Cassian Vale was not a man easily found—especially by those who intended to question him.
And yet, Clara didn't knock when she entered his study.
She closed the heavy door behind her, letting it echo like a final verdict.
Cassian sat by the fire, a goblet in one hand, a ledger open in the other. The scent of ink, dried roses, and old dust clung to the air.
"You've been busy," he said without looking up.
"So have you," Clara replied, stepping forward. "This showed up last night."
She dropped the torn archive page on his table. The red-circled signature. The whispered warning.
Cassian glanced at it, unfazed. "And yet, you're still standing. Curious."
"Are you warning me," she asked, "or leading me into a trap?"
He finally looked at her. Calm. Cold. Calculating as ever.
"I'm merely pointing out the rot beneath the floorboards. Whether you step through or set them ablaze—that choice is yours."
Clara narrowed her eyes. "Then let's pull them up, shall we?"
Cassian rose, poured a second glass of wine, and handed it to her.
"I don't poison," he said dryly. "Not unless cornered."
She ignored the drink.
"I need everything you know about Order 71. And who signed off the black ink funds."
Cassian's smile didn't reach his eyes.
"Do you think I keep the kingdom's sins in a drawer, neatly labeled for the brave?"
"No," Clara said. "I think you keep them in your memory—where no one can burn them."
A beat of silence. Then Cassian laughed, low and dry.
"You are your mother's daughter."
"Did you know her?" Clara asked sharply.
"Not well," he said, walking toward a locked cabinet. "But enough to fear her. Enough to regret not listening when she warned us about Lord Thorne's shadow dealings."
He unlocked the cabinet, pulled out a single file.
A seal broken. Pages missing.
"Some truths don't live on paper," he said, placing it in her hands. "They live in debts. And I owe your mother more than silence."
Clara flipped through the sparse file. Most names were redacted.
But one stood out—Dorian Malcroft.
A former envoy. Disappeared ten years ago. Declared dead.
The same region as Marrow Creek.
"She believed he wasn't dead," Cassian said. "She believed someone paid to erase him."
"And now envoys are disappearing again."
Cassian nodded. "This isn't just about taxes or corruption. This is about a network that never died. Only buried."
Clara's voice lowered. "Then who buried it?"
Cassian hesitated. For the first time, uncertainty cracked through his calm.
"I don't know. But there's a ghost at that table—one who's been hiding in plain sight since the first cover-up."
Just then, a sharp knock rattled the door.
Cassian opened it. A palace guard handed him a sealed scroll.
His brow furrowed as he broke the wax.
"A new decree," he muttered. "The King's formal dinner has been moved to tonight."
"Why is that concerning?" Clara asked.
"Because only two people were told of the delay an hour ago—me and Lord Elric."
"And yet the scroll was issued twenty minutes ago," Clara finished.
They looked at each other.
"Someone's watching the watchers," Cassian said.
That night, Clara dressed not to be admired—but to be feared.
No soft silks. No jewels. Just lines sharp enough to slice and a crest no one dared question.
A deep emerald gown, her mother's crest pinned over her heart like a vow unbroken.
When she entered the banquet hall, every noble eye turned.
But Clara wasn't watching them.
She was watching who flinched when they saw her.
Lord Elric sipped too quickly. Lady Merra glanced at the doors twice.
And Cassian? He entered late—and nodded once, the faintest gesture of alliance.
Alaric met her gaze across the room.
There was a storm rising in his expression.
And Clara knew one thing for certain—
By night's end, a mask would fall.
And it sure as hell wouldn't be hers.
[ To be continued… ]