Annoyed Orchid

The hardest part was always the hair.

Iliyria Sylren stood in front of her cracked wardrobe mirror, which multiplied her image into half a dozen overlapping faces, each registering a separate shade of resignation. She had chosen her uniform for the Council's Hearthswarming Eve Ball with calculation: dark purple, an open, floor-skimming coat cut with long, swallow-tail panels that moved like a tide around her calves. Silver piping traced the edges, and the lining flashed with glyphs that drank and returned the candlelight in quiet pulses. Beneath, a smoke-lavender suit fit close through the shoulders and throat, its high collar softening into long sleeves that glimmered like hoarfrost. The torso opened in a deliberate, sigiled V before falling to wide, cropped trousers that let her stride without apology. Fingerless bracers laced neat along her wrists and her only jewelry was the mirror network array bracelet and her amethyst token from Hallione. She wore a pair of heels only marginally less sensible than her standard boots. She had not worn a dress in three centuries, not since the night of the Calamity, when she'd run barefoot down a marble corridor as the world behind her burned. She wasn't about to start now.

The coat was more armor than garment. She checked the lining, running a finger along the seam to ensure the spell component pockets were still invisible but accessible, they were for emergencies but she had needed them twice this year alone. The overcoat's cut, sleeveless and angular, and the combination of the high collar and off-the shoulder sleeves of the top were meant to be flattering, at least according to the seamstress who crafted it, but Iliyria only cared that it passed as sufficiently formal. Tonight, the city’s most predatory politicians would dress as lambs, and Iliyria had no intention of going unarmed.

She sat on the narrow stool in front of her desk and tried to will her hair into submission. Ordinarily, she twisted it into a quick, functional bun and impaled it with the hairpin that doubled as her wizard's staff. Tonight, she gave it another thirty seconds, enough time for the silver strands to lose their static frizz, to be coaxed into something approaching civility. She anchored the bun with the pin, slid two fingers down the side to test the grip, and caught her own eye in the mirror.

She looked, in her estimation, like a particularly annoyed orchid. Good.

On the desk, a small mountain of incident reports sat in silent rebuke. She had planned to finish the three most urgent before the Ball, but the time had bled away; now the most she could do was arrange the folders so their spines faced outward, a show of intent for the next day’s self.

She patted down her pockets, checked for the third time that the coat concealed her badge and spellbook, and stood. The shoes made her taller, but not tall enough to change her standing in the room. She flexed her toes, ignoring the faint twinge from the break that never healed right, and rehearsed a single spin in front of the mirror. No flapping, no gapping. If she tripped, it would be because someone wanted her to.

She checked the clock: fifteen minutes until the Ball’s official start, which meant she would be exactly on time; late enough to avoid being the first through the door, early enough to claim a strategic vantage. She was halfway down the spiral stairs when she heard voices in the corridor: one sharp, one soft, both familiar.

She emerged into the Tower’s main hallway to find Isemay and Lavan in the midst of a silent, waltz-like negotiation. Isemay Misendris, always a study in grace under pressure, wore a green gown so dark it verged on black, its high collar framing her face like a command. Her hair, platinum and severe, was braided in a crown so intricate it seemed a personal rebuke to the city’s entire population of hairdressers.

Lavan, by contrast, looked as if he’d been drafted directly from his research den; robes slightly stained with ink, beard still damp from a recent washing, the faintest aura of scorched paper trailing behind him like an olfactory footnote. He was holding Isemay’s coat, but his eyes were on the floor, as though calculating the number of steps to freedom.

Iliyria coughed once to announce herself. Isemay turned, beamed, and for a moment the hallway lightened by a measurable degree.

“There you are,” Isemay said. “We were about to come knock you out of your cave.”

Lavan grunted, less a greeting than an acoustic apology. “You look like you’re heading into a trial, not a party.”

Iliyria shrugged. “Same thing, really.”

Isemay laughed, a quick, real sound. She let Lavan drape the coat over her shoulders, then linked arms with Iliyria, leaving Lavan to shuffle in their wake.

“I was just telling Lavan,” Isemay said, “that he’s allowed to skip the Ball, on account of being a misanthrope, and also because I’d prefer not to have to explain his outfit to the Council.”

“I can change,” Lavan protested.

“You won’t,” Isemay replied, and patted his hand.

He accepted the verdict with the resignation of a man who’d made peace with his own failings. He looked to Iliyria for backup, but found only a sympathetic raised eyebrow.

“You’ll be happier at the faculty party,” Iliyria said. “There will be cake, and no one will try to poison it this year.”

“I’m not so sure,” Lavan said. “You underestimate the bitterness of adjuncts denied tenure.”

He offered Isemay a quick, deft kiss on the cheek, then turned to Iliyria and nodded in what might have been camaraderie or mutual pity. “Try not to start a duel,” he said.

“No promises,” she answered.

They watched him go, shoulders hunched, feet already pointed in the direction of the Tower’s staff kitchens.

Isemay turned to Iliyria and, for a few steps, said nothing. She wouldn’t call their relationship a friendship per se, but there was an ease between them that could only be built from a decade of shared disaster.

They exited into the city proper. The air outside was colder than expected, a sharp, dry cold that had leeched the color from the cobblestones as flurries of snow drifted in from overhead. It was going to be a white Hearthswarming afterall.

The walk to Fountain Square was short, less than ten minutes if one didn’t stop to gawk at the Hearthswarming installations, which neither did, but the city’s night traffic was already thickening as merchants, politicians, and minor celebrities funneled toward the Saelmere Ballroom.

The line at the entrance shimmered with artificial light. Every guest had dressed as if their worth depended on being seen: lacquered feathers, iridescent cloaks, jewelry straining the limits of good sense and bad taste. Iliyria felt the predictable flicker of class resentment, which she stoked just enough to keep herself warm. She could see the telltale red and gold of the Watch at each corner of the plaza, and the subtle pulsing of security wards woven into the façade of the ballroom itself. The Ball was less a party than a ritualized performance of power, and the city had seen enough blood to take no chances.

They joined the end of the line. Isemay fussed with a stray thread on her sleeve, then leaned in, voice pitched low.

“Are you at all worried about your runners tonight?”

Iliyria blinked, slowly, and for a heartbeat could not remember what Isemay meant. Then the meaning slid into place, and she felt the sudden, pricking horror of the unprepared.

“Team Seven,” she said.

Isemay nodded. “They did tell you they were invited, right? Lambert’s idea, to capitalize on their celebrity after Volfast.”

“Yes, they informed me, even submitted their formalwear receipts for reimbursement.” Iliyria pressed her lips together. “And, like a fool, I’ve left them unsupervised.”

A sound escaped her, half groan, half laugh. “Gods. I’ve loosed them upon the city’s most expensive open bar.”

Isemay smiled, all sympathy. “We’ll find them before they set the place on fire. Or before someone else does.”

Iliyria scanned the line, already imagining the many ways the night could unravel: one member of Team Seven with their foot in their mouth; another with a hand in someone else’s pocket; at least one more, statistically, passed out in the coatroom or dueling a minor noble in the alley behind the ballroom.

She squared her shoulders, let the weight of command settle back into place, and stared up at the illuminated dome of the Saelmere. “We’ll be fine,” she lied.

The doors swung open at the front of the line. Music, far too cheery, she thought, spilled onto the street. The guests shuffled forward, and for a moment, Iliyria could see the reflection of her own face in the glass: eyes ringed with fatigue, hair perfect for the next thirty minutes, coat immaculate. She looked like someone ready for a war.

She followed Isemay inside.

Beeswax and Blood at Salemere

Saelmere Ballroom possessed the sort of grandeur that could kill a person twice: once by overwhelming their sense of self, and again, should they prove insufficiently cowed, by the discreet force of the hired guards who kept the noble guests safely insulated from the more interesting bits of the city outside. Iliyria Sylren had attended enough state balls to know which death she preferred. The place was all marble and midnight velvet, with a domed ceiling painted in a style that implied both the promise of heaven and the certainty of damnation. The floating chandeliers hung so low she could smell the beeswax in the candles, and the glass gleamed with the oily pride of a floor recently scrubbed to within an inch of its existence.

It was a perfect stage for a massacre. Or, less dramatically, for the soft violence of political networking. Iliyria had always believed the two were more alike than not.

For the first ten minutes she did little but circle the periphery, her practiced smile projecting equal parts serenity and mortal threat. In this hall, even the smallest mistake would be noticed, filed away, and weaponized for later.

She spent the first hour in a haze of shallow pleasantries. The merchants, ambitious and insecure, tried to lure her into whispered alliances with the promise of “guaranteed returns.” The minor nobles, all small smiles and quiet terror, gossiped about the recent spike in demon activity with the same faux concern they reserved for weather and tariffs. The City Councilors nodded with exaggerated solemnity whenever she referenced the APS’s latest victories over abyssal intrusion, then made notes on their little notepads that she would almost certainly have to read tomorrow during the debrief.

Iliyria hated every second of it. She could almost hear her own thoughts echoing off the walls: why was she here, when the real work waited for her at home? Who benefited from these rituals, except the same parasites that had profited from every regime since the beginning of time? She caught herself scanning the exits, counting the distance from every corner to every window, then forced her face back into a neutral mask, the way Queen Myantha had always done in the old Miriel court. Myantha never flinched, never faltered; her smile was a knife and she wielded it with expertise. Iliyria tried to remember how that felt. She tried to believe she could pass for someone that complete.

It didn’t help that Team 7 had scattered the instant they set foot in the ballroom, fracturing across the surface of Capitol society with the natural instinct of prey animals forced into a confined space. Io and Brynne gravitated to the dance floor, where Brynne’s height and poise made her instantly the favorite of the local debutantes. Brynne looked mildly horrified by the attention, but Io, as always, adapted instantly, he led her with a confidence that could have come straight from a courtly manual, and within minutes the two of them had drawn a crowd of admirers, most of whom had never seen a dragonborn, much less one dancing in full formal regalia.

Io’s scales shone blue under the chandeliers, and was certainly wearing the most unique clothing of all the attendees, traditional Draconian formalwear. It had been centuries since she had seen anything like it. Brynne’s floor length black gown with delicate lace panels allowed her beauty to shine through far better than her regular armor and loose ponytail. Iliyria had to admit: they made an impressive couple, especially given their lack of practice.

Bolt was not dancing. Instead, the genasi had burrowed her way into a circle of high-placed merchants from the Guild. She wore an icy blue gown that cascaded down her thighs asymmetrically like a waterfall, culminating in a riot of tulle. Iliyria watched as Bolt, with her usual combination of bluntness and reckless candor, made three enemies and two potential business partners in under five minutes. The young woman had seemed to especially impressed Fendrel, an influential figure, and was currently shaking his hand vigorously. She almost smiled. Bolt would do well here, if she could just bring herself to care about anyone’s opinion.

Dingus, meanwhile, looking entirely too natural in his dark purple suit, had latched on to Lord Tybalt Raulon, the ostensible head of the most conservative branch of the Countis Nobelesse. Iliyria wondered if this was an elaborate put-on, a prank designed to test her ability to maintain composure, or if Dingus was simply that good at infiltrating the enemy. Knowing Dingus, it was both. She should hate him; she knew that but couldn’t quite bring herself to do it. She was plenty mad at him, furious even, for the blackmail, of course, and would kill him if it was necessary to protect Alavara. But still, despite the lies and manipulations, when she looked at him, she could only see a lost child.

Iliyria watched them from a distance, noting how Dingus had somehow charmed Raulon into ever-louder conversation, the two men gesturing wildly over glasses of expensive wine. She wondered if she should intervene before Dingus’s tongue got him into a duel, but then she saw the look on Raulon’s face: not irritation, but fascination. Dingus had found a kindred spirit in the old fox, and together they seemed intent on proving who could out-drink or out-insult the other. She let it go, for now.

As for Alavara, Nimueh, and, as they called him, Buggy, they moved through the party in a loose, anti-social pack, their eyes always scanning the crowd for trouble. They looked, Iliyria realized with a twinge of real pride, more like security than guests, and after a time, the three split up, looking intent on covering more ground. That was the difference between the APS and every other institution in this city: her people understood that the world was always one breath away from violence.

Buggy, of the six of them, was dressed the simplest, a pair of mustard dress slacks and a gilded ceremonial breastplate over a yellow tunic. On his back, a dark green cape was draped with at least some amount of care. He wasn’t wearing the Watch’s shade of red tonight. She wondered about his loyalties, then chastised herself. Her and Lowshade were NOT divorced parents trying to win over a child during a custody dispute. Besides, the corporal had already made his poor opinion of her clear weeks ago in her office, when she was forced to explain why Dingus was coming back to work instead of being arrested.

Nimueh looked resplendent in a shimmering teal gown with matching floor-length cape and silver accents. Iliyria recognized, with some surprise, the tell-tale shimmer of Spidersilk. How had she managed to find that? She remembered Luella’s own Spidersilk gown, they had purchased it at a consignment shop in Silverglen during a diplomatic summit, a rare find in a predominantly Halfling city. Luella had been so excited, practically vibrating as she explained the material’s cultural significance. After losing the Deep Wilds, it had been good to see the wood elf smile again. The night of the summit was the first time the two of them had…

A closer look at Alavara’s gown knocked her right out of her memory. She wore a dress in the style of the elven nobility in Miriel, three hundred years ago. She realized, with a start, that it was one that Mirella had favored, a burgundy corset top with a flowing pink skirt and a pale blue ribbon of fabric that adorned the top of the corset and flowed past her sleeves nearly to the ground. Of course, it was meant to be a day dress. Alavara would have been very out-of-place at a true Mirielian ball. For their purposes tonight, however, it was adequately formal, although she didn’t look particularly comfortable in a dress. Io must have found it in Tasaka’s belongings and loaned it to Alavara for the night. That explains why she didn’t have a reimbursement request for Alavara’s gown. She forced herself to turn away from Alavara, banishing thoughts of her uncle and cousin back into the farthest reaches of her mind.

She caught sight of Albreicht Lowshade before he saw her. He was easy to spot: the Watch Commander moved through the party in a column of empty space, the crowd parting around him with the wary deference reserved for artillery or ill-contained fire. His dress uniform, in the ceremonial red and gold, looked as if it had been starched by someone who did not believe in bending at the waist. His hair, thick and iron-streaked, lay flat against his skull as if glued in place. The man’s chin had been carved to military specification; the eyes carried the persistent disappointed squint of one who expected trouble from everyone, especially those immune to his authority.

He was flanked by two junior officers whose names Iliyria could never remember. She noted their positions, how they lagged half a step behind, their gazes flicking to Lowshade and back as if afraid of missing an unspoken command.

Iliyria made it almost to the refreshment table before she felt the chill of Lowshade’s attention. His armor was polished to a predatory gleam, his jaw squared for maximum disapproval.

“Commander Sylren,” he said, drawing the words out like a blade from a sheath.

She inclined her head, bare minimum for civility. “Commander Lowshade. Enjoying the festivities?”

Lowshade looked her up and down with a careful, appraising eye. "You’re late," he said. "I assumed you’d want a head start on the canapés before the menagerie arrived."

She remembered, with the crystalline certainty reserved for social disasters, the last time she had crossed Lowshade at a Council function. She’d been running on thirty-five hours without food, orchestrating a citywide demon raid, and at the first lull, long after protocol dictated, she’d made for the buffet and, before she’d even noticed, had heaped her plate to architectural proportions. Lowshade had watched her stack cheese cubes and smoked fish with the intensity of a sentry. He’d waited until she was cornered at the hors d'oeuvres table, then had intoned, in front of the assembled Watch, Council and two visiting dignitaries, “It does a leader well to show moderation, Sylren. Sometimes, discipline is all we have.” She’d never forgiven him, and he’d never let her forget it, mentioning at every opportunity that “the Commander always comes hungry to the negotiation.”

Now, as she selected a single, delicate tart from the tray. He glanced at the array of petit-fours and spiced wine between them and raised an eyebrow. “I see you learned restraint,” he said, with the smugness of a man who had never forgotten a single petty slight. She gave him a serene smile, one she had practiced in front of the mirror until it could survive any provocation. "I decided to let the Watch sweep for sabotage before I risked the food," she said. "Given last year’s incident with the shrimp, I trust you’ve improved your vetting."

A muscle jumped in his jaw. "That was an isolated contamination," he said, loud enough for the nearest guests to overhear. "Unlike the ongoing infestation at APS Headquarters. I hear the runners have redecorated the bullpen again, this time with graffiti of questionable taste."

"They’re a creative cohort," Iliyria said. "It’s important to encourage initiative where we can."

Lowshade leaned in, lowering his voice. "Encourage it on your own time," he said, "This is a ballroom, not a zoo. I expect your people to remember that difference."

She almost laughed, but tamped it down to a faint curl of the lip. "I don’t think you’ll have to worry," she said. "Most of my runners are too busy keeping up appearances to cause a public incident." She gestured toward the dance floor, where Nimueh, dancing with a young lord, radiated the kind of calm that made even the most suspicious observer drop their guard. "They’re settling in nicely. You might even say they’re civilizing the place."

She let the silence mature for a breath. "Are you expecting an incident, Commander, or simply hoping for one?"

"If you want my honesty," Lowshade said, the words edged with white-glove disdain, "I'd be delighted to get through one of these events without having to explain to the Council why APS Runners can't behave like the rest of civilized society." His gaze flicked past her shoulder, tracking the blue flash of Io's tail as he spun a debutante in a double turn, then landed again with surgical precision on Iliyria's face.

He drew himself taller, if such a thing were possible. "I assume," he said, voice low, "that you will make yourself available to respond to any...disturbance."

Iliyria gave him the small, sharp smile that meant he'd already lost. "You seem well prepared, Commander. I have ample faith in your ability to maintain order." She let the retort settle, a slow-release toxin, and turned away before he could reload. The pleasure was fleeting, but enough.

Lowshade watched her as she drifted back into the knot of guests, his stare a soldering iron pressed into her spine. There would be a consequence for that later, there always was. But for now, the floor was hers.

Iliyria waited until he was out of earshot, then allowed herself a true breath. The urge to engineer a small catastrophe for Lowshade’s benefit was so strong she had to excise it with a slow count to three. The music swelled; the ball was underway.

She scanned the room, locating her Runners by their plumage: Bolt at the drinks table, jawing with a half-circle of transfixed merchants; Io and Brynne dominating the dance floor; Dingus still locked in ideological combat with Lord Raulon. Alavara was nowhere in sight, and Iliyria’s pulse fluttered at that. She made a mental note to scan the coatrooms and the open-air terrace before the evening wound much further. The only thing more dangerous than a missing runner was one who’d grown bored.

She pressed through the crowd with the practiced discomfort of one who wanted to be invisible. Conversations eddied around her, fragments of finance and flirtation, the clink of glasses and careful laughter. She paused just long enough to collect a flute of champagne from a passing server, she had no intention of drinking it, but it was the proper camouflage for a guest who didn’t want to explain her empty hands.

Her vigilance was rewarded when she spotted Lawmaster Orintha Runecoat at the far end of the room, talking with a pair of superior court justices. The Lawmaster looked as if she had dressed with the express purpose of intimidating everyone else; her cloak was a tailored gray, cut to emphasize her dwarven shoulders, and her gray hair had been braided with silver thread in the tradition of the old mountain clans. Iliyria respected her, there was something about Orintha’s refusal to perform for the crowd that felt like a lifeline. Iliyria edged through the crowd, navigating the conversational eddies until she stood near enough to be noticed but not so close as to interrupt.

She was caught before she could decide whether to greet Orintha. Runecoat broke away from her conversation, crossed to her in two decisive steps, and said, “You look as bored as I feel, Commander.”

Iliyria suppressed a grin. “I thought that was the whole point, Lawmaster. Give the people a sense of continuity before we remind them who actually runs things.”

Orintha’s laugh was low, almost a growl. “You’d have made a fine law clerk, Sylren. Pity you prefer the sword to the pen.”

Iliyria bowed her head, as if conceding the point. “The pen was never my strong suit. Besides, at least with the sword, people are honest about what they want.”

Orintha’s eyes twinkled. “Ah, but the real fun is when you make the pen cut deeper than any blade. I’ll have to teach you sometime.”

Before Iliyria could reply, she noticed Dingus detaching from Lord Raulon and making a beeline for Councilor Cornelia Thompson. Iliyria watched, morbidly curious, as the tiefling offered a hand and, with a flourish that was half sarcasm, asked the merchant queen for a dance. To everyone’s surprise, including Cornelia’s, judging by the frozen mask of her face, she accepted. They moved to the floor, their bodies an awkward but surprisingly effective match. Iliyria blinked, impressed despite herself.

Orintha followed her gaze. “You’re a glutton for punishment, aren’t you? Always keeping the wildest cards in your hand.”

“I prefer to think of it as giving chaos a seat at the table,” Iliyria said.

“Amen to that,” Orintha said, raising her glass in salute.

Orintha lowered her glass, voice pitched low so as not to carry. “You know, if you hadn’t pulled the Volfast affair out of the fire, we’d be sharing this dance with Watchmen and inquisitors instead. Most of your runners would be behind iron doors, not sipping champagne.” She tipped her glass toward the runners in evidence, then back to Iliyria, as if the motion could balance the scales of possibility.

Iliyria smiled thinly. “Luck is just statistics the city hasn’t caught up to yet.”

Orintha grunted. “Well, the odds are changing. There’s talk on the Council floor that the next incident, any incident, will be used as grounds to cull the program. You’ve made enemies, Iliyria. Not all of them are as forthcoming as Lowshade.” She paused, studying the rim of her glass. “Or as honest.”

Iliyria tensed, considering her response, but Orintha pressed on.

“Off the record: the vote is already moving. It may not be public for weeks, but if Team Seven makes a wrong step tonight, the knives will be out.” She swirled her drink, watching the bubbles climb. “You should think about what comes next.”

Iliyria absorbed this with a small nod, not bothering to feign surprise. She let the moment lengthen, as if to test whether Orintha would break and offer more, but the Lawmaster only waited, patient as a granite judge. After a pause, Iliyria asked, low and measured, “How bad are the numbers?”

Orintha’s smile was sharp. “Officially, it’s a dead heat. Unofficially, Lowshade has been leaning on the guild reps hard, and the old-guard humanists are only too happy to follow suit.” Her gaze, direct and unblinking, made it clear she had already run the math. “If the Council votes tomorrow, you just might lose.”

Iliyria considered this without visible reaction, but inside, every calculation spun out new branches of disaster. “And you?”

Orintha’s reply was a rumble, not unlike the warning growl of a friendly but underfed dog. “You’re lucky I never took bribes, Sylren, or you’d owe me a decade’s salary by now.” She chuckled, a gravelly sound that vibrated the wine in her glass. “The Watchmen have never understood this city, not really. They can’t see past the street corners and the next parade. I’ve been Lawmaster longer than Lowshade’s been shaving, don’t tell him I said so, and I can tell you the city would eat itself alive without you and those demon-addled runners.”

Her hand, broad-fingered and blunt-nailed, clapped Iliyria on the shoulder with a force that might have whiplashed a lesser elf. “My vote’s with you, Iliyria. Has been since the day you turned a demon outbreak into a citywide bake sale. Don’t let the old-boys’ club convince you otherwise." She met Iliyria’s gaze, unblinking. "I’ve watched a dozen reforms come and go, and none lasted two sessions once the Watch got their hands on it. The APS is the only good experiment this city’s ever managed. We tear it apart, we go back to the old way: riots, purges, and no one left to clean up the mess. I didn’t spend seventy years climbing this ladder just to watch the last hope get kicked off the roof."

That was the thing about Orintha: for all her wit and crocodile patience, she had a sentimental streak exactly three dwarves wide, and Iliyria had somehow never learned how to guard herself against it.

Iliyria steadied her voice. “Thank you,” she said, and meant it. “Do you know where the other votes are falling?”

Orintha considered, then let her gaze drift up to the distant, fretworked dome. “Lambert’s with you. He despises Lowshade more than he fears the Council, and the last thing he wants is to see the Watch take charge of anything. Tower’s vote is a lock, as long as Isemay breathes. The Masters vote as a bloc, and Kerrowyn’s little stunt in Volfast has them feeling proprietary about the APS. Old Tower pride. Tells you something, doesn’t it, when the only institution that can outlast a demon siege is an academic one." She sipped her wine, savoring the irony.

“That’s three, but Sanibalis is… unpredictable.” She rolled the stem of her glass between her fingers. “He’s being pressured, and not just by the usual suspects. I’d bet you two crates of the city’s best rockfruit that he holds the deciding vote. You should talk to him, tonight, if you can.”

Iliyria nodded, already ticking through the angles in her mind. “If Sanibalis is waffling, I can try the Synod,” she said. “Elmiyra owes me a favor, and she’s better at moving public sentiment than anyone on the Council. If the temples and the Tower both throw their weight behind the APS, it forces Sanibalis to side with the living gods or explain to the public why he’s not.”

Orintha let out a laugh so abrupt that a nearby server jumped and nearly upended a tray of spiced cider. “If anyone had told me I’d live to see the Synod and the Tower on the same side of an argument, I’d have called them a liar or a heretic. You, Sylren, are a menace to precedent.”

“A city’s only as good as its pariahs,” Iliyria said, and they clinked glasses, the moment a brief detente in the velvet crush of the evening.

Orintha looked as though she might say more, but then her attention snagged on a passing tray of tiny canapés. She eyed them with the suspicion of a veteran who’d once bitten into a “finger sandwich” only to find it contained an faux pickled finger, courtesy of Lambert’s sense of humor. Apparently, word had gotten out about her preferences, because a runner in Council livery drifted up with a small plate of rockfruit tartlets and held it up to her with ceremonial reverence.

“For the Lawmaster,” the runner intoned, and Orintha took the plate without missing a beat.

“Now, that’s real power,” Iliyria observed. “Commanding the respect of the catering staff.”

Orintha snorted, mouth already full. “They know I’ll have their jobs if they serve me another canapé shaped like a little gavel. The chef thinks he’s clever, and I—”

The sentence never finished. A sound, high and uncanny, sliced through the air. At first, Iliyria thought it was a champagne flute shattering, but then she saw Orintha jerk sideways, a length of black-fletched arrow sprouting from her left ribs. The plate of tarts clattered to the floor.

Time slowed. Iliyria turned just as a second arrow whistled past her ear, missing by less than an inch. The shaft struck the marble pillar behind her. She caught the glint of iron at the tip; a specialized core, built for piercing magical wards or, more specifically, the kind of flesh that didn’t much care for iron.

A coldness settled in her stomach. The shot had been meant for her.

Chaos bloomed. The crowd, for all their centuries of etiquette, reverted instantly to panic: shrieks, a stampede for the exits, bodies surging in every direction, heedless of the guards or the danger. She scanned the perimeter, looking for the source, and spotted them, figures on the upper mezzanine, all clad in matte black, faces hidden by masks. They moved with military precision, not the slapdash fury of common assassins. These were professionals, and they were here for blood.

She heard a second scream and saw another Councilor, Lord Angrist, go down, an arrow embedded almost perfectly in the center of his forehead, red spilling over his pale cravat. Cornelia Thompson, mid-spin with Dingus, took a hit through the back of her throat, the impact sending her reeling into the tiefling’s arms, coughing blood onto her dance partner. Dingus caught her with one hand and lowered her gently to the ground, his face suddenly stone-cold sober even as another arrow whistled into his own side.

Commander Lowshade was shouting before the first arrow hit the floor. “Lock the doors! Shields up! Detain everyone, no one leaves!” The Watch leapt into action, forming a human barricade at the exits, but it was too late: the assassins had already taken up positions that allowed them to shoot at will into the crowd, using the confusion as cover. Lowshade himself took an arrow to the shoulder.

Iliyria grabbed Orintha, who was still upright despite the arrow in her side, and dragged her behind the nearest stone column. She heard a third arrow slice the air above their heads. “Stay here, keep breathing,” she said, voice so calm it surprised even herself. “If you bleed out, I’ll never hear the end of it.” Orintha grinned through gritted teeth. “No promises ,” she said, then blacked out.

Iliyria scanned the floor. Team 7 had already moved. Io and Brynne were using overturned tables as makeshift barricades, herding as many civilians as they could behind them while returning fire with whatever implements came to hand; broken wineglasses, thrown platters, a candelabrum. Buggy, who had been on the mezzanine at the start of the attack, moved to close with the assassins. Bolt, who had apparently anticipated this sort of event, ripped the bottom of her dress off with an ease that suggested it was intentionally tailored to come apart, and drew a blade from somewhere in the tulle. Alavara and Nimueh moved in tandem, ducking low and flanking toward the spiral staircase that led to the mezzanine. Most of them had been hit by the arrows, iron tipped, if their expressions were any indication, but Team Seven ripped the barbed arrows out of their flesh as though they were no more than the stingers of some particularly angry bees.

The assassins were good, but they hadn’t expected to face resistance from runners after tagging them with iron. The upper hand was slipping. 

Iliyria considered her next move. Her staff, disguised as a hairpin, was still twisted up in her bun. She reached up, yanked it free, and let it extend to full length with a snap. Her silver hair cascaded down her back in a wild tangle, making an utter waste of the time she’d spent taming it. So much for the good hair day.

She took a breath, counted to three, then broke from cover in a sprint. Lieutenant LaGrave, head of council security, saw her move, and ordered her men to lay down a volley of covering fire, mostly crossbow bolts, none of which found their marks. Iliyria vaulted the banister, landed hard, and rolled to her feet.

The assassins, having apparently accomplished their goal, took in the sight of the advancing runners and turned to flee, disappearing from sight with what must have been invisibility charms, potions or some sort of teleportation magic. Nimueh streaked up the stairs to the mezzanine with incredible grace and speed, in spite of her dress, which seemed not to hamper the monk in the slightest. The wood elf ran out onto a balcony, then called down, “I can see where they are! They are making a break for the streets.” Iliyria looked around at the chaos and decided on her next move. She raised her staff overhead, barked a series of arcane syllables, and the world shifted as she teleported herself, Nimueh, Dingus, Bolt and Alavara into the center of Fountain Square. She would have to trust that Buggy, Brynne and Io could take care of the chaos in the ballroom. She certainly didn’t trust Lowshade to do it.

An Honest Mess

Iliyria checked the damage. The Councilors were down, two dead, the rest severely wounded. The Countis Nobelesse and Capitol elites were in shambles, half bleeding. All of them making a beeline for the exit, streaming out into Fountain Square, spreading chaos in their wake. Team Seven worked with incredible speed, Io retrieving his portable hole from a pocket and passing out weapons and armor in short order. They had come prepared for violence, apparently.

The assassins had been stopped, but not by much.

She rose, scanning the carnage, and for the first time that evening let herself feel the exhaustion. This was not what she’d wanted for her people. But at least they were alive. At least the worst had been prevented, for now.

She rolled her shoulders, feeling the bite of a dozen minor injuries, and reached up to sweep her hair back into a rough ponytail. It was hopelessly tangled, blood and sweat matting the silver strands. She smiled, bitterly. Queen Myantha would have made it look effortless.

But Iliyria Sylren had always preferred the honest mess.

Io threw a diamond to Bolt and grabbed one of his own. The two healers streaked toward the downed Councilors, Bolt bringing life back to Angrist with an application of lightning that looked almost violent, while Io held a clawed hand over the wound on Cornelia’s throat, murmuring a frantic prayer in draconic. The two councilors gasped as air returned to their lungs, but remained unconscious. Io and Bolt then moved to triage the rest of the Council, Brynne rushing to join them, removing arrows and healing Isemay, Runecoat, Sanibalis, Alias Beeves and Lambert Sackville with grim determination. Beeves’ wife and Sackville’s husband hovered over their spouses, clearly traumatized. Lieutenant Brigit LaGrave, charged with the Council’s safety, paced nervously from councilor to councilor, checking and rechecking that they each drew breath.

Meanwhile, Buggy, Nimueh, Alavara and Dingus had grouped up, surrounding the horned assassin they had managed to capture. Buggy had the man grappled and in manacles in short order, and the mask was removed, revealing a human man sporting prosthetic tiefling horns.

Iliyria heard Commander Lowshade make a choking sound as he recognized one of his own people, Sergeant Shepherd, as the assassin. Buggy was immediately on his feet, stalking towards Lowshade, slamming the older man against a wall and shouting for him to confess, yelling that he had “seen the requisition reports.”

Iliyria’s mind reeled. If the Watch, with or without Lowshade’s knowledge, was behind this, then tonight had the potential to get a lot bloodier.

The next few minutes seemed to pass almost in slow motion. Lowshade and Buggy had begun arguing over the role of the Watch. Lowshade, for his part, seemed genuinely baffled, and began to explain a series of gaps in his memories. It seemed the Commander was coming to terms with the idea his people had done this, when suddenly he gripped his head and cried out in pain. Not even a moment later, he turned to Alavara, and in a tone that was not his own uttered a single word, “Woof.” In an instant his body exploded into pieces so small that what was left of him was a pink mist that painted all of their bodies.

Iliyria blinked and brought her hand to her face, wiping off the remains of her longtime political rival. She would not mourn the man, but this was bad. This indicated that what was going on was more than just political backstabbing. The whole thing smelled of demonic meddling. She had to get the Council out of here, to somewhere safe. They needed to move. Now.

LaGrave apparently had the same thought, and had already started herding the Councilors who could walk towards the exit. Team Seven and Brynne followed, carrying the fallen Angrist, Cornelia and the manacled Shepherd between them. Iliyria followed, but the group came to a stuttering halt as LaGrave made a sound that was part shout, part gasp. Across the Square, cutting a straight line towards Saelmare Ballroom was an entire regiment of the Watch’s Emergency Response Brigade in their signature black leathers. This, in itself, wasn’t the concerning point. No, the concerning point was that they were led from the front by Commander Lowshade, the man who had just moments ago died in front of them, mounted on an armored horse. 

River of Teeth

The sewer, Iliyria realized, was the purest distillation of the Capitol: ancient, knotted, and held together by a cocktail of neglect.

They moved as a unit, but that was a lie: the only thing holding the group together was the physics of raw, ankle-biting cold and the fact that none of them, Councilor, Runner, or damned, could risk the alternatives. Iliyria found herself half-dragging, half-marching her way through the knee-deep sludge, one hand gripping her staff for leverage

Behind her, Shepherd, their prisoner, shambled along, manacled, barely conscious but still capable of issuing threats in a voice that sounded like a rusted chain, was dragged along by Buggy. The Watchman’s entire upper body had gone grey with blood loss, but the instinct to survive burned on, stubborn as mildew.

Ahead, Dingus led the charge with the assurance of a man who had bet everything on his own uncanny luck. Every so often, he would pause at a junction and tilt his head, reading the strange, invisible signage that had been scorched onto his retina by the Gentleman's Circle. Behind Dingus, the other Councilors bunched up, a shivering clot of wet fur and self-importance. Sanibalis had already fallen in twice; Cornelia was being carried between LaGrave and Brynne, her shoes lost somewhere back in Subsection Three; and Urion Angrist, who had so recently been the proudest man in the room, now rode piggyback on Io, eyes rolled so far back that only the whites showed. Alias Beves, ever the academic, had spent the last fifty yards alternately gagging and reciting, in a faint, tremulous mutter, the history of waste management in the Arethian Empire, as if it were a spell that could make the filth go away.

Isemay, to her credit, had not lost her head. She recited a series of quick, sharp syllables, and her eyes flashed with the prismatic energy of a high-level divination spell. She glanced around their surroundings, eyes locking on the empty space that Dingus indicated held a symbol that marked their path.

Iliyria scanned the group, lips drawn to a tight line. The math was simple and bad: of the full Council, only five were awake; of those, maybe two could be trusted to keep it together under actual pressure. The rest were casualties of biology and policy, and she had no illusions about their shelf life.

The real threat, though, was above. It had taken the Watch’s Emergency Response Brigade less than fifteen minutes to overrun the APS headquarters, disable the suppression wards, and begin hunting down survivors. That was not a panic response, it was choreography. It meant that the Watch’s infiltration ran deeper than anyone had dared guess, and that whatever thing wore Lowshade’s skin above was smarter than most of the demons Iliyria had ever met. The first thing she’d done after they had been hemmed in by the false Lowshade was cast sending, warning Pembroke at the Tower to initiate a full shutdown: nothing in or out, all students and Masters locked in place. Hallione had complied instantly, the amethyst on Iliyria’s wrist dimming to a sullen, almost accusatory grey. The Tower held the only mechanism to ensure the City’s safety in case of a large-scale demonic incursion, and they couldn’t risk it falling.

After that, she’d tried to coordinate with the other APS units, but the mirror network was a graveyard. No answer from Nyx, Uvak, or even Gilene. Nimueh had some luck reaching Team 6, warning Felara before they could be ambushed. Maybe they had gotten away.

Brynne had gone pale as parchment at the news, but kept marching. Iliyria suspected the paladin’s faith was less about comfort than stubborn refusal to accept reality, but whatever kept her moving was fine by Iliyria.

The last she had heard from Headquarters was Valpip’s unhinged laugh as he lit the records on fire. She wasn’t sure if he made it out or not. With luck, the records went up easy, but that would only buy a few more hours before the Watch realized what they’d lost and started picking through the city’s bones for other leverage.

Buggy, ever the pragmatist, had written off the other units within thirty seconds. “They’ll be dead or captured,” he’d said, voice dry as stale bread. “If they’re alive, they’ll find us. If not, we keep moving.” Iliyria had not argued. She was too busy trying to do the math on how to save the Councilors, preserve at least a sliver of the city’s power structure, and keep the Tower out of demon hands, all while wading through a river of diluted excrement.

It was a career high.

The tunnel dipped, then rose again, the water deepening for a brutal five meters before leveling out. The moment her boots found purchase on the slick bricks, Iliyria paused, and in that breath she felt it: the quiver of movement, just out of phase with their own. NImueh raised her hand for silence. Team 7 reacted instantly; Bolt tightened her grip on Hurricane, Io drew his sword, Buggy gripped Shepherd with one hand and the pommel of his sword with the other, Alavara raised her hands, the beginnings of a spell already on her lips. Even Dingus stopped, his nostrils flaring as he tried to parse the scent of what stalked them.

The next moment, the wall on their left erupted in a gout of fur and teeth. Sewer rats, huge and distended with the luxury of city living, poured into the tunnel. They did not even hesitate before launching themselves at the nearest targets: Buggy, Iliyria, Io, and the limp body of Urion Angrist.

Io was the first to react. He swung the flat of his blade at the rats, sending a half dozen sailing into the opposite wall. The rats rebounded, twisted, and came for him again. It was less an attack than a chemical certainty. Within seconds, the group was surrounded.

A shout from the rear: “They’re coming from the ceiling, too!” That was Lt. LaGrave, who was attempting to shield Cornelia from the rats with her own body. More rats dropped from the upper bricks, landing with audible thuds on the heads and shoulders of the Councilors.

Iliyria stabbed at the nearest rat with her staff, the runes on its shaft flickering with anger. The staff was not meant for this, but it worked. The rat exploded, splattering its cargo of parasites in all directions. The cold air filled with a sickly, sweet-sour tang that burned the eyes and nose.

Up ahead, Dingus was screaming, but it was not a scream of fear. It was laughter. “YES! YES! THIS IS THE PATH!” He was dancing in place, using the rats as stepping stones to avoid the deeper water. “FOLLOW ME!” he shouted, and with an insane lurch, plunged forward.

The rest were not so lucky. The rats began to overwhelm them, picking off the slow and the soft. Alias Beves, who had at no point in his life expected to die by rat, was standing his ground with remarkable dignity, but the swarm crawled up his legs and vanished beneath his robes. He screamed once, a high, operatic note, before collapsing into the water. His wife, Leta, fared no better, going down beside him.

“Faster!” Iliyria snapped, and willed her body to move. She saw Brynne pushing forward, carrying two councilors over her back like sacks of flour. Nimueh had vanished, but that was probably good: the woman had a way of turning up in the blind spots of the world, and she rarely stayed lost for long.

A roar from up ahead, then a new horror. The rats had massed together, their bodies fusing, their eyes and teeth aligning into a composite face. “It’s the Rat King,” Nimueh called, voice eerily calm. “We have to kill the head, or it’ll just keep coming,” Alavara responded. LaGrave made a noise that was suspiciously close to a girlish shriek, and yelled, “How long has that thing been down here!"

The Rat King, now a heaving, multi-limbed beast, blocked the tunnel. It swelled with every breath, the constituent rats writhing in and out of the main mass as if they were fighting each other for a place on the surface. The thing’s eyes were different colors, its mouth a ragged collection of jawbones and broken teeth. Bolt and Nimueh surged forward to meet it, and Alavara and Dingus started throwing spells from a small distance.

Buggy, no longer gentle with his prisoner, shoved Shepherd at Iliyria. “Hold him,” he grunted, then drew his sword and barreled at the Rat King. Iliyria, with no better ideas, looped her foot under Shepherd’s head and held him so his mouth and nose were above the water. He sagged, but his eyes watched her, cold and alive.

The fight was pure chaos. Buggy cut the first limb from the Rat King, and the thing simply reabsorbed the meat and spat it back at him. Brynne, seeing this, abandoned the use of her sword and began tearing rats from the body with her bare hands, crushing them one by one. Every time a rat died, the King shrank, but for every rat they killed, two more seemed to take its place.

Then Shepherd twisted and grabbed her ankle. Iliyria felt the man’s body go rigid, his feet scrabbling for purchase, and he pulled, dragging her down into the water. At that moment, he rammed his head into her face. Iliyria choked on a mouthful of freezing, rancid sewage, her staff slipping from her fingers. Shepherd’s hands, still manacled, found her throat and squeezed.

She tried to fight, but there was nothing left. Her lungs burned, her vision collapsed to a single, shrinking spot. She wondered, briefly, if this was how she would die: choking to death in shit water, murdered by a man she’d never even learned the first name of. It was not the worst way to go, but it was close.

Suddenly, the pressure vanished. She breached the surface, retching. Buggy was there, hauling Shepherd off her and slamming him into the wall. “Stay down,” Buggy said, voice flat. Shepherd’s head lolled, and for the first time, he looked truly defeated.

Dingus, finally out of rats to stand on, was scrabbling at the far wall. He shouted something, and in that instant, Bolt let off a pulse of magical light. The rats nearest her vaporized, but the flash revealed something worse: the entire tunnel behind them was now a carpet of rats, advancing in a tidal surge.

“We’re boxed in!” Alavara shouted. Isemay, with the composure of a Master Arcanist, replied, “Then blast the box.”

The only way through was through the Rat King.

Io took this personally. He shouldered past the dying, screaming councilors, and with one massive, two-handed swing, cleaved the Rat King’s head in half. The mass shuddered, then collapsed. Instantly, the rats that had formed the body scattered, fleeing into the cracks of the tunnel.

For one perfect second, there was silence.

Above them, the rest of the tunnel was a war zone. Brynne was kneeling over Lambert Sackville, trying to stuff the man’s intestines back into his abdomen, forcing him back to consciousness. Isemay was on her knees, cradling the unconscious Cornelia and whispering something in her ear. A glance at the Council’s tally showed that at least two hearts had stopped beating; Alias and Leta Beves.

Bolt was the first to speak. “We can bring them back,” she said, not to anyone in particular. “If we hurry. We need to get them out, but we can bring them back.” Her hands were already working, tracing the old, bitter runes of a soul tether. Iliyria admired the efficiency.

The tunnel stank of blood, magic, and sewage. The rats were gone, for now, but Iliyria knew better than to trust the peace. She stood, forced her lungs to fill, and assessed the situation. They were alive. They still had all the Councilors, and most of them were even breathing.

“Forward,” she croaked, voice shredded. “No stopping.”

They picked their way through the carnage, collecting the dead and the nearly dead. Dingus led, Nimueh was at his side. Isemay floated in the middle, her hands steady on the shoulders of anyone who looked like they might fall. Iliyria took up the rear, her staff now a makeshift crutch.

As they moved, she felt the city above them stirring. The Watch would not give up so easily. The demons that ran the show now would want a spectacle, and the Council’s escape would not go unpunished.

But that was tomorrow’s problem.

Tonight, they still had a path. And, for the first time, Iliyria dared to hope it might lead somewhere other than the grave.

They trudged on, the tunnel closing behind them, the darkness hungry for more.

The Queendom Under the Capitol

Isemay had always thought of herself as adaptable. She could navigate a gala or an academic conference with the same deft, calculated grace; had conquered a thousand rooms by reading their undercurrents and rearranging herself to fit; but this, tonight, was an order of magnitude beyond anything the Capitol, or her own generous nightmares, could have engineered for her.

She was, in summary: covered in blood (her own), shit (not hers), and a layer of cold sweat (provenance disputed). Her dress, the one Isemay had spent three hours prepping and spell-pressing for this night, her best and most favorite green silk, lined in runes to keep it “accidentally” a season ahead of fashion, was, at this moment, more a collection of limp strips than a garment. The fabric clung to her legs like seaweed as she waded through the last meters of the sewer’s main artery, and every motion set off a new ache: a constellation of rat bites, a lacerated thigh, and a left arm that had gone so numb she was reasonably sure it was just vestigial at this point.

If anyone had asked her, at the start of the evening, what the worst possible outcome was for the ball, she would have guessed “an escalation of the rivalry between the Merchant’s Guild and Countis Nobelesse,” or “Iliyria and Commander Lowshade argue and end up dueling in front of the city’s elite.” She would not, in a thousand years, have predicted “shot at, mauled by rats and forced to swim through city sewage in front of the entire ruling Council.”

At Isemay’s right, Lawmaster Runecoat sloshed forward with the deliberate stoicism of a person whose life was an extended, unbroken sequence of disappointments. The dwarf’s thick hair, braided and pinned with the same runic precision as always, now dripped with a substance that was either mud or, if fate had a sense of humor, rat guts. She muttered to herself as they moved, a low grinding of teeth punctuated by occasional slurs against rodents, sewers, the city, and, at one point, the gods. Her willpower was visible, a palpable force that seemed to generate its own heat; Runecoat would not die here, not in a shithole, not with her enemies and colleagues watching. She would survive this, if only so she could live long enough to murder the son-of-a-bitch who had engineered it.

Sanibalis, to his credit, had stoically kept his composure throughout the entire ordeal. He had always seemed somewhat delicate to her, but then again, he was a survivor of the War. Maybe he had seen worse. Maybe he was just as rattled as the rest of them, but in a state of such shock that his body hadn’t allowed him to react yet.

Team Seven led the way, unrecognizable except by silhouette. Dingus was at the front, scanning for the next sigil that would point him towards their mystery destination. Io, enormous and spectral in the dark; Buggy, beside him, trudged forward in single-minded silence, his face set in a grim rictus, pulling Shepherd along with him. Bolt and Nimueh moved in perfect unison, alternating handholds on the slick tunnel walls and keeping an eye on Alavara, who brought up the rear, limping and frequently glancing back as if expecting another disaster at any moment

Isemay kept her head down, less out of shame than to hide the faint glow of her irises, which she had not dared dispel since casting Truesight at the start of this hellish parade. She hadn’t meant to show off, but the instant she noticed Dingus reading a trail of sigils, each one carefully hidden in the arch of a drain, or the shadow of a wall, rendered invisible to all but the most diligent scryer, her curiosity had overridden her dignity. She had whispered the incantation, blinked, and now she could see them all: a shimmering breadcrumb trail, gold and hot as fresh coin, leading deeper into the city’s bowels.

The sigils were a language of their own. They used old Thieves’ Cant, but with a refinement and nuance she had only ever seen in the work of true Wizards Tower prodigies. Each mark was more than a simple directional; some were warnings, others curses or promises, some, she suspected, private jokes for the next person who could read them. Isemay felt a grudging admiration, which she loathed, but was powerless to quell. Dingus held his hand up to them, and their glow was reflected by a golden circle embossed on his own palm, invisible to all others. It reminded her, ridiculously, of her Friendship Symbol.

She rubbed her inner right forearm, wishing for the thousandth time that she had dragged Lavan along to the Ball after all. When the arrow had struck her, she had reached for him, instinctively, through their bond. She felt him echo her fear, and felt his resolve, as he sent a wordless message that said, “hold on May, I’m coming.” But then Iliyria had ordered Pembroke to close the Tower. She had felt a surge of white hot rage from Lavan, and then he was gone. Completely cut off; for the first time since she was twelve years old, she could not feel him. It was terrifying.

They reached a junction. The air was suddenly cooler, and the sound of the water changed, as if it were echoing off a larger, emptier space. Dingus conferred briefly with Bolt, then turned to the group and made a series of hand signals Isemay barely recognized: wait, hold, silence. Not for the first time that night, she found herself caught between the urge to obey and the urge to break every bone in the tiefling’s body for making her do this.

He was leading them somewhere, and no one had bothered to tell her where. She had a guess though, based on the shape of the mark on Dingus’ hand and the map of the Capitol she kept in her head that told her they were currently somewhere under Nightvalley District. The Gentleman’s Circle.

Isemay felt a surge of panic, a desire to run.  Had they escaped assassination only to be led to the wolves? But she also had no idea where exactly they were, or what waited up ahead, and so she swallowed her anxiety and fell into line with the others.

Dingus led them down a side tunnel, away from the main sewer line and into a smaller, cleaner channel. Here, the marks became more frequent, and their meaning changed: not just directions, but reassurance, comfort, a kind of lullaby for the lost. Isemay could see them glowing with a warmth that felt almost familiar, and it unsettled her more than she cared to admit.

They walked for what felt like miles. The air changed as they moved, losing the stink of waste and replacing it with the heavier, more complex aroma of incense and a hint of opium. The walls began to show signs of decoration; scratched tags, then murals, then elaborate mosaics crafted from bottle caps and broken glass. The light, which had been a dim, guttering orange, now shifted to a softer, rose-tinted white, and the water underfoot receded until the floor was dry.

Then, just as her patience was about to rupture, they emerged into the open.

The transition was so sudden, so dramatic, that for a moment, Isemay thought she had blacked out and dreamed the last few hours. The tunnel ended at the lip of a vast, domed cavern. The space was lit by a thousand lamps, each one carefully placed to throw light on the makeshift buildings below: a miniature city, improvised and improbable, nestled inside the bowels of the real one.

At the center of the cavern, a spire of rock jutted up from the ground, and around it sprawled a network of structures; bars, casinos, pleasure houses, food stalls, all built from scavenged wood and brick, decorated with banners and strings of colored glass. The people here were everywhere, moving with a purpose but also a kind of casual, feral joy. Some danced in the streets; others gambled, or fought, or just lounged on the stoops, staring up at the newcomers with a blend of curiosity and naked appraisal.

Isemay felt her senses reeling, trying to process the volume of sensation. The smells; smoke, sweat, baking bread, sharp tang of spirits, were overwhelming. The noise was worse: a constant, undulating tide of voices, music, the clatter of dice, the shouts of children and the bark of laughter. Above it all, a pulse of magic, not subtle, not hidden at all, but beating through the walls and streets like the heart of the city itself.

The Gentlemen’s Circle, she realized, was not a gang. It was a kingdom.

She turned to Dingus, who had stopped at the edge of the platform, gazing down at the world below with an expression of, what? Pride? Nostalgia? Maybe even regret.

He caught her looking and smiled, the mask of self-deprecation slipping just enough for her to see the person underneath. “Welcome to the real Capitol,” he said. “The boss is waiting. Try not to get distracted on the way.”

They descended a spiral ramp cut into the rock. Everywhere, people stared, some openly, some with the surreptitious skill of professionals. Isemay felt the weight of a hundred, maybe a thousand eyes on her, and it was like standing on a stage, naked and unprepared, every flaw and fear laid bare for the world to pick over. The benefit of their ragged appearance, however, was that she doubted any of them were recognizable. The sewage and blood that covered the Council head to toe, served as a disguise in the face of the city’s most dangerous criminals.

She focused instead on the sigils, now painted on the walls in clear, bold strokes. She traced them as they moved, building a mental map, trying to divine meaning from the chaos.

They crossed through to the other side of the cavern.

At the far end was a raised stage, and upon it, seated like a judge at his own tribunal, was a man.

Or, rather, the appearance of a man. He wore a coat so red it almost bled, the fabric catching the light and throwing it back in impossible shades. His face was sharp and handsome, framed by a shock of brown hair, and his eyes, his eyes were the color of old whiskey, gold and bitter and impossible to look away from. He smiled as they approached, but the smile was a weapon, a promise and a threat in equal measure.

Isemay felt a shiver run through her. The Truesight, still active, registered a flicker, a shimmer at the edge of the man's outline, like a heat haze. She blinked, and in an instant, the illusion peeled away: underneath, she saw another face, not entirely different, but pale grey, framed by dark hair, horns and eyes that were a universe apart from the borrowed gold of the mask.

It was Ophelia.

Alive.

The shock hit her with the force of a spell. She stopped, mid-step, and stared. The room fell away; the world fell away. All that remained was the impossible fact of this: Ophelia, the ghost who had haunted her every dream and every regret, here, in this place, alive and watching her.

Ophelia saw the recognition. The mask held for a fraction of a second longer, then faltered. The smile twisted, changed, and for a heartbeat, Isemay saw the person behind it: the woman she had loved, hated, mourned. The woman she had failed to save, once upon a time.

The silence was total.

Then, Ophelia recovered. She stood, stepped forward, and spread her arms in a gesture that was both theatrical and self-mocking. Her voice, when it came, was pitched an octave lower than Isemay remembered, but the cadence, the sly, dangerous music of it, was unmistakable.

“Councilors of the Capitol,” she said, “esteemed guests, welcome to the Gentlemen’s Circle. I hope you’ll find our hospitality superior to what you’re accustomed to aboveground.”

She paused, letting the words hang in the air, then glanced at Isemay. The disguise dropped entirely, and Ophelia’s real eyes, wide and dark and endless, met hers.

“It’s been a long time,” Ophelia said, barely louder than a whisper.

Isemay could not speak. She did not trust her voice, or her thoughts, or the body that seemed suddenly too small to contain the riot inside her chest.

Ophelia studied her, and something, a hope, a plea, a threat, passed between them. Then, just as quickly, the mask returned. Ophelia turned to the rest of the group, arms still wide, smile perfectly in place.

“We’ve prepared a place for you to rest and recover. You’ll be safe here, for as long as you need. After that, well, we’ll see.”

She gestured to a tiefling man standing behind her. “Mattis will show you to your quarters. Please, make yourselves at home. Try not to pick any fights. The walls have ears, and the ears have teeth.”

Isemay barely heard it. She was staring at Ophelia, searching for a sign, any sign, that this was a trick, a trap, a dream. But it wasn’t. It was real.

She followed the others numbly, her mind burning with the questions she could not ask.

Alive. She’s alive.

And for the first time since the night began, Isemay felt something other than despair.

She felt anger.

As they were led them down the hall, Isemay looked back once, just long enough to see Ophelia watching her, the old, familiar glint in her eye.

The city’s underworld had a queen.

And Isemay Misendris knew the smart thing to do was kneel. For the first time in a long time, she did not want to do the smart thing.