Chapter 10 #2
"I had them designed by a rather brilliant artisan. A foreigner. He calls himself the Architect."
The Architect.
"Impressive," I said, keeping my voice rough, disinterested. "Where'd you find this artisan?"
"He found me." She unlocked the case, lifted one of the guns, and held it out. "Care to inspect?"
I took it. The weight was wrong—too light for its size, balanced for Aether recoil rather than physical force. The trigger mechanism was familiar, though. Too familiar. It was based on a Beretta design, modified with levers and crystals that had no business existing in this century.
Someone from my world built this. Someone who knows firearms engineering. Someone who isn't just surviving here—they're thriving.
"Fine craftsmanship," I said, handing it back. "I'll take ten. For the right price."
Morgana laughed. "Oh, Captain. I don't sell these. I deploy them." She returned the gun to its case, her movements precise, ritualistic.
"Tomorrow, the High Council votes on my proposal. A new military branch. Elite guards. Armed with these weapons, loyal only to the crown." She looked at me, and her smile became something else. Something hungry. "Loyal only to me."
"Ambitious," I said.
"Practical." She moved closer, her perfume overwhelming. "The old ways are dying, Captain. Swords and honor and noble blood. The future belongs to those who adapt. Who arm themselves with the best weapons, the best information, the best..." she touched my arm, her fingers lingering, "...alliances."
I felt Cassian shift behind me. A subtle tensing. Ready to move if she pushed too far.
"I might be interested in an alliance," I said, playing the part. "But I'd need to meet this Architect. Discuss specifications. Delivery schedules."
"Perhaps." Her eyes narrowed. "But first, tell me something. That scar on your jaw. It's fresh. The tissue is still pink. And your hands—" she grabbed my wrist, her grip suddenly iron, "—they're soft. No calluses from rope or rigging. No salt stains. No kraken burns."
Her smile vanished. "Who are you really?"
Shit.
The silence stretched. One second. Two.
Then Cassian moved.
Not toward Morgana. Toward the door. He slammed it shut, threw the bolt, and turned back to us with his hood down and his beard half-peeling off.
"She's with me," he said, in his real voice. The prince's voice. Clear, commanding, utterly unmistakable.
Morgana's face went white. Then red. Then a shade of purple that would have been funny if she hadn't been reaching for the gun in the display case.
"You," she hissed. "You traitor. You brought her into my house. Into my armory. You—"
"I brought the truth," Cassian said. "And I'm taking your weapons."
He moved fast—faster than I'd seen him move in the arena. He swept a decorative halberd from the wall and brought it down on the display case. Glass shattered. Guns scattered across the floor.
I didn't hesitate. I ripped off the prosthetic mask, drew the daggers I'd hidden in my coat, and threw one. It caught Morgana's sleeve, pinning her arm to the wall before she could raise the gun.
She screamed. Not in pain. In fury.
"Guards!" she shrieked. "GUARDS!"
The door shook. The bolt held—for now.
I grabbed two of the guns from the floor, shoving them into my belt. Cassian snatched a third. The rest we kicked beneath a cabinet—out of immediate reach, but not destroyed. We needed evidence, not destruction.
"We need to leave," Cassian said, kicking the door just as the guards slammed into it from the other side. Wood splintered.
"No shit."
I ran to the window—a narrow slit high on the wall, designed for archers, not escape. Too small for Cassian. Maybe just small enough for me.
"Go," he said, reading my mind. "I'll hold them."
"Like hell you will. Partners, remember?"
I grabbed his hand, pulled him toward the back of the armory. There—a grate in the floor. Drainage. Old. Leading to the sewers.
"After you, Your Highness."
He looked at the grate. At me. At the door, which was giving way under the assault.
"You're going to make me crawl through sewage again, aren't you?"
"Consider it method acting."
I kicked the grate open. He dropped through. I followed, just as the door exploded inward and Morgana's guards poured into the room, guns drawn, shouting orders that echoed off the stone.
We hit the water running.
The sewers were worse than I remembered. Or maybe Ashford Manor used a different drainage system than the palace. Either way, we were up to our knees in something I didn't want to identify, running through darkness lit only by the occasional Aether-crystal I'd stuck to the wall as we passed.
Cassian was wheezing, his fake beard gone, his face smeared with grime and theater paint. He looked ridiculous. He looked alive.
"That," he gasped, "was not part of the plan."
"Plans change." I checked the guns as we ran—unfamiliar weight, strange balance, but the trigger mechanism was close enough to what I knew. "You were supposed to stay quiet. Be stupid. Not reveal yourself and smash her display case."
"I improvised."
"You nearly got us killed."
"I saved your life."
"You compromised the mission!"
"I protected you!" He stopped suddenly, grabbing my arm, spinning me to face him in the dark. His eyes were wild, bright, reflecting the faint glow of the crystal.
"She knew. She was seconds from calling for your execution. I did what I had to do."
"By throwing away our cover? By announcing to the entire noble class that the Crown Prince is conspiring with the Silver Wolf?"
"Yes!" He was shouting now, his voice echoing off the wet stone. "If that's what it takes! If that's what keeps you alive!"
Silence.
We stared at each other, breathing hard, the stench of the sewer forgotten.
"You can't do that," I said quietly. "You can't throw away your crown for me. I'm not worth it."
"You don't get to decide what you're worth." His grip on my arm tightened, not hurting, just holding. "You don't get to tell me what I can and can't sacrifice. I've spent my whole life being told what to do, what to say, what to feel. For once—for once—I'm choosing. And I choose you."
I opened my mouth. Closed it.
This is dangerous, my mafia brain screamed. This is attachment. This is leverage. This is the kind of thing that gets you killed in back alleys.
But my heart—Iraia's heart, Vienne's heart, whatever was beating in my chest—said something else.
"Cassian," I whispered.
He kissed me.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't royal. It was the kiss of a man who'd been holding his breath for months and had finally been given permission to exhale. Hard. Desperate. His hand tangled in my wig—still on, barely—and his other arm pulled me against him, bruises and ribs and sewer water be damned.
I kissed him back.
Because I was tired of being a ghost. Because I was tired of running. Because for the first time since I'd woken up in Iraia's body, I felt real.
We broke apart, gasping. His forehead rested against mine. My hands were on his chest, feeling his heart hammer against his ribs.
"This complicates things," I said.
"Everything about you complicates things." He laughed, breathless. "I'm starting to think that's your superpower."
Footsteps echoed in the tunnel behind us. Distant, but approaching.
"We need to move," I said.
"Yes."
"And we need to talk about this. Later. When we're not swimming in... whatever this is."
"Agreed." He kissed my forehead, quick and tender, then released me. "But Vienne?"
"Yeah?"
"No more rules about not falling in love. They're clearly not working."
I stared at him. Then I laughed—a real laugh, surprised and startled and happy.
"You're insufferable," I said.
"And you're in love with me."
"Don't push it, Prince."
We ran.
Behind us, Morgana's guards shouted through the tunnels. Ahead, the river beckoned—cold, clean, freedom.
I had three guns in my belt, a prince at my side, and a smile on my face that would have terrified Marco back in New Carthage.
—————
A/N:
The Lady King wasn't crowned yet.
But she'd just stolen a weapons cache, kissed a prince in a sewer, and given her heart to a man she was supposed to hate.
Complicated didn't even begin to cover it.