The attendant in the golden brooch led her into a secluded salon, its walls muffled in muted silks, the faint perfume of lavender steeping the air like a lingering spell.
"My lady, you may call me Lan," he said with a courteous incline of his head.
Elira's gaze drifted—not to his face, but to the brooch at his chest. Every attendant bore the same emblem: a stag's head, its antlers branching like a skeletal tree. Yet his was different. The stag's eyes gleamed with inset brown gems—watchful, deliberate.
So… he stands apart from the others, Elira mused, the thought sliding cold and sure across her mind.
He placed before her a weighty catalog, bound in dark leather, the edges worn by many hands.
"Please, my lady,"
Lan murmured, his voice silken as he opened its pages,
"Take your time,My lady. " Lan said smoothly. "These fabrics are not meant for ordinary eyes. Each weave is singular—rare threads, for rarer patrons."
Elira let her fingers drift across the catalog's pages, where swatches of cloth were sketched in loving detail. To the unsuspecting, they were simply silks, velvets, and damasks, each illustrated with flowers or geometric flourishes. But she saw more—the subtle placement of knots, the hidden glyphs disguised as folds in the weave, the quiet language only the well-initiated could read. Exactly as Duchess Estmere once whispered when she thought no ears were listening.
'Velvets—records of courtly scandals.
Silks—affairs of nobility.
And then—'
Her hand stilled on a page. Moonlotus Silk.
A delicate design of curling ivy adorned the sketch, but threaded faintly within it, almost invisible, was the stag's sigil—the mark of the network's true master. A symbol few would ever notice. Fewer still would dare to request.
"I believe," Elira said at last, her tone light but deliberate, "that the Moonlotus Silk will suit me best. I've heard it wears well in all seasons… and endures beautifully without losing form."
For the briefest instant, Lan's composure slipped. His eyes flickered, startled. But the mask of courtesy returned in an instant.
"Are you certain, my lady?" he asked softly.
Elira allowed the ghost of a smile.
"Quite certain."
Lan inclined his head slowly, though the faintest crease marked his brow. He closed the catalog with a deliberate snap, the sound muffled by the silken hush of the salon.
"Then Moonlotus it shall be," he murmured, almost reverently. "Not many dare ask for such a weave. Fewer still know it exists."
He rose with fluid grace and crossed to a tall cabinet in the corner. Its doors were carved with interlocking antlers, polished to a sheen that caught the lamplight. With a quiet click, the cabinet opened, revealing not bolts of cloth but slender drawers lined with parchment and sealed packets. Each bore the name of a fabric, though Elira knew better than to believe any of them held only threads.
Lan drew out a parcel bound with a ribbon the color of midnight. He set it gently upon the table before her.
"The Moonlotus must be handled with care, my lady. Once unwrapped, it cannot easily be put away."
Elira's eyes lingered on the parcel. A warning, then. A test, perhaps. Still, she reached forward and loosened the ribbon with a steady hand. Within lay not fabric, but a thin vellum envelope, its seal pressed with the same stag sigil.
"Your request will be conveyed to the master," Lan said, his tone lowering into something almost conspiratorial. "Should he approve, you will receive… the first length of Moonlotus by courier. Discreetly."
Her fingertips brushed the seal. "And if he does not approve?"
Lan's lips curved faintly, though it was not quite a smile. "Then the fabric you sought never existed. And neither did this conversation."
For a long moment, silence lingered—heavy, charged. Elira held Lan's gaze without flinching, the faint curve of her lips betraying an almost imperceptible smile.
Ha… The Moonlotus is more than a thread of silk. It is the key to his door.
She lowered her lashes, veiling the spark in her eyes, and inclined her head with practiced grace.
"Then let us hope the master finds my taste… acceptable."
The quiet was broken by the click of the door. A maid in muted gray slipped inside, bowing low.
"Sire, the lady-in-waiting of Lady Rothermere has arrived."
'Perfect timing.'
Before Lan could respond, Elira's voice cut in, calm and assured.
"Show her in."
The attendant vanished soundlessly, and a moment later Maren entered, her steps neat and steady. In her hands she carried a long rectangular box of polished wood, its surface gleaming faintly in the lamplight.
Lan's brow shifted almost imperceptibly, the controlled mask on his face shading with curiosity.
"My lady," Maren said with crisp professionalism, moving to Elira's side. "Here is what you requested."
The air stirred between them. Lan tilted his head slightly, his composure still intact, though his eyes betrayed the question that had yet to pass his lips.
At last, he gave voice to it, smooth but edged with restraint.
"My lady?"
Elira's smile deepened—polite, luminous, yet edged with something Lan could not name.
"A small token," she said softly, her tone deliberate, "from myself to Lord Stag. I believe with this… he will find little reason to deny my request."
She inclined her hand gracefully and maren handed the box to Lan.
Lan accepted the box with careful hands, his expression unreadable as he weighed its weight, its promise. Elira's smile remained steady, but her thoughts drifted back to the night before.
—⟡—
The flicker of candlelight filled Elira's chamber, the hour long past when noble daughters ought to be awake. Maren stood before her mistress, cloak already draped about her shoulders, her face a mask of obedience—but her eyes sharp, waiting.
Elira's tone was low, measured.
"There will be an auction tonight. Not one advertised, not one gilded with velvet curtains or polite applause. This one hides beneath the black market stalls. Do you know it?"
Maren inclined her head. "I've heard whispers, my lady. The kind of gathering that moves from place to place. An invitation is…not easy to get hands on."
A faint smile tugged at Elira's lips. She retrieved a slip of parchment from her desk, sliding it across the table. On it, a crest scrawled in ink—half a stag's antlers, cut with a strike through its center.
"This," Elira murmured, "is their seal. Carry it. With it, and coin enough, the doors will open. Once inside, you will seek a single piece: a length of fabric. «Obsidian Weave.» The master of the stag desires it above all others. Whoever secures it earns not only profit but his regard. And I intend to give it to him before another hand reaches it."
Maren's brows drew slightly together.
"Obsidian Weave… the cloth forbidden by the Guild itself?"
"Forbidden," Elira agreed smoothly,
"because it was said to be too difficult to dye, too costly to finish, and too dangerous to own. Pieces vanish from history books as though they never existed. Which is why Lord Stag wants it. It is old, rare, and bound to secrets no one else will part with. A fitting exchange, don't you think?"
Maren's hesitation lasted only a breath before she bowed. "Yes, my lady."
Elira's eyes gleamed faintly in the candlelight.
"Do more than bring it. Outbid them. Bribe them. Cheat them if you must. The auction thrives on gold and fear—use whichever serves you best. And Maren… leave no one with reason to trace this purchase back to me."
—⟡—
When at last the black-draped attendants unfurled a small roll of fabric upon the table, the hall stirred. The auctioneer's grin gleamed sharp in the half-light.
"Obsidian Weave," he purred. "The last known piece, taken from a ruin not meant for mortal hands. Who dares claim it?"
The bidding rose swiftly, voices sharp, hands flashing coins. Maren remained silent at first, her eyes watchful, calculating the rhythm of their greed. When the price grew fevered and hesitation laced the air, she stepped forward at last, voice steady.
"Ten thousand gold."
The hall hissed with disbelief. Even the auctioneer faltered. "Ten… thousand?"
Maren's gaze did not waver. "Paid now. In full. And triple that for the silence of those present, should the master doubt their discretion."
A silence fell. Gold heavy enough to drown a man clinked into the chest at her side—Elira's coin, Elira's gamble. The auctioneer's grin widened like a blade.
"Sold! "
—⟡—
Now, standing in the lavender-scented salon, Maren's professional mask betrayed nothing as Lan accepted the wooden box from her hands. Only Elira knew what it held: a relic of the forbidden, a treasure pulled from shadow by her command.
She let her smile linger, sweet as spun silk.
"Do tell your master," she said softly, "that Lady Rothermere knows how to sew her bargains."