Chapter 43 #2
Caelen took out a notepad and began to copy, fast and silent.
Then Azrian restored the room to its exact previous state, careful to wipe any sign of their presence.
Caelen cast an illusion of the ward he’d destroyed.
They retraced their path down the stairs, through the glass corridors.
On the ground floor, the same guard watched them pass without actually seeing them.
Outside, the night air felt thick, electric. Azrian glanced up at the Spire and imagined it toppling, imagined the entire edifice of the Registry shattering and spilling its secrets across the city.
By the time Azrian made it back to his house with Caelen in tow, dawn painted the sky crimson and purple.
Virelle sat in his morning room in a pale green dressing gown, looking as though she was lady of the house and not simply a guest, breakfast already arranged in front of her by his staff.
The air was filled with notes of brewed tea and the buttery goodness of freshly baked bread.
A faint hint of lemon and chamomile lingered, the scent of Virelle’s preferred perfume.
“You’re late,” Virelle said, stretching lazily toward the silver carafe. “And you both look like you haven’t slept in a decade. Just more of the usual breaking and entering?”
Caelen poured himself a cup of tea and sat beside her, their knees touching. “You’re in rare form this morning, love.”
“I’m in rare form every morning,” she replied, then turned a sly gaze on Sabine, who entered just behind the men. “ You, however, look like someone caught in front of a firing squad.”
Sabine’s smile was anemic, but it held. She accepted the cup Caelen offered. “I see the rumors of my imminent execution have not dampened your appetite for gossip.”
“If you’re to be executed, at least make it interesting,” Virelle replied. “Otherwise, I’ll have nothing to wear for the occasion.” She sipped her tea, then said to Sabine, “You should get yourself framed for a more colorful crime next time. Maybe stealing the crown jewels?”
Sabine set her cup down, bracing her hands on her knees. “If I recall, you once swore you’d never entertain the Emperor’s pet butcher, and now you’re here breaking fast with his murderous wife. Your standards are slipping.”
“Did I say that? I don’t recall. Besides, what is the point of society if not to be amused by its own destruction?”
Azrian watched as Virelle and Sabine orbited each other, both refusing to admit their own terror. Caelen, for his part, simply radiated tension, his gaze flitting between the windows, the door, and the shadowed corners of the room.
Azrian waited for the others to exhaust themselves before speaking. “We found something in the High Binder’s chambers. Letters about their plan for the Season. A list of marked pairs to eliminate.”
Virelle’s smile flickered, but she held it in place. “How many?”
“Twenty or so,” Caelen answered. “A few already dead. A few still alive, but not for long if we don’t intervene.” He slid a copy of the directive across the table.
Virelle leaned back, eyeing the paper as if it might bite. “And you two broke into the Spire for this?” She turned to Caelen. “Do you enjoy nearly dying, or is it just the thrill of disobeying the Emperor that leaves you aching?”
The room was lit by a single candelabra whose flickering flame cast quivering shadows across the oak table.
A thin ribbon of smoke curled upward, carrying the resinous scent of burning pitch.
Caelen sat rigid, forearms bared and crisscrossed with pale scars, still clutching a porcelain cup. Steam rose from the dark liquid within.
He didn’t flinch. “I was trained for this. I’m good at it. And I’d rather die fighting than watch them slaughter my wife and friends one by one.”
Across the table, his companions exchanged a loaded glance.
Silence hung between them until Azrian finally set down his own cup with a soft clink.
“The directive confirms everything we suspected. But if we attempt to publish the truth, the Registry will see us as threats to the balance. They’ll hunt us until we’re silenced. ”
Sabine pressed her lips into a thin, determined line. “Then let us unmask the true killer first. Expose them so completely that the Registry can’t dismiss these deaths as natural consequences of the marks.”
A low, mirthless snort came from the corner where Virelle reclined. Her polished nails tapped the table. “You speak as if it’s a simple card trick.”
Azrian leaned forward. “The gallery murder wasn’t random.
The debutante wore Sabine’s bracelet. Whoever did this intends to frame her or, at least, ruin her reputation.
” He tapped the paper, near where their names were written, with the note in the margins.
“Possibly, to help contain us. If you are imprisoned, it would give the Emperor further leverage on me.”
“Anyone could have taken that bracelet,” Sabine countered softly. “My things were handled by seamstresses, porters, even Lady Delarine’s hidden house staff in the days before the wedding.”
Virelle’s gaze narrowed, sharpening her delicate features. “There was a new maid hired at the last minute for the festivities. She had an Eastern accent, which she tried to mask with a timid drawl. You remember her?”
Sabine closed her eyes. “She brought me jasmine tea the night before the ceremony and then vanished. I thought she’d been dismissed.”
“Or quietly reassigned,” Caelen murmured. “We could scour the city for her. Ask some of our informants. Surely, someone must know her.”
Sabine lifted her empty cup. “It’s a solid lead, but we mustn’t rush.”
Azrian inclined his head. “We’ll follow her trail and keep every other possibility in sight.”
Together, they leaned into the candle’s glow as the conversation shifted to logistics.
Virelle volunteered to question the staff at Delarine’s house, while Sabine looked for clues among the vendors that had served the wedding.
Azrian and Caelen would pursue the girl directly, following the trail wherever it led.
When the planning was done, Virelle reached across to refill Sabine’s cup. Sabine smiled at her, a real one this time.
Azrian stood, stretching the stiffness from his limbs. He looked at the three of them and felt, for the first time, that the war was not already lost. If the Empire feared them, then they had power.
And Azrian, for all his other flaws, had always known how to wield power.