The Veilshade Tribunal wasn't like any court Lucien had heard of or even imagined. It looked more like some ancient library that'd been smashed to bits, then crudely stitched back together by ghosts left with nothing better to do. Marble pillars cracked wide, chunks missing here and there, ash piled in ragged heaps like forgotten memories settled heavy around the rotunda. That rotunda itself was a warped circle made from scripture tablets, half-melted over centuries, worn thin and brittle like old bones left out to rot. The walls seemed to pulse faintly with this thick, dark glow, like they held every broken contract ever signed, the sigil-blood leaking out and staining the stone from the inside.
Lucien Blackmoore stood right in the center of that cracked dome. His boots rubbed raw from the climb up here, and his coat felt heavier than usual—caked with Veilshade's never-ending dust and something else. Something thick and grimy that seemed to stick to his skin, no matter how much he shook it off. The air tasted stale, bitter, like burned parchment mixed with old lies nobody wanted to wash away. Felt like every oath sworn here soaked into the floor and just stayed. His Ledger throbbed steady beneath his ribs—a pulse he knew all too well when the immortal red tape pulled him back in. It was like the damn thing itself knew something was watching, waiting. Something bigger than any petty contract dispute.
A voice cracked through the hollow silence, dry and rough, coming from the gallery high above. A scribe sat behind a lectern carved from Spinewood and translucent echo-glass—twisted, fragile things that looked like they'd shatter if you breathed too hard on them. The voice was thin, brittle, scraping like dry paper over stone.
"Broker Blackmoore," the scribe said, voice as cracked as the pillars, "you've been summoned to validate a contested claim regarding the Vel Obscura contract. Filed under spectral interference, clause seventy-one, subsection—"
Lucien cut him off without even glancing up, turning his brass watch in lazy circles between calloused fingers.
"Save it," he muttered, voice low and sharp like a blade scraping against bone. "You read laws like bedtime stories. I live 'em."
Murmurs fluttered through the courtroom like dry leaves caught in a weak breeze. A dozen scribes hunched in their high-backed chairs carved from bone-lacquered wood, wrapped in charcoal robes hanging loose, their faces blurred like memories caught in smoke. The oldest among them, an ash-flecked hood slipping off a narrow, cracked face, leaned forward with a hiss that sent dust swirling.
"You dare mock a Tribunal of the Veil?"
Lucien shrugged a single shoulder, slow and deliberate.
"I mock sloppy paperwork and ghost courts that mistake delay for wisdom. My deal's clean. My client's marked. My signature's alive in the Ledger and etched deep in soulgrain. What more do you need, a blood oath?"
A ripple of tension rolled across the bench like low thunder. The scribes didn't like the tone. That much was clear. But none of them could argue the facts.
Just beyond the circle floated the challenger—a faceless wraith wrapped tight in contract-twine, buzzing faintly with corrupted glyphs. It didn't say a word. It just twitched and flickered like a broken broadcast, edges unraveling like old code peeling apart breath by breath.
Lucien barely spared it a glance.
"Let's get to the meat, shall we?" he said, voice sharper now, edged with hard impatience. "Client in question traded memory for time. Two years shaved off their mortality clock for five years of stolen clarity. Fair trade. I notarized it, double-inked it in Valthamur's echo chamber. You've got the scroll."
One of the scribes rustled an ancient, yellowed paper, letting the contract's symbols rise and slither in the dim ashlight like smoke curling from cold embers. The runes twisted slow, curling and folding as if alive.
Lucien caught the motion, leaning forward, brows knitting tight. The top margin held something wrong—an odd sigil slashed between the standard glyphs. A crooked spiral with a thick tail carved in with a dull, dirty needle.
"That's not mine," Lucien said flat, the words snapping like dry twigs. "Who's scribbling these sloppy ciphers, huh?"
The old scribe leaned back, thin fingers steepled beneath his chin, eyes narrowing to thin slits.
"The cipher appeared during transfer. We assumed it was your seal."
Lucien scoffed, louder now, laugh brittle and sharp.
"That thing's not even balanced. No symmetry, no signature strand. It's not a seal. It's a smear trying to pass for one. The kind of forgery you find scratched on crumbling walls deep in the Ebon Abyss."
He stepped into the red flame-ring carved into the floor—the Broker's spot—letting the faint glow lick the worn leather of his boots. The whole chamber seemed to tighten, like Veilshade's laws hated noise and preferred whispers. Lucien gave them a storm instead.
"That mark's a tracer," he said, voice climbing, full of rough fire. "Cassian Drayce's brand. Half-finished, always rushed, always meant to distract. He's been scrawling on contracts like a mad priest with a broken pen. That one? That's a tether. He wants to leech the deal."
Whispers cracked through the gallery like whipcracks. One younger scribe leaned down, murmured something low to another. A murky sigil hovered behind them, scanning the scroll again.
Lucien didn't wait. He yanked his Ledger free and snapped it open midair. The pages fluttered like ragged feathers caught in a sudden gust, then locked fast on the contract. The glyphs inside burned sharp and clear. The scroll's version pulsed dim and corrupted, like a dying flame gasping for air.
"There," he said, jabbing a finger hard, "clean versus counterfeit. The scroll's been tampered with after filing. And only one bastard I know sloppy enough to leave his initials in chaos ink."
"Cassian," the old scribe rasped, as if saying the name aloud chipped the air.
Lucien's grin sharpened, cold and quick.
"Bingo."
They never said his full name here. Not with all that weight. Cassian Drayce had turned into a myth—something with just enough teeth left to draw blood.
The challenger wraith flared violently, edges unraveling like a contract ripped apart. The court scribe made a sharp gesture, and the creature dissolved—smoke scattering like a bad thought fading.
Lucien stepped back, thumb rubbing over his brass watch again.
"You want to chain me," he said to the chamber, voice low and steady, "you better catch my words first. And make sure your ink doesn't bleed ghosts."
A long silence stretched. Then the old scribe sank back, nodding slow, heavy with finality.
"Your defense holds. The contract is reaffirmed. The cipher is noted."
Lucien gave a shallow bow, the room's weight loosening just a little.
"Glad we could all breathe easier."
Then a voice deeper and colder slithered through the cracks in the air like thick oil.
"Broker Blackmoore."
Lucien's spine stiffened. He knew that voice.
From behind a second veil-wall stepped Valthamur, Minister of Oversight. Cloaked in black char and threadbare scroll-binding, the ancient immortal moved like rust drifting through thick fog. His presence made the walls pulse softer, the scribes snap into silence like a snapped string.
Lucien inclined his head.
"Minister."
"You've gained attention," Valthamur said flat. "Not all of it healthy."
Lucien gave a half-smirk, dry and tired.
"Occupational hazard."
The Minister studied him like a cracked compass—still spinning but maybe pointing somewhere dangerous.
"You've pushed the veil-lines," Valthamur said, stepping closer, voice lower now. "Moved through realms with fluid interpretation. Your work is noted. Your flair is disruptive."
Lucien chuckled, rough and dry.
"It's not flair if it saves the deal."
The Minister's lips twitched, almost a smile.
"Still. Others notice. You're not the only broker who remembers the city that fell."
That jab settled at Lucien's ribs like a splinter. The city damned long ago, burned to ash, contracts shattered, souls lost in flames. Lucien had seen that fire. Cassian had been there too. The smudged cipher smelled of those sins clawing back.
Lucien squared his shoulders and met the Minister's gaze.
"Let them watch. If they're bold enough to scribble, they better be bold enough to read it aloud."
The Minister nodded slow.
"See you keep your Ledger clean. The Tribunal watches."
Without another word, Lucien turned away. His coat caught the chill ashwind as he stepped out, murmurs trailing behind like dead leaves caught in slow drift. He slipped deeper into Veilshade's twisting corridors where the real deals whispered and breathed, where shadows carried price tags, and every secret was a coin in the dark.
A page ghost drifted past, dragging half-burned parchment behind it like a ragged flag. Lucien caught a scrap midair—torn, singed—and there it was again. The crooked cipher mark.
He stared at the fragment, heart pounding slow and sharp.
Cassian wasn't hiding. Not really. He was daring Lucien to catch him.
Lucien tucked the scrap away, palmed his brass watch, and stepped out into the gray ashlight, ready for whatever the shadows dared next.