Downtown San Cordellion breathed like a living thing, warm and restless, lanternlight pooling across cobblestones while laughter and music spilled from taverns and open balconies. People drifted through the streets in loose knots, lovers brushing hands, merchants closing shutters with practiced ease, guards strolling with the lazy confidence of a city that believed itself untouchable. Just beyond that glow, tucked between two leaning brick buildings, an alley waited in shadow, forgotten by design rather than neglect.
It was not an ordinary alley, though at first glance it tried very hard to be one.
Bits of refuse lay scattered where they had been abandoned days ago, a cracked crate slumped against a damp wall, a dented dumpster humming faintly with trapped insects and old smells. The stones underfoot were uneven, darkened by years of spilled rain and spilled secrets, and yet the space felt deliberate, as if it had been curated to look unimportant. Footsteps passed the alley's mouth without pause, voices carrying past it like water around a stone, never quite touching what waited inside.
Oscar stood at its center, wrapped in a black cloak that drank in the darkness rather than reflected it. The fabric was practical, cut to allow movement without whispering against itself, and it settled over his shoulders with a comforting weight. Beneath it, a utility belt hugged his waist, bulkier than he preferred but chosen with care, every pouch fastened and tested twice over. He had learned, painfully, that improvisation was a luxury best reserved for tavern stories and not for nights like this.
The belt held tools that would never be described in polite company, and Oscar did not need to look down to know exactly where everything sat. Among the vials and compact devices were several small canisters that appeared unremarkable at first glance, dull metal cylinders no larger than a clenched fist. Anyone else might have mistaken them for standard smoke grenades, the sort sold to adventurers who expected to flee rather than fight, but Oscar knew better. These had been altered with care, their inner workings adjusted just enough to make them unpredictable in ways that favored the prepared. The smoke they carried would not merely obscure vision, and the thought of how they might bloom in confined spaces made his lips twitch with something like anticipation.
A strip of dark cloth covered his mouth and nose, tied snugly behind his head, leaving only his eyes exposed. He had no interest in being recognized, not now and not later, because recognition carried consequences that outlived the moment. If everything went wrong, there would be bounties, first whispered and then shouted, posted not only in San Cordellion but across the kingdom and, eventually, the Tri Crown Isle itself. That was a future problem, however, one that required surviving the present.
He lowered his gaze to the iron circle set into the stones at his feet.
At a glance, it was just another utility cover, worn smooth by time and traffic, indistinguishable from dozens scattered throughout the city. That sameness was the point. The princess had told him as much with a conspiratorial smile, explaining how the tunnels had been designed to disappear into the city's bones, hiding among the mundane so completely that even guards forgot they existed. Most of the covers led nowhere of interest, servicing drains and conduits and forgotten maintenance paths, but a select few were different, and this was one of them.
Oscar waited, counting breaths, listening.
A couple passed the alley's mouth laughing about something trivial, their footsteps fading as they turned a corner. Somewhere nearby, a bottle shattered and was followed by cheers. When the city's attention moved on, Oscar crouched and set his fingers against the edge of the cover, lifting it with controlled effort and easing it aside without a sound. Cold air rose to meet him, carrying the faint scent of stone and old water, and he slipped down into the opening, replacing the cover above him with the same care he had removed it.
The ladder beneath his hands was solid, its rungs worn but steady, and he descended until his boots met stone again.
He stood in a service way so wide it swallowed the sound of his breathing, a corridor broad enough that the image of a massive caravan or even a semi-truck from some other world could have fit comfortably within it. The ceiling arched overhead, reinforced with stone and rune-etched supports, and along the walls ran lines of soft light, crystals set into metal housings that glowed with steady, patient illumination. Rune technology hummed faintly, a quiet assurance that this place was still maintained, still remembered by someone.
Oscar moved forward, steps measured, eyes sharp.
The walls told stories if one knew how to read them. Tool marks from construction centuries ago mingled with newer scratches left by maintenance crews and, occasionally, by those who had passed through without permission. He scanned every surface, aware that the sign he sought would not announce itself. The princess had described it carefully, her finger tracing the shape in the air as she explained how easy it was to miss.
Then he saw it.
Near a junction where the corridor narrowed slightly, a cluster of shallow lines marred the stone, irregular enough to look accidental, like damage from a careless cart or a bored worker's knife. Oscar slowed, his pulse ticking louder in his ears, and reached out, brushing his fingers over the marks. They were faintly warm, responding to his touch, and when he traced them in the pattern she had shown him, the stone shivered.
Light bloomed beneath his hand, subtle and controlled, and the wall sighed as mechanisms long hidden woke from their slumber. A seam appeared where there had been none, and a slab of stone slid aside with graceful inevitability, revealing a passage beyond.
The air that flowed from it smelled different, carrying hints of earth and damp greenery, and Oscar's heart began to race in earnest. Every step forward felt heavier than the last, the weight of what waited ahead pressing down on him. He was close now, closer than he had allowed himself to believe, and the thought made his chest tighten.
Far above him, silk and stone conspired in very different ways.
In the gala hall, King Alaric stood with Lord Caelum Empyrion, their conversation carefully shielded by music and polite laughter. The chandeliers cast warm light over polished marble and gilded columns, turning every gesture into theater, and the king played his role with practiced ease.
"What do you think of my daughter?" Alaric asked, his tone casual, as though he were discussing a horse or a tract of land rather than a living person.
Caelum's smile was thin and appraising, his gaze flicking briefly toward where Stephanie stood surrounded by his wives before returning to the king. "She is adequate," he said, each word precise. "She will be a valuable addition to my collection, and with her, you will receive the blessing of House Arcanveil."
The words settled between them like a signed contract.
Alaric inclined his head, satisfaction glinting in his eyes. He spoke then of wisdom and necessity, of how the Tri Crown Isle had been balanced for generations by treaties and alliances that pretended to value peace while quietly stifling ambition. Three nations, each holding a third, each watching the others for weakness, bound by rules designed to prevent any single crown from rising above the rest.
"It is an elegant arrangement," the king said, his voice smooth, "but elegance is not the same as strength. With the backing of one of the Eight Branches, with your military and political might aligned with my own, those treaties become suggestions rather than shackles."
He did not speak the word conquest, but it hung in the air all the same.
Caelum listened, eyes gleaming with interest, and nodded slowly. "A single sacrifice," he murmured, "for dominion over the Tri Crown Isle."
Nearby, the queen watched, her expression composed but her hands clenched just tightly enough to betray her unease. She did not interrupt, did not voice her disapproval, but the silence she kept was heavy with things unsaid.
Across the hall, Stephanie stood encircled by the Empyrion wives, their voices weaving around her like a net. They spoke of fabrics and flowers, of guest lists and ceremonial rites, and for a moment she found herself laughing despite everything, their enthusiasm infectious in its own way.
Seraphine guided the conversation with a deft hand, ensuring everyone had a moment to speak, while Elowen offered sharp, witty commentary that drew genuine smiles. Nyssara sketched ideas in the air with glowing fingers, already planning spectacles that made Stephanie's head spin, and Calienne gently reined her in when she strayed too far.
Virelle and Isolde spoke softly of traditions and expectations, while Maerwyn and Lysa debated colors with theatrical seriousness. Mirren lingered close, listening more than speaking, her presence a quiet comfort.
Then, without warning, a smile touched Stephanie's lips.
It was small and unguarded, nothing like the practiced expressions she had worn all night, and it surprised her as much as it did Mirren.
"You are even more beautiful when you smile like that," Mirren said softly, her words sincere.
The comment snapped Stephanie back to the present, the weight of her situation crashing down once more. She steadied her expression, smoothing the cracks before anyone else could notice, but the warmth lingered in her chest, unbidden and dangerous.
Because somewhere beneath the palace, stone was moving.
Oscar stepped through the hidden door, the passage narrowing as it angled upward, and the sense of proximity grew until it was almost unbearable. He reached the base of a ladder fixed securely into the stone, its rungs worn smooth by generations of secret use, and paused, one hand resting against the cool wall.
"So this is it," he murmured, the words lost to the tunnel.
Above him lay the garden, the roses, the night air heavy with perfume and possibility, and beyond that, a future that balanced on the edge of a blade. He set his foot on the first rung, muscles coiling with readiness, and began to climb, his heart hammering as the distance between him and the princess shrank to a handful of breaths.
The ladder waited, patient and inevitable, and Oscar ascended toward the moment everything would change.