POV: Cael
Council chambers smell like old wood and the pride of men who think chairs are thrones if you sit angrily enough. The Regent does not attend; she has better tools. I sit where she would, not because I want the seat but because I want the vantage point.
“Food stores,” the bursar drones, riffling papers. “Fifty-seven sacks short from the west granary. Mice or men. Repair requests for the lower span’s mid-gap—stone mason can’t start till the tide drops. Dye Guild petitions for more copper. Healers request linen. Heir, if we divert from—”
“Divert,” I say. “From the council’s luncheon budget if you have to.”
A cough. A shuffle. A man who loves the word tradition clears his throat until the room admits his sound as law. “On the matter of stabilizing succession,” he begins, and I feel the old ache start under the ribs, the one that pulls like a poorly set stitch. “It would be prudent to finalize arrangements for your bond, heir.”
“Prudent,” another echoes. “The city needs a promise it can see.”
Rhun lifts his head. “We promised nothing to them.”
“We promised the city we wouldn’t let it burn,” I remind him.
One of the elders smiles the way a cat smiles at birds. “A Lady with proper resonance would go a long way toward… calming fears.”
“You mean controlling me,” I say mildly.
“If calm follows control, does the motive matter?” he asks, too clever for his own safety.
“Always,” I answer, and Jax’s boot shifts against the doorframe in the way that says breathe, don’t bite. “We will revisit bond politics when the bridges stop bleeding under our feet.”
Another cough, a different man; this one collects grievances like dolls. “Minor Drift sightings increased along the south gully. Patrols report new claw marks near the parapet. And—” He flips a page. “—Hearthworks has filed four incident slips this week.”
Rhun prowls, teeth bared. “Hearthworks.”
I keep my face still. “Read them.”
“Spilled dye near the east alcove, solved. Missing ledger, found damp under a bench. Pantry door jam, noted. And—ah—” He squints. “A message.”
My knuckles itch. “What message.”
Jax answers instead of the man: “We have it. It’s under review.”
“Content?” the elder persists.
“Under review,” Jax repeats, patient as a silent bell. His gaze is a warning: we don’t say the threat aloud when the walls have ears.
“Very well,” the elder says, stung. “In any case, all this underlines the need to… regularize personnel. The girl—what’s her name—Moonfell—”
“Mara,” I say. The sound of her name in my mouth is both salt and water.
“Yes. Her movements remain… liberal,” he says delicately. “Lantern Guild. Markets. Corridors.”
“Observed labor,” I remind him. “Not indentured. Hearthworks assigns, not you.”
“It would be safer for all involved if we adopt a dusk curfew for her.”
Rhun roars. “Ours. Don’t let them cage her.”
My hand doesn’t move. “Safer for whom?”
“For the city,” he says. “And for your… reputation.”
“Interesting that you put them in that order,” I say. “No dusk curfew. Modify to lantern-lit—she is to be indoors when the lamps are doused, no earlier. And station Shields on the routes we can control instead of pretending orders replace watchmen.”
Silence shifts; it doesn’t yield. The elder purses his mouth like a wound that refuses to close. “If anything happens—”
“Something is always happening,” I say, and stand. “Feed the city. Fix the bridge. I’ll sign the copper allotment after drill.”
Jax follows me into the hall where the air is allowed to be honest. “Lantern-lit curfew,” he says. “That’s going to read like favoritism.”
“It reads like sense,” I answer. “She carries bread at dusk. Bread keeps riots from stealing their own names.”
He glances at me sidelong. “You could have said that and not said her name.”
“I’m trying a new approach: honesty.”
“Terrifying,” he says, deadpan.
We walk a while without speaking. The corridor opens to the chime garden, fogless now, the shells airy, notes like thin bells over puddles. I stop at the edge and let myself look. She isn’t here, which is a mercy and a shame.
Rhun noses the space she would take. “Bring her.”
“No.”
“Then don’t move the world around her.”
“I’ll move what I must,” I say under my breath. “To keep the city standing.”
Jax pretends not to hear. Or he does and files it under weather. “I’ll file the curfew change,” he says. “We’ll pretend it came from me.”
“Thank you.”
He tilts his head. “You’ll still sign it.”
“I will.”
He stops me before we part. “You know this gets worse before it gets better.”
“I know,” I say.
“You’re choosing a future that requires you to be patient in public.”
“I’ve been rehearsing since I learned to read,” I say, and leave him with the shells.