The House of Finery should not have felt like a battlefield, yet it blazed like one—a war fought in gemstones and feathers instead of steel. Chandeliers burned at full brilliance despite the daylight, mirrors threw back the glare until everything glittered to nausea. Nobles paraded through the marble halls in silks that screamed for notice, each trying to outshine the next. Perfume clung thick as smoke, laughter sharper than glass.
Leoleta kept his post just inside the threshold, keeping distance from the nobles who drifted in and out like birds fighting for space on a iron fence.
He saw his reflection where Cassandra stood—a brooding shadow that refused to leave, caught beside her light. The mirrors favored her, catching every shimmer of silk and strand of hair until she seemed carved from the sun itself.
Beside her, he was nothing but the void between stars.
As nobles drifted deeper into the shop, their eyes followed the glow she carried. Cassandra's shoulders stiffened beneath their attention, though she fought to mask it. Liaerin murmured beside her, voice soft and measured, adjusting clasps and smoothing seams while seamstresses circled like moths with pins, hungry for perfection.
Leoleta motioned for the guard outside to take his place at the threshold and stepped into the store. As he measured the space, Cassandra's reflection kept tugging at his attention—each flinch at a pin's prick, each small tightening of her hands on her skirts. She was an open book to him, though she never realized how easily she could be read.
When her face grimaced, he was reminded of the market attacker—the memory that lingered like a bruise.
Wild eyes. Bloodshot. As if he'd seen something no one else could. They'd dragged him into the cells alive, but before a single question left their lips, he bit down on something hidden—poison that corroded him from within, leaving nothing but foam and silence.
Leoleta's jaw tightened. Someone had sent him. And the cloaked figure—still at large—shadowed that thought like smoke refusing to clear.
In the barracks, Leoleta had read the interrogation notes himself. It had been more than two decades since the duchy had faced any true threat. Yet the words scrawled across that page had felt like a warning carved by a dying hand: eyes in the mirror. black sun. she glows when she breathes.
The handwriting slanted mad, letters carved deep into parchment as though the quill itself had been a weapon. Even the guards swore the cell had felt cold—wrong—like something unseen had been standing in the dark beside them.
Alfonse's voice still lingered in his mind: "Keep her occupied. Distracted. We'll handle things on our end. But if she fears shadows in every corner, society will use it against her."
As if she could be shielded by ignoring the blade at her back.
"Please—let's try this gown. We had it adjusted just over a week ago," Liaerin told the seamstress.
Cassandra's reflection caught his in the mirror. Pale fabric slid over her shoulders, frustration ghosting across her face as nobles whispered and laughed. Their attention shifted—not to her—but to him.
Three noblewomen lingered near a mirrored column, their voices lilting, practiced. One reached out, fingers grazing his sleeve. He allowed it out of courtesy, not interest, his stance unbroken. Their laughter rang bright and brittle—like glass ready to shatter.
His thoughts were elsewhere.
The seamstress pinned again. Liaerin adjusted. Cassandra exhaled too sharply.
When the fitting finally ended, Cassandra gathered packages of fabric against her arms and crossed the road toward the carriage. At the step, she paused, half-turning "Leoleta you were awfully quiet today- is everything okay?"
Leoleta stepped forward and offered his hand. "Yes, nothing for you to worry about." She accepted—cool, light, hesitant.
He could tell by her expression she didn't fully believe him.
Leoleta closed the door behind her and followed on horseback.
The city opened before him—tiered and gleaming, built in uneven layers that rolled down toward the water like a thousand silver-backed scales. The late sun hit the bay in shards, scattering gold across the red clay rooftops. Bridges arched over narrow waterways, gulls wheeling low through the haze.
From here, Siuol looked almost peaceful—its pastel terraces washed in sea light, its towers bright as glass teeth. But peace, he knew, was only what distance allowed one to see. Beneath the polish, the streets hid their cracks well.
He reined in at the crest of the hill, eyes tracing the shadows that pooled between buildings—the alleys where the light didn't reach. They seemed to breathe with the city itself, shifting when the wind turned.
He wondered if the same darkness still lingered there, patient and unseen.
The procession moved on. He adjusted his reins and followed, the clatter of hooves swallowed by the hum of the city.
When the carriage reached the estate, he saw Cassandra and Liaerin through the gates before dismissing the detail.
Only then did he turn toward the Western Barracks.
Reports waited on his desk—ink still damp, penned by men who had chased shadows through Siuol's streets. The cloaked figure had vanished into smoke and alleys. The knife-wielder had said nothing; hours later, he swallowed poison rather than speak again.
Leoleta read the words twice, jaw tight, his boot tapping restlessly against the stone floor.
Two men, two attacks—too close to be coincidence. Threads tangled in the dark, and he could not yet see the hand weaving them.
He called for Captain Thorne and the clerk in charge of Siuol's criminal records.
"Show me every name who entered the markets that day—with and without permits."
The clerk rifled through parchment. "Three merchant permits were voided this week—two expired, one falsified under the name Merin Vale."
Leoleta's gaze sharpened. "Who approved the false permit?"
"City seal, sir—but the ink's off. Shade's lighter than standard. We are still unable to locate the magistrate who sanctioned it."
Forgery. Too precise to be chance. Too quick to be desperation.
"How did they manage this in such little time?" he muttered.
"Cross-reference with nobles traveling from the capital this fortnight," he said. "And pull the patrol reports from the eastern gates. The cloaked one didn't appear from thin air."
The captain hesitated. "Sir, Lord Delmar ordered us to keep focus on appearances—"
"I don't give a damn about their fucking appearances," Leoleta snapped. "Get me those reports."
When the door shut, he leaned against the desk.
A half-drunk cup of tea cooled beside the ledger. The surface trembled—faint, steady. Not from wind.
Whatever hunted them had patience. Planning.
And he feared Cassandra's power had drawn more than attention.
He skimmed the reports again. One witness account from the market caught his eye:
A man stood at the end of the lane before the attack. Remained idle when the panic started. Didn't look away, even when the blood hit the stones.
Leoleta underlined the words. Idle.
Not a hired assassin, then. A summoner.
A knock broke his thoughts.
"Sir Leoleta," Captain Thorne returned, folder in hand. "Two gate patrols found markings near the river docks. Smoke sigils—burned into stone. The scholars say perhaps Duremic, but that couldn't be their—"
Leoleta's blood ran cold.
Duremic wards. After all these years—how?
"Show me."
The sketches were rough but clear—circles laced with glyphs, each line deliberate. Binding runes. Summoning.
"They're calling something," he said quietly.
"Should we inform Lord Delmar?"
He shook his head. "Not yet. We don't have enough evidence—only smoke. Damn it. Keep the men on alert. Quietly. I don't want panic before we know what this is."
When the captain left, silence filled the room.
Leoleta's gaze drifted back to the papers—the ravings, the sigils, the burn marks drawn in red wax.
His leave was already marked—seven days hence.
He stared out the window at the gleaming towers beyond.
Siuol looked peaceful in daylight, but beneath that polish, he could feel it—like a tremor before the quake.
Someone was testing the wards, probing for weakness. For blood.
They wanted to bare their fangs at House Delmar.
Leoleta would be ready.