It was noon.

  The sun was already high in the sky, bleaching the pace bright and harmless. Servants moved from room to room with ptters of tea and refreshments, their quiet industry smoothing the edges of everything that did not belong.

  Lumiere, Etienne, and even Rocher in his small way had armed me with what I needed to face Corveaux. The rest would have to come from me.

  The steward ushered me into his office without a word.

  He stood with his back to the door, one hand resting lightly against the window frame as if he had been watching the sun rise all day over his kingdom.

  "So," he said, quietly, "the king kept you this morning."

  The words were not a question.

  I bowed.

  "Goddess be with you, Your Highness."

  "Cire."

  He didn't turn.

  "You have an impressive talent for being elsewhere when I am expecting you," he added mildly. "I trust His Majesty found you worth the dey."

  I stepped forward and extended the royal summons.

  He still did not face me.

  Instead he said, with chilling quiet, "On your knees."

  My breath stalled.

  He didn't raise his voice or even look at me. He simply issued the command the way one instructs a wayward servant. And because I was under house arrest, because he held my fate in his hand, because refusing would give him cause to drag me out in irons...

  I sank to my knees. The cold marble bit through the fabric of my dress.

  Only then did he turn.

  He took the summons from my upraised hand, his fingers brushing the air just above mine, close enough that I felt the heat of them without contact. His gaze drifted down to where I knelt. His attention lingered too long, as if measuring something he had not yet taken.

  "Good," he murmured. "You still remember your pce."

  Humiliation burned in my chest, but I kept my head bowed.

  He broke the seal, scanned the contents, and let out a small, humorless ugh.

  "A mission to Ironspine. Through the Aurelian Duchy."

  His fingers ran zily through my hair as he read. His touch was light, idle, proprietary.

  "By recommendation of the Duke and the Saintess, of course. How very convenient."

  He folded the parchment sharply and stepped closer.

  I kept my gaze fixed on the floor.

  His boots stopped just inches from my knees. "Look at me."

  I lifted my head. My line of sight was filled with him. The air between us shifted, heavy with an expectation I refused to name.

  His eyes were cool, precise, stripping me down to intention and motive alike.

  "Do you expect me to grant you permission to leave my sight?" he asked softly. "After the performance you put on st night?"

  "Yes, Your Highness."

  I could not help that it sounded faintly defiant. A frown flickered across his face.

  "It's essential for the mission," I said quickly.

  He took one slow step closer.

  "And to Rocher."

  That made him still. The tension in the room drew tight.

  "Expin."

  I swallowed and recited the answer I had prepared. Voice steady. Hands csped. Each word pced with care.

  Aimed at the one thing he could not afford to ignore.

  "Rocher is unstable," I said. "Vulnerable. If the Demon Lord attacks now... he would die. And the kingdom along with it."

  Corveaux nodded slowly.

  "I believe the Mountain Guardian's trial may restore his memory. His skills. His cohesion with the party."

  He was watching me now. Fully. Still as carved stone.

  "Rocher may ck coordination," I continued, "but he follows my lead by instinct. You saw him at the ball. He moves when I do."

  I met his eyes directly.

  "I can keep him centered. Focused." A beat. "Alive."

  Silence stretched thin as wire.

  He lifted a hand and touched my chin with a knuckle, tilting my face up.

  "Cire," he murmured, "you seem to have misunderstood the nature of our arrangement."

  I swallowed. "This is not about me, Your Highness."

  "No," he agreed softly. "It's about Rocher. It's always about him."

  His voice wrapped around the name like a bde wrapped in velvet.

  He withdrew his hand and stepped back just enough to breathe.

  "Stand."

  My legs shook as I rose. He circled me slowly, fingers grazing the back of my dress.

  "If you are the tether holding my brother together, then I cannot simply lock you in a room as I please, can I?"

  He stopped behind me. His breath brushed the nape of my neck. His presence pressed against my spine, deliberate and unhurried.

  For a moment, I could feel his irritation like heat. Not at my disobedience, but at the interruption. At the fact that something he had intended to collect had slipped out of reach.

  His gaze dipped once, calcuting, and the moment stretched thin, banced on the edge of something dangerous.

  Then he exhaled, as though shelving an indulgence for ter.

  "Very well," he said. "You have my permission to go."

  Relief nearly buckled my knees.

  "Under certain conditions," he added.

  I froze.

  "You will travel under censure. You will send letters to me weekly." His voice lowered. "And Cire..."

  His fingers curled briefly into the fabric at my shoulder.

  "If Rocher returns harmed. If he falters for even a moment because of you..."

  He leaned in, whisper-soft.

  "I will come for you myself. And next time," he said, his breath brushing my ear, "I will take what I'm owed."

  A tremor ran down my spine.

  "Do not mistake this for clemency."

  "Yes, Your Highness."

  "Good," he murmured. "You are dismissed."

  Only when the doors closed behind me did I finally let myself breathe.

  I had won.

  But I had also given him exactly what he wanted: the knowledge I was still under his thumb.

  I found Lumiere in the pace chapel where she promised to be.

  The doors stood ajar, light spilling out across the stone floor. Inside, the space was quiet in the way only sanctified pces ever were... not empty, but contained.

  Her hands were folded neatly, back straight, gaze lowered. A thin cushion y beneath her knees, worn ft with use. Several candles burned at the altar, their fmes steady, unhurried.

  I stopped just inside the threshold.

  Lumiere gnced back briefly, then returned her gaze to the altar.

  "I'm almost done," she said. "You may join me, if you wish."

  She did not rise.

  I knelt for the second time today—beside her, smoothing my skirts without thinking, hands folding on their own. The prayer returned easily. Not the words at first... just the rhythm. The quiet. The stillness that lived between breaths.

  Lumiere finished the prayer she was murmuring under her breath, touched her fingers briefly to her brow, and only then rose. She turned, expression soft and unguarded, as if I had not intruded at all.

  "Thank you for waiting," she said quietly. "How did it go?"

  "As well as it could have. Which is to say, not particurly." I huffed a resigned ugh. "Still, he did sign off on my participation."

  She shrugged. "That will have to do for now."

  A rge shadow darkened the doorway.

  "Cire. Your Holiness."

  Rocher approached alone, pausing briefly to press his palm to his heart and incline his head before stepping inside.

  I felt my shoulders tense immediately. My gaze flicked past him, instinctively searching for a second shadow that never appeared.

  "Seraphine isn't with you," Lumiere observed.

  Rocher rubbed the back of his neck. "I tried to fetch her," he said. "But she was tied up in some meeting. Something official."

  My stomach tightened.

  "With whom?" Lumiere asked calmly.

  Rocher hesitated, then sighed. "The White Warden."

  I flinched. It cut through me before I could mask it, sharp and involuntary.

  Rocher noticed immediately.

  He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "She couldn't break away," he added quickly. "But she promised she'd join us ter for the mission."

  He hovered a moment, uncertain. Then he reached out and brushed my shoulder with careful familiarity. "She promised."

  I nodded, too fast.

  Lumiere said nothing. Her expression softened by a fraction—not in judgment, but in understanding. Like she was storing something for ter.

  She took my hand and gave it a supportive squeeze.

  "Come sister. Let's head to the garden."

  The garden path crunched softly under approaching boots.

  "Good afternoon, everyone."

  Before long, Duke Etienne had joined us. Also alone, also empty-handed.

  Lumiere chuckled softly. "Everyone keeps coming back without the people they went to get."

  He smiled apologetically and gave her hand a kiss, unhurried and practiced. She adjusted her grip on his arm without looking, already anticipating his pace as they turned together.

  They moved like that often, I realized. No whispered consultation. No hesitation. Just a shared understanding of when to speak and when to yield, when to press and when to wait. Power and patience, faith and pragmatism, braided so neatly it barely showed where one ended and the other began.

  For a fleeting, irrational moment, I envied it.

  We found refuge under one of the garden's many gazebos. After a quick survey of our surroundings, Duke Etienne continued.

  "They stopped me at the door before I could even offer the commission. Apparently Miss Evelyn is deep in her cups at the moment. I think it's best if we try another time."

  I shook my head. "No. I know Evelyn. If you're waiting for a sober moment, you'll be waiting forever." I stood up. "I'll go talk to her."

  "I'll come with you," Rocher offered.

  "Don't." I raised a hand to stop him. "If she sees the both of us, I'm afraid she'll drink herself to death from the guilt."

  He sat back down, glum. I turned to the Duke.

  "Where may I find her, Your Grace?"

  "Please, just Etienne. Any friend of Lumiere is a friend of mine."

  He gave a humble bow. I met Lumiere's oblivious blue eyes behind him. She blinked.

  They're cute, I thought, a little dazed.

  Etienne just smiled effervescently. "There's a Thieves' Guild outpost a few blocks off the Royal Road. Looked surprisingly above board for an underground organization. Recently renovated, perhaps."

  "Ah, that one. I'm familiar."

  We parted shortly after, the garden's quiet giving way to the low, familiar hum of the city streets.

  I walked the path I had memorized all those months ago, humming the old ditty under my breath, and came upon the old tavern where Rocher, Evelyn, and Seraphine had once barged in trying to rescue me.

  The roof no longer sagged. The shutters were newly braced. Even the sign had been repainted. But the building itself had not softened. It had simply been put in order.

  I pushed through the tavern door, which now glided smoothly.

  Just like before, a hundred heads turned.

  Not in arm. In assessment.

  Eyes flicked over my face, my hands, the cut of my dress, the way I stood. Recognition passed through the room like a ripple across dark water.

  Then, as one, they looked away. Conversation resumed, not with warmth, but with the low, steady hum of business.

  A few of the newer faces kept staring. They didn't understand what they were seeing. Only that everyone else had decided it wasn't their concern. In time, they too looked away.

  I took an empty stool at the bar.

  Wordlessly, the bartender slid a gss across the counter. I took a sip.

  It was tea, cut with lemon. Lukewarm and faintly bitter.

  Before long, a familiar figure detached himself from the edge of the room. This time, he was sporting an eyepatch over one eye, complementing the cross-shaped scar on his opposite cheek. Some people had a talent for getting injured stylishly, I thought idly.

  "Good evening, Miss Cire. I hope the boys didn't cause you any trouble."

  "They're affable as always, Mister Harker."

  He nodded. "I assume you're here to see the Guildmaster? She is... indisposed at present."

  I waved my hand. "I know. I've heard. Would you kindly show me to her please?"

  "This way."

  He gestured to the cordon at the back. I followed him upstairs, the din of the tavern muffling behind us.

  All that time ago, Evelyn had come to rescue me here.

  Now I was walking into the same den with the certainty that it would open for me.

  I only hoped I wasn't too te.