POV: Cael
We sign the pact in the Archive under bad light—the kind of gray-gold glow that makes secrets look older than they are. The Regent writes her name first with a pen that has outlived five scribes and two rebellions. The nib scratches the vellum like it’s engraving bone.
“Moon Silence codes,” the scholar explains, voice shaking. His hands tremble so hard the inkpot rattles. “Lineage locked. Access list: three names.”
His eyes flick between us, terrified of saying the wrong thing.
“Regent,” I say.
“Cael,” she adds without looking up.
“Jax,” I finish.
We each press a thumb to the wax. The seal hisses faintly as it cools. The Vein doesn’t hum. Good. I don’t need a choir today. I don’t need the universe applauding a secret I already hate keeping.
“No copies,” the Regent orders. “Only fragments disguised as recipes and weather logs. If Seris comes sniffing, she’ll choke on dust.”
“She’ll lick the dust,” Jax mutters, retrieving a slate from his coat. “But she won’t taste anything useful. False trails in place. One points to a child smuggled north by river monks. One points to a midwife in a marsh village that sank twenty years ago. One points to a ledger page that ‘might’ exist if you believe in angels.”
The Regent rubs her forehead. “I don’t believe in angels.”
“Neither does Seris,” Jax replies. “But she believes in knives.”
“She believes in buying cowards,” I say, too sharp. “And fooling anyone who needs money more than pride.”
“She bought one,” Jax confirms, eyes darkening. He lays a single coin on the table. A Moonfell stamp glints in the ink light—crisp, arrogant, red around the edges. “Admin clerk moved a partial file. Not the core. A scrap. Enough to stitch a story.”
My jaw tightens until bone protests. “Find him.”
“Already did,” Jax says. “He thinks the coin is luck. He bought sweet cakes for his niece and bragged that ‘friends with red wax pay better than friends with soup.’”
My mother exhales hard. “We can’t jail every fool who likes red wax.”
“We can if they sell the shape of a woman,” I say before I think.
Her eyes cut to mine. That warning look she’s given generals and criminals alike. “Cael.”
She isn’t wrong. I just don’t care in this breath.
Jax taps the coin. “We sting the buyer instead. The broker who moves Moonfell’s money. We flip him. He’ll sing if we cut the right thread.”
“Do it quiet,” the Regent says. “And keep Mara off every whisper list.”
“Off every list,” I echo. It feels like trying to hide a candle in a mirror shop. Everything reflects. Everything leaks.
We leave the Archive with silence in our mouths and names on our backs. The corridor seems narrower, like the walls know something and won’t congratulate us for it.
I hate secrecy. I need it. Both can be true.
Halfway to the courtyard, my mother slows. She glances at me once—quick, sharp, not soft at all.
“Cael,” she says in the tone she uses to appear threatening in front of council members, “what about the bond you promised to your people? A bride. You can't put it off forever.”
I stiffen. Rhun inside me bristles instantly, pacing in a way that rattles my ribs. “Mate,” he growls, guttural, possessive. I clamp down on him hard.
“Not the right time, Mother,” I state simply.
Her eyes soften half a degree. “It will become the right time for someone else if you wait too long.”
“I know,” I say. “And still—not now.”
She holds my gaze one heartbeat longer, then nods and walks on. Her cloak sways like a flag trying not to look worried.
On the steps to the yard, a messenger cuts me off, nearly tripping on his own cloak. “My lord—news from admin—urgent!”
Jax snatches the slip before the boy can drop it. He reads it once, then sighs like he expected it.
“Told you,” he mutters.
The slip says what he already warned me: Partial file sold to a Moonfell broker outside the lower gate. Time: midnight. It also says the clerk bragged about “rich friends” in a tavern with bad ale and worse judgment.
“I hate people,” I mutter, crumpling the edge of the paper.
“You love some,” Jax says lightly.
“That’s the problem,” I answer.
He taps the slip. “Midnight. Under the west chimes. Less crowd. More shadow.”
“Any witnesses?” I ask.
“None who’ll live to gossip,” he answers. “We sweep the corners. I’ll take Valen and two plain-clothes.”
“And I’ll be there,” I say.
Rhun snarls approval inside me like he knows the taste of this hunt. A thrill ripples through my bones—not joy. Not triumph. Something older. Something that remembers who dared hurt what’s mine.
“Cael,” Jax says, eyes narrowing. “Don’t break the broker.”
“I won’t,” I lie.
“You will,” he corrects. “So break him gently.”
I huff a laugh. “No promises.”
He nudges my arm. “You’re worse at lying than Mara.”
I look out at the west yard—flags whipping, soldiers drilling, sky bruised with late-afternoon stormclouds.
“Midnight,” I repeat.
The word feels like a blade sliding into a sheath. Sharp, cold, necessary.