Consider it a royal whim."
He strode to the balcony, the night air biting with the promise of rain. Below, the Lower Ward's crooked rooftops hunched like conspirators.
"Sire," Cedric said, softer now. A warning.
Zaiden paused, shoulders tense. For a heartbeat, the room hummed with unspoken truths—the weight of Cedric's loyalty, the prince's reckless obsession with games within games. Then he vaulted over the railing, cloak billowing, and vanished into the gloom.
Cedric sighed, turning to the shadows pooled in the office's corner. "Zander."
The guard emerged soundlessly, his leathers smelling of steel and pine resin. He needed no explanation. The prince's abrupt exits had become routine, as had Zander's role as silent shadow.
"Don't let him do anything…" Cedric trailed off, gesturing vaguely.
"Stupid?" Zander adjusted the twin daggers at his hips. "Never do."
"Alone, then."
Zander's lips quirked. "He's never alone."
With a nod, he melted into the hallway, footsteps echoing like a ghost's.
Zaiden moved through the Lower Ward's arteries, Echohold humming in his veins. The cat's senses bled into his own—Astris's heartbeat steady, her breath shallow as she crouched behind a stack of crates near the docks. The leviathan's silhouette loomed in the harbor, its scales glinting under the moon.
He grinned, adrenaline sharpening the night. Let's see how this plays out, little drafter.
Above him, perched on a rain-slick gutter, Zander watched his prince watch her. His daggers stayed sheathed, his presence a silent vow.
Never alone.
*****
The Siren's Grin stank of brine, betrayal, and burnt rum. Nestled in the bowels of the Lower Ward, its sagging timbers groaned under the weight of whispered deals and the occasional brawl. Astris adjusted her hood, the coarse fabric itching her neck, and slipped through the tavern's side entrance. The silver cat slinked at her heels, its fur dulled by soot to blend with the shadows.
Kaufmann's men were easy to spot—hulking figures clustered around a corner table, their boots coated with estuary mud, and their laughter too loud, too forced. A half-empty bottle of Dragon-fire whiskey sat between them, its label singed off. The cat paused, sniffing the air, before darting under a nearby bench.
Astris slid into a dim alcove, her back to the wall, and ordered a mug of sour ale she had no intention of drinking. From here, she could hear their slurred boasts:
"—loaded by midnight. Boss says the leviathan's hungry. Swallowed two divers last week."
"Better them than us. Pass the bottle."
She palmed a vial of drowsing powder from her sleeve, its contents shimmering faintly. But before she could move, the cat leapt onto their table, knocking the whiskey into a mercenary's lap.
"Damned vermin!" The man lurched up, swiping at it. The cat yowled, darting between legs, toppling stools, and chaos erupted.
Astris seized the moment. A flick of her wrist, and the powder dissolved into their fresh round of drinks. The mercenaries slumped back, grumbling, none the wiser as their eyelids drooped.
Above the tavern, perched on a rusted fire escape, Zaiden Leclair watched through a grimy window. His cloak, woven with shadow thread, blurred his outline into the night. Echohold hummed in his veins, the cat's senses overlaying his own—Astris's steady hands, the vial's glint, the satisfying thud of a drugged mercenary's head hitting the table.
Clever, he mused, smirking. But reckless.
He'd followed her from the office, curiosity piqued by Gretchen's cryptic send-off. Now, as Astris rifled through the men's pockets, extracting a cargo manifest sealed with Kaufmann's kraken sigil, Zaiden's grin widened. The document glinted in the tavern's greasy light, its contents a roadmap to ruin.
The cat reappeared at Astris's side, pawing at her boot. She stiffened, glancing around—sensing the weight of hidden eyes. Zaiden held his breath, Echohold dampening his presence to a shadow's whisper.
"Let's go," she muttered to the cat, tucking the manifest into her coat.
Zaiden waited until she'd melted into the alley before dropping to the street. His boots made no sound as he trailed her, a specter in the fog.
Astris ducked into a narrow courtyard, the manifest burning against her ribs. The cat hissed suddenly, fur bristling, and she froze.
"Who's there?"
Silence. Then the scuff of a boot—too deliberate.
She spun, phoenix quill raised like a dagger, but the courtyard was empty. Above, a cloak fluttered on a rooftop ledge, then vanished.
The cat chirped, calm now, licking a paw.
"Someone's playing games," Astris muttered. She glanced at the manifest, Kaufmann's sigil gleaming like a threat. "Let them play. We have work to do."
Zaiden leaned against a chimney stack, catching his breath. Close. Too close. He'd misjudged a leap, his cloak snagging on a weathervane. Beneath him, the cat sat on the courtyard wall, staring up with its mismatched eyes.
You, he thought, are a terrible spy.
The cat blinked, slow and smug, before trotting after Astris.
Zaiden lingered, the manifest's details etched in his mind. Kaufmann's leviathan, the aetherium shards, the docking coordinates—tonight. He pulled a caramel from his pocket, unwrapping it with a flick of his wrist.
"Well, Kaufmann," he whispered, popping the sweet into his mouth. "Looks like you've made a new enemy."
Somewhere below, a clock tower chimed. The game, it seemed, had only just begun.
The morning light filtering through Seth Guilladot's office windows was thin and grudging, as if even the sun resented the hour. Astris Doran stood before his desk, the stolen cargo manifest clutched in her ink-stained hand. Seth leaned back in his chair, his caramel-glazed muffin forgotten, crumbs littering the dossier on Kaufmann's temple conduits.
"Leviathan docks tonight," Astris said, sliding the manifest across the desk. "Shards are being moved under the High Priest's seal. We intercept them here—" she tapped the coordinates scrawled in Kraken's Bay, "—and Kaufmann's supply line collapses."
Seth scanned the document, his brow furrowing. "How'd you get this?"
"A tavern, a cat, and a well-timed distraction."
He grunted, a reluctant smirk tugging at his lips. "You're getting reckless."
"You're welcome."
Seth stood, crumpling the manifest into his coat pocket. "Call the team. One hour. We finalize the strike."
Astris nodded, turning to leave, but paused at the door. "And the marriage contract?"
"After Kaufmann's in the ground."
The hallway outside Seth's office was a gauntlet. Astris hadn't taken three steps before Evelyn Laveau materialized, her rainbow quill vibrating with barely restrained fury.
"Finally done playing spy?" Evelyn hissed, falling into step beside her. "The Frostbane Festival is in ten days. The marriage accord must be sealed before the first snow, or Celestaviel withdraws their wyverns. Again."
Astris kept walking, her boots clicking a sharp staccato. "Then tell Parliament to stop rewriting Clause 12 every time Zaiden sneezes."
Evelyn grabbed her arm, nails biting through fabric. "This isn't a joke. The High Priest's already demanding concessions. If we miss the deadline—"
"If we miss the deadline, Kaufmann wins," Astris snapped, shaking free. "Or did you forget he's stockpiling enough aetherium to melt the dams?"
Evelyn's quill flared acid-green. "I haven't forgotten. But you're the one who volunteered to juggle both. So juggle."
The silver cat darted between their legs, tripping Evelyn long enough for Astris to slip into her office and slam the door. The lock clicked—a feeble defense.
"You can't hide forever!" Evelyn called through the wood.
Astris slumped against the door, her desk a sanctuary of chaos. The cat leapt onto a stack of star charts, pawing at the Voidwell's coordinates.
"Not now," she muttered, shoving the creature aside.
But the charts glared back, timelines colliding: three weeks until alignment, ten days until the Frostbane deadline, tonight until Kaufmann's leviathan unloaded hell.
She uncorked a vial of ink, phoenix quill poised. The marriage contract revisions sprawled beside the Spire's schematics—two wars, one woman, and a cat who chewed on treaties like catnip.