The Dirrium kingdom act 9
The gates of the Royal Palace swung open, exhaling the scent of roasted meats, expensive perfume, and the desperate musk of ambition. Carriages plated in gold and crests of ancient lineage lined the cobblestone drive, but as a sleek, unassuming black carriage pulled to the stop, the chatter of the arriving crowd hit a sudden, jagged lull.
Leornars stepped out first.
The moonlight caught the silver of his hair, making it shimmer like a fallen star against the dark velvet of his suit. He didn't look like an auditor or a student; he looked like a prince from a forgotten, much colder kingdom. He turned, offering a gloved hand to the interior of the carriage.
Stacian emerged, her hand resting lightly on his. The pink of her gown was so vibrant it seemed to glow, a stark, beautiful contrast to the icy cyan of her eyes. Together, they looked like a masterpiece painted in blood and frost.
"Remember," Leornars murmured, his lips barely moving as they ascended the marble stairs. "The more they stare at the girl in pink, the less they see the boy in black."
"I feel like a target in this color," Stacian whispered back, her gaze sweeping the balcony for snipers out of sheer habit.
"Good. Be the target. Draw every eye in the room."
The Threshold of Power
As they entered the Grand Ballroom, the herald's voice boomed across the hall.
"Presenting Leornars of the Academy, and the Lady Stacian!"
The name Leornars rippled through the crowd like a stone dropped in a still pond. To the students, he was the genius peer; to the nobles, he was the "King's Shadow," the boy who had ended Lord Hildas with a single stroke of a pen.
They moved into the center of the room, the crowd parting instinctively. Count Vane was visible near the gold-leafed pillars, surrounded by a sycophantic circle of lesser lords. He froze, his wine glass hovering halfway to his lips, as his eyes met Leornars' crimson gaze. The boy offered a polite, terrifyingly shallow bow.
"He's terrified," Stacian noted, her voice a low hum.
"Fear makes people clumsy," Leornars replied. "The music is starting. Let's give them the show they paid for."
The orchestra began a sweeping, dramatic waltz. Leornars swept Stacian into the center of the floor. Their practice in the warehouse paid off—they moved with a lethal, predatory grace that made the other couples look like bumbling amateurs.
Stacian was a whirlwind of pink silk, her cyan hair trailing behind her like a comet's tail. Every young noble in the room found themselves captivated, their conversations dying in their throats as they watched her. She was the perfect distraction—a beautiful, mysterious enigma that allowed Leornars to scan the room with clinical precision.
Over her shoulder, Leornars tracked the movements of the Palace guards, the exits, and most importantly, the sweat breaking out on Count Vane's brow.
"Three minutes," Leornars whispered in Stacian's ear as he spun her past a cluster of Duke-aligned nobles. "In three minutes, the King's Marshall will ask you for a dance. Keep him occupied. Don't let him look toward the West Wing."
"And you?" she asked, her eyes meeting his.
"I have a ledger to balance," Leornars said.
As the music reached a crescendo, he guided her toward a group of eager suitors. With a final, charming smile that looked perfectly genuine to everyone but Stacian, Leornars stepped back into the shadows of a heavy velvet curtain.
By the time the next note played, the boy in the black suit had vanished, leaving only the "Lady in Pink" to hold the attention of the kingdom's elite.
Leornars did not vanish immediately. To disappear too quickly was to invite suspicion, and he had a reputation to maintain—a reputation built on the ruins of several foreign courts.
As he moved away from the dance floor, leaving Stacian to be swarmed by a line of hopeful suitors, he was intercepted by a cluster of high-ranking dignitaries. These were not the local nobles of Dirrium, but international players who recognized the silver-haired boy from his "consultations" abroad.
"Lord Leornars! Or should I say, the Architect of the Lurtra Collapse?" A portly Duke from the Seraphim Kingdom laughed, raising a glass of sparkling amber wine. "I haven't seen you since you 'restructured' the Seraphim grain exchange. My brother is still in exile, thanks to your final audit."
"Efficiency is often mistaken for cruelty, Duke," Leornars replied, his voice a smooth, cultured purr. "I merely balanced the books. If your brother's accounts had been honest, he would still be in his villa."
"And the Durmount incident?" a Duchess whispered, leaning in, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and fascination. "They say you predicted the fall of the Durmount bank three months before the first vault went dry."
"Patterns, Duchess," Leornars said, offering a shallow, modest bow. "The world speaks in numbers. I simply listen."
He navigated the crowd like a shark through a reef, shaking hands that trembled and accepting smiles that were plated in cold sweat. To these people, he was a living omen—a sign that the old ways of lazy corruption were coming to an end.
The Occupied Study
Having established his presence, Leornars slipped away during a change in the orchestra's tempo. He moved through the servant passages he had memorized from the palace blueprints, his footsteps silent on the stone floors.
He reached the heavy, mahogany doors of the West Wing study where Count Vane had retreated moments earlier. Leornars reached for the silver pen in his pocket, ready to use the hidden lockpick in its cap, when he heard voices from within.
He pressed his ear to the wood, his crimson eyes narrowing.
"The shipments must continue," a sharp, feminine voice hissed from inside. "If the King suspects the Ducal Houses are stockpiling, he'll seize the ports. Vane, you coward, pull yourself together."
"You don't understand," Vane's voice whined, thick with terror. "The boy... Leornars. He's here. He looked at me as if he were already measuring me for a coffin."
"Then kill him," the woman snapped. "Before he finds the ledger."
Leornars drew back. He wasn't alone in his hunt. Someone from the Royal Family—or perhaps a higher-ranking Duchess—was already pulling Vane's strings. Entering now would be premature. He didn't just want Vane; he wanted the hand that held the leash.
He retreated through the shadows, circling back to the Grand Ballroom. He didn't re-enter through the main doors, but instead appeared on the balcony overlooking the garden, where Stacian had just managed to extract herself from a grueling conversation with a Royal Guard.
She was leaning against the stone railing, her pink skirts rustling in the night breeze. Her face was a mask of stoic endurance.
"I am going to burn this dress the moment we return," she muttered as Leornars stepped up beside her.
"Keep it for now," Leornars said softly, looking out over the palace grounds. "The situation is more complex than a simple audit. Vane isn't acting alone. There is a woman in there—someone high-ranking—who is directing the Ducal Houses to stockpile resources against the King."
Stacian turned, her cyan eyes sharp. "A civil war?"
"A planned one," Leornars confirmed. "And we are perfectly positioned in the middle. The King wants me to find the traitors. The traitors want me to supply them. And I..."
He clicked his pen, the sharp sound echoing in the night air.
"I want to see which side pays better before I burn them both."
He looked at Stacian, a rare flash of genuine partnership in his eyes. "Go back in. Dance with the King's Marshall one more time. I need to know if the Royal Family is as oblivious as they seem, or if they're waiting for the Dukes to strike first."