Ilthor studied her carefully, that pleasant tone of voice carrying just enough threat to be polite.
"I hear troubling things, and do let me be blunt." Ilthor said, swirling his words like the tea he didn't touch. "The Palatine is dying. The garrison has no clear chain of command. And the Vultures are sharpening their wings again, three disappearances this week, all under Captain Holven's watch. Holven Varro..."
Celia lifted her porcelain cup with delicate grace, letting the rising steam brush her lips before she drank. She didn't glance at him. She didn't need to. "You always hear so much, Ilthor. I sometimes wonder how you sleep at night with all that noise in your head."
"On silk sheets," he replied smoothly, "and with better company than most would expect."
She looked at him now, slowly, measured. "Do they last longer than your promises?"
Ilthor chuckled, low and unbothered, his rings catching the sun as he shifted. "Some do. Most don't. But they all leave satisfied."
The breeze stirred through the courtyard again, dragging the scent of wild lemon and inkblossom through the air. Overhead, a dove cooed lazily from the trellis, as if mocking the civility of it all.
"Knowing things is how I've stayed alive, my lady," Ilthor continued, his tone dipping. "And how I've kept myself entertained."
His eyes fell, not too obviously, but not with any shame either. He let them trace the neckline of her gown, the soft glow of her skin in the sunlight. When his gaze rose again, it was slow, deliberate.
"And I have to say," he added, "your household has always been deeply entertaining."
There it was... the purr behind the words, wrapped in silk and wrapped around implication. A tease, yes. But also a warning. A test.
Celia didn't smile, but the curve of her lips shifted. "You've always had a talent for dancing at the edge of offense without quite falling in."
"Only with people who intrigue me," Ilthor said. "And only in places where the rules are… flexible."
"You mean here. With me."
He spread his hands. "If the Palatine had any energy left, he might be scandalized. But I suspect he's too busy dying slowly and miserably in that sunless room you've kept him locked in."
Celia's eyes hardened. "He's still the Palatine. And he's not locked away... he's protected. There's a difference."
"Of course." Ilthor leaned back, smile widening. "Forgive me. I sometimes forget the line between devotion and ambition."
"You've never seen a line you didn't try to step over," she replied.
He tilted his head. "Only because I know you're the one drawing them."
That made her pause.
The silence between them deepened, a tension held in the fluttering of vines and the slow trickle of water from the courtyard fountain. They knew each other too well for lies to survive long. And too little for trust to form.
Celia leaned back in her chair, running one fingertip along the rim of her teacup. "Let's speak plainly. You didn't come here for gossip. You've already bought your share of that in the Red Bazaar."
"True," Ilthor admitted. "But what I hear in the Bazaar and what I see here are two very different things. And what I see is a throne going cold. And a daughter who looks far too comfortable in the heat rising off it."
"I've lived in this city longer than you've had your title, Gaius. Don't mistake comfort for preparation."
"Clever words," he said, leaning forward now, voice lower, richer. "But we both know words only get you so far in Varentis. The last woman who tried to outtalk a transition ended up floating in the Tine."
"And the man who sent her there choked on his own silk two weeks later. Have you forgotten?"
Ilthor's smile faltered just slightly, just enough for her to see it.
They both knew the game.
And they both knew it was already being played.
The breeze swept through the courtyard again, lifting the edges of the linen shade overhead. Sunlight filtered through the trellises, playing across the neckline of her gown where skin met silk. Celia didn't move to adjust it.
Ilthor's eyes lingered, not subtly. Not politely. She felt the weight of his gaze trace her collarbone, the curve beneath it, the soft swell rising and falling with her breath.
He was practically drinking her in. He always had.
But today, it was bolder. Hungrier.
As if the moment her father died, she would be unclaimed, available. A throne without a king. A body without protection.
And he wanted both.
Celia let the silence stretch a beat too long, forcing him to feel it.
"Tell me," She said at last, voice low, almost indulgent. "What is it you want today?"
Ilthor gave her a slow, greedy smile, eyes still wandering, though now once again masked behind false warmth. "Stability."
A lie. As obvious as the sweat beading at his temple and the tightness in his throat.
There was no stability in Varentis. Only appetite dressed up as order. And Ilthor didn't come for tea and conversation.
He came to look. To imagine. And maybe, just maybe... to bargain for something he could never afford.
He leaned back in his seat, legs spread with lazy confidence, as if he already owned the room. "Varentis needs a firm hand," he said. "A clever one. Someone the people respect, and desire."
She tilted her head, letting the motion shift the line of her gown again. Just enough.
"I'm not for sale, Ilthor."
He grinned. "Everyone's for sale. You just haven't heard the right offer."
She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. Her voice sharpened to a whisper made of glass.
"We both know what happens when the Palatine dies."
Ilthor's smile didn't falter, but his breathing hitched, just slightly.
"Do we?" he asked.
"It won't be you," she said.
Something flickered behind his eyes. The hunger, suddenly defensive. Possessive. Dangerous.
"You wound me."
"No," she said, still smiling. "If I wanted to wound you, you'd already be bleeding."
A beat of silence. Then laughter, genuine this time, or close enough to pass. "I've always admired that tongue of yours, Celia."
"And I admire your ability to speak for five minutes without saying anything useful. But I do have a schedule. Unless you brought something worth hearing, I'll need my morning back."
Ilthor stood, brushing invisible dust from his robe. "Only ever a pleasure, Lady Varro. But I should be going. There's work to be done before the city decides what shape it wants to take."
He didn't bow. He never did. Just walked out with that same slow confidence, the scent of perfume trailing behind him like fog.
Celia watched him go.
Yes, something was shifting, and she would be ready.
She got up and moved through the heart of her family estate. The halls were lined with old stone and older portraits, half-forgotten ancestors in faded oils, their eyes watching from behind gilded frames. Tapestries hung heavy along the walls, their threads dulled by time but no less regal, each one a record of Varro triumphs; trade pacts, battle honors, imperial appointments.
Servants bowed as she passed, silent and efficient, and not one dared to speak. In this place, everything spoke of survival. Of a house too clever to fall, too proud to beg, and too entangled in the bones of Varentis to be dug out clean.
The gates of the Varro estate opened with a low groan, polished iron parting to reveal the waiting carriage outside. It was sleek, armored beneath its lacquered paneling, the green-and-gold eagle sigil of House Varro embossed on the door, subtle, but impossible to mistake. The twin dusk-colored horses that pulled it were bred from warstock, twitching at the reins.
Celia descended the front steps of the estate with practiced grace, her cloak sweeping behind her in a ripple of forest silk and gold stitching.
Trailing behind her, as constant as her shadow, came Ser Kael Draven.
The Pale Blade. The Ghost of Argrave Pass. House Varro's sanctioned spellsword, a Brightblood of the Seventh Circle, and hers, body and blade.
Draven was a mountain wrapped in silver. Not armored in full plate, but clad in a layered suit of Barne Scale, mana-bound, Church-sanctioned, and ruinously expensive. The living metal flexed like muscle, each scale catching the light in muted waves, refracting faint traces of defensive wards etched in old Manabassic script. Not decorative. Deadly.
Barne Scale wasn't bought. It wasn't forged in common smithies. It was granted, whispered to be a product of sacred rites and guarded recipes known only to the highest circles of the Manabassic Church. To wear it was to carry both weight and warning, because it meant you were sanctioned. Watched. Trusted to kill, but only in service to the right hands.
Draven, a veteran of the Newfyre Rebellion, his kill count was legend, spoken of in taverns and officers' mess halls in equal measure. He'd fought in the Siege of Pell Varn, orchestrating the ambush of Argrave Pass, broke a Winterfyre line single-handedly, and never once stepped back from the breach.
His white hair was tied back in a short knot behind his head, and a closely trimmed beard framed a face carved in granite, scarred from temple to jaw, with one pale eye rendered permanently milky by a wound left unhealed.
Draven said nothing as he fell into step beside the carriage. He never needed to.
Waiting beside the open carriage door stood Maeren Tol, House Varro's steward, clutching a stack of parchment scrolls bound in a green ribbon. He bowed low as Lady Celia approached.
Celia climbed in without glancing back.