Book 2: Chapter 25: Ploys and Failures

  Garret had just started to relax, which is why it almost worked.

  Henery and he had made it back to the main floor, lured in by the tables of food. Allie and Holly spotted them along the way and had decided to stick close by. Garret was already loaded up on pastries and what, he assumed, were the closest thing this world had to cookies, when it happened.

  The server glided past like all the others had. Dressed in house-neutral cream and emerald green, bearing a silver tray of glasswork and shimmering cocktails. He moved with the kind of forgettable elegance bred into the palace staff, designed to vanish into wallpaper and chandelier light.

  Then the tray titled, not by much, just so. And a glass slipped, and time slowed. The wine hit Garret’s jacket like an uncorked potion, which it was.

  Dark red soaked into the brocade fabric, and his startled shout drew half of the lower balcony’s attention. But it was the potion Allie noticed first, the way the aether in the wine shimmered a heartbeat too long before impact. The way it twisted upward over his skin.

  Her alchemy training with Celeste told her what she was seeing. The woman had warned her specifically about potions like these. They were sold as counterfeit version of other potions. Usually high grade healing or augmentor potions. The effect was almost like a beseker potion, but weaker.

  Those who were tricked by it, usually were killed in the fight before they managed to discover such a fact, and thus were rarely come back for refunds.

  It was a subtle effect, clever. A little heat under the skin, and a bit of suppressed cognitive control. Just enough to make someone shout, shove, lose their cool in front of a hundred watching diplomatic and noble eyes.

  Garret flinched, blinking, teeth clenched shut tight.

  “Hey—!”

  “Hold still, it’s fine Garret,” Holly said sharply, already reaching for his shoulder.

  Allie’s hand moved just as fast, aether pattern forming, two fingers sketching a tiny null-spiral near his collarbone. The light of her spell shimmered briefly as it attacked the rage potion, angry red threadwork unraveling just below his skin, then blinked out like a snuffed ember.

  Garret blinked again, tension bleeding from his shoulders. “What the hell was that?”

  Allie whispered as she leaned near his ear. “Targeted rage-potion. Subdermal reaction. Someone wanted you to snap.”

  Holly’s gaze was already moving. She saw him before the others did. A young noble standing three tiers up on the left balcony. Blond, smug, leaning slightly into his wineglass while whispering something to his friend behind a poorly-masked grin.

  Allie and Garret followed her gaze, and when they locked eyes with him, the smile vanished. Then everything changed.

  The three of them saw the air around the server, who had been carrying the drink tray, fractured.

  It happened without noise or flare. Just a perfect stillness that sucked the breath out of the ballroom’s edge. Light seemingly froze in mid-flicker. A napkin hung a little too long in the air. The laughter, the clink of glasses, and even the music, stopped. All eyes turned towards them, to the server holding the now empty tray.

  Malric Vaunt stood behind the server like he had always been there. His hands were folded. His expression unreadable. The air around him shifted slightly, like heat over stone, but colder, reality stretched too thin, too still.

  He didn’t raise his voice. “This is not a battlefield.”

  The server’s eyes went wide. Their mouth opened, but no sound emerged.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  “Nor a courtroom.” Malric took one slow step forward. His robes didn’t sway as there was no wind. “But the Empire watches all, and it will not allow breaking of the covenants.”

  He reached out, and his fingers barely brushed the server’s face.

  A bright ball flame flared into existence instantly, carved into the air itself like branded starlight and then pressed into the man’s cheek. He screamed and held his face when Malric had branded him. A mark of fiery judgment: not death, nor exile. But something worse to a servant of the kingdom.

  A symbol now scarred the man’s flesh, it was easily recognizable to everyone in the room, and thanks to their rings, even the Worldstriders understood its meaning; Saboteur.

  The mark would follow them forever. Not just as a punishment, but as a declaration for any who saw it.

  Malric’s form was wreathed in white flames and he was gone again, reappearing next to Garret, and the moment shattered. The music began to be played again. Whispers stirred. People danced. The ballroom breathed again, acting as though it had hadn’t ever stopped at all.

  The server collapsed to their knees, trembling. Guards were already moving, quiet and swift.

  “Apologies for the disruption, Mr. Singer.” Malric turned without fanfare, without looking at the young noble who now stood stiff and pale on the balcony, his smile long gone. He walked past Allie and Holly, who hadn’t moved, hadn’t dared to move.

  Then he was gone.

  Garret let out a breath like he hadn’t meant to hold it.

  Allie reached for a napkin. “You’re going to need a new jacket.”

  “Uh… I don’t think it’s the jacket that’s stained,” Garret muttered.

  Holly looked toward the nobleman on the balcony. He was already gone, too.

  ***

  The private balcony sat high above the main ballroom, nested in a recess of glass and blackstone. Luckily for Alex, the entire balcony was framed by gentle enchantments that dulled the noise of the ballroom. But no enchantment obscured his view.

  Alex stood at the edge, hands braced on the railing.

  Below, even after nearly six hours into the night, the gala still ran at full swing. From high above, he thought the nobles appeared like brushstrokes in motion on a canvas. The music was rising and falling in graceful arcs, and each dancer below but the caress of a feather over sensitive skin. From this height, it looked elegant. Almost beautiful, peaceful even.

  But Alex knew better now.

  One by one, the others arrived.

  Kate came in first, expression tight, heels silent against the marble. Allie and Holly followed close behind, the former frowning, the latter sharp-eyed and scanning for threats they weren’t supposed to see. Garret entered drying his jacket with the edge of a heat-enchanted napkin, muttering something under his breath about cursed vintage and bloodless sorcerers. The rest filtered in; Cole, Eric, Lance, Henry, and Zach. Devon trailed last, looking like he’d been propositioned, robbed, and politically outmaneuvered, possibly in that order.

  No one spoke at first.

  Alex turned toward them. “All right,” he said. “What did we get?”

  Kate folded her arms. “House Caerwyn’s feeling us out. Carefully. Lady Thessalia handed me something on a napkin, might be code, or bait, or both.”

  “Velcryn’s after spell theory,” Alex said. “Says he’s seen something from Worldsrtider’s before. Wants a trade, one spell for one secret. They think I’m an aether researcher or something like that.”

  “You are,” Devon muttered. “You just don’t dress like one.”

  Garret snorted. “Well, the merchants dress like casino pin-up illusions, and they still try to eat you for everything you’ve got.”

  Everyone looked at him. He gestured to his wine-stained jacket. “Server tried to curse me.”

  “That happened?” Kate asked flatly, apparently she missed the whole show, somehow.

  Garret pointed to his coat. “Wine is still wet. I don’t lie when I’m damp.”

  Holly leaned against the wall beside Allie. “Mother Theralyn might be an ally. She’s cagey, but not hostile. The Church is split for sure. You can feel it in the way the react to each other. Reformists versus staunch orthodox.”

  “Some are waiting to call us demons, without a doubt” Allie added, quietly.

  “And some are waiting to see if we can be saints,” Holly said. “Either way, they’re waiting.”

  Devon stepped forward, rubbing the back of his neck. “I got propositioned,” he said.

  “Congrats,” Garret held up a hand, palm out.

  “Not like that,” Devon muttered and pushed Garret’s hand down. “Merchant Consortium Guild, Vess Auralde. She wants exclusive access to any tech I can translate or rebuild. Hinted that ideas don’t stay owned for long in Terraxum. Especially when she’s interested.”

  That earned a few tight looks.

  Kate stepped closer to the railing. “So. They’re circling us. They’re not united. Half the people in this room want to buy us, the other half want to see if we bleed the same blood they do.”

  “No,” Eric said. “They don’t care about that. Its just as Malric had said. They’re not deciding whether we’re guilty. They’re deciding how we’re useful.” That landed among them like a lit bomb.

  Alex looked down at the ballroom again, at the crystal chandeliers, the marble columns, the flawless dance floor rippling like a liquid mirror in motion. He could see their reflections in it. All of them. But distorted, fractured by the curve of the glass and the warping light of the enchantments. Their reflection bent silhouettes of their image, watching themselves from below. Like ghosts peering into the moment they had died in.

  Alex exhaled.

  “Then we stop waiting,” he said. He met each of their eyes in turn. “We head back out and gather as much info as we can. Talk, dance, flirt if you have to, I don’t care. We need to start making move here.” He looked over the railing once more.

  “And we need to play their game… better than they do.”