Night settled over Eboren Concord like a jeweled cloak.
From the narrow window of the cheap hotel room, Virelux looked nothing like a lower district when the sun disappeared. Light spilled everywhere, climbing brick walls and metal balconies, pooling in the streets below in hues of neon blue, violet, and gold. Arcane signage flickered in layered languages. Music drifted upward from somewhere unseen, laughter braided through it, the city alive in a way that felt almost deliberate, as if joy itself had been planned into the streets.
Inside the room, the air was thick with smoke and quiet triumph.
Oscar sat cross-legged on the bed, his bag of holding open before him like a treasure chest that did not belong in any fairy tale meant for children. The circular opening, no wider than three feet across, yawned impossibly deep, its interior swallowing light rather than reflecting it. One by one, he reached inside and drew out tightly wrapped bundles, laying them carefully on the rumpled sheets.
They stacked quickly.
Neat, compact bricks wrapped in waxed paper and rune-thread twine, each one dense with promise. The faint scent of citrus, earth, and spice bled through the wrappings, blending into something richer and almost intoxicating. Each bundle weighed between one and two pounds, and Oscar handled them with reverence, as though they were fragile artifacts rather than stolen contraband.
Stephanie leaned back against the headboard, watching him work while rolling a blunt with practiced ease. She had learned faster than she expected, her fingers deft, movements confident, the paper sealed with a quick flick of her tongue.
"How much?" she asked, her voice calm but curious.
Oscar paused, eyes flicking over the growing spread. "Fifty-five pounds," he said, unable to keep the grin from creeping onto his face. "Give or take a little depending on moisture."
Her brows lifted. "That's… a lot."
"That's an understatement," he replied, laughter soft in his chest. "That's a career starter."
He leaned back, surveying the bed like a painter admiring a finished canvas. For the first time since Thornveil went up in flames, his eyes gleamed with something close to joy, the delight of someone who had gambled recklessly and somehow won.
Stephanie struck the lighter, the flame briefly illuminating her face, her green eyes catching the glow as she took the first slow pull. She exhaled toward the open window, watching the smoke curl into the night.
"You really hit them hard," she said. "Didn't you."
Oscar shrugged, feigning nonchalance while his pride betrayed him. "They'll recover. Fields can be replanted. Product can be regrown."
"But the formulas," she pressed.
His smile thinned. "Those don't grow back."
She handed him the blunt, studying his expression more closely now. "You keep talking like this is more than just stealing weed. You mentioned a hierarchy earlier. The green chain."
He took a drag, letting the smoke sit in his lungs before answering. "It's not just a market," he said slowly. "It's a ladder. And every rung has blood on it."
She shifted, turning fully toward him, curiosity sharpening into focus. "Explain it to me."
Oscar exhaled, eyes drifting to the ceiling as he organized his thoughts. "At the bottom, you've got the street runners. Dealers who barely scrape by. They move dime bags and joints, selling to regular folks who just want to unwind after a long day. They're invisible until they aren't."
Stephanie nodded. "The ones who get arrested first."
"Exactly," he said. "Above them are block captains. They control a few streets, maybe a neighborhood. They manage supply, handle disputes, and make sure money flows upward. They're careful, but they still bleed when something goes wrong."
"And above that?"
"Mid-tier distributors," Oscar continued. "They operate warehouses, grow houses, transport routes. They don't touch the product much themselves. They touch money. They're the spine of the operation."
Stephanie tapped ash into an empty cup. "And syndicates?"
"They sit above all that," he said. "Organizations like Thornveil, Ironroot, Velarium. They control strains, branding, territory. They don't sell weed. They sell control."
She watched his face closely as he spoke, noticing the way his tone shifted when he reached the top.
"And the highest?" she asked.
Oscar's gaze hardened. "RICO Lords. The ones who never get named in court because they never get charged. They don't just run drugs. They run systems. Trade, politics, enforcement, laundering. They're kings without crowns."
Stephanie was quiet for a long moment, the weight of his words settling. "And where do you rank?"
He snorted softly. "Right now? Somewhere between ambitious thief and dead man walking."
She smiled faintly at that, then reached for the blunt again. "That's… comforting."
They smoked in silence for a while, the city's noise filtering in through the open window. Stephanie's eyes drifted downward, catching sight of a group of young people passing beneath the hotel. They laughed loudly, arms slung over one another's shoulders, clothes glittering with club lights and careless confidence.
She watched them longer than she meant to.
A sigh slipped from her lips, unguarded and heavy with longing. Jealousy twisted in her chest, not sharp but persistent, the ache of realizing how much of life she had never been allowed to touch.
"They look happy," she murmured. "Like they don't have a world pressing on their backs."
Oscar followed her gaze, understanding without needing explanation.
"You were born into a cage," he said gently. "Even if it was made of gold."
She nodded, eyes stinging slightly as she blinked. "I didn't even know it was a cage until I left it."
He leaned closer, resting his forearms on his knees. "Hey," he said softly. "I know we're supposed to be laying low. Hiding. Being careful."
She turned to him, curiosity flickering through the haze. "And?"
"And tomorrow," he continued, a grin slowly spreading, "we celebrate your freedom. Nothing loud. Nothing stupid. Just… living."
Her breath caught, surprise lighting her features before joy followed close behind. "You mean it?"
"I wouldn't say it if I didn't," he replied. "You deserve at least one day where you're not running."
Her smile widened, genuine and bright, and for a moment she looked exactly like the girl she might have been if the world had chosen differently.
High above the city, far beyond the reach of streetlights and music, Queen Marrowayne Eboren stood alone in her office at the summit of the Queendom State Building.
The room was a cathedral of wealth.
White-gold floors gleamed beneath her feet, veins of luminous crystal embedded like frozen lightning. Tall plants with broad, emerald leaves framed the space, fed by an indoor waterfall that cascaded gently down a sculpted stone wall, its constant murmur soothing and deliberate. Furniture of dark polished wood and velvet cushions sat arranged with intentional restraint, elegance without excess.
Dominating one wall was a massive family portrait, generations of Eboren rulers immortalized in oil and light, eyes sharp with legacy and expectation.
Marrowayne stood before the window, curtains drawn back to reveal the city glittering below. She was magnificent even in stillness, her silver-streaked hair swept into an elegant style that framed her face, her tailored suit dress hugging her form with quiet authority. Heels clicked softly against the marble as she shifted her weight, her reflection staring back at her from the glass.
On her desk, a rune-tech rotary phone chimed again, its crystal dial glowing faintly.
She sighed, irritation flickering across her features, and lifted the receiver. "What is it, Halvard," she said dryly.
A booming laugh erupted from the other end. "Hey, Woman, where's my title? And what took you so long? Don't tell me old age is finally catching up to you."
She pulled the phone away from her ear, scowling. "You're still loud, I see."
"And you're still grumpy," King Halvard replied cheerfully. "Now tell me you've heard the news."
"I've heard everything," Marrowayne said coolly. "Including what Alaric is planning."
Halvard's tone shifted, losing some of its humor. "A marriage alliance with Arcanveil," he said. "Backed by conquest dreams and greed."
"Precisely," she replied. "If he secures their blessing, the balance we've maintained for centuries fractures."
"And the princess running," Halvard added, "throws a delightful wrench into his plans."
Marrowayne's lips curved slightly. "Delightful for us, perhaps."
They spoke at length, voices low and sharp, trading information gathered by informants and spies, mapping threats and opportunities with practiced ease. When silence finally fell between them, Marrowayne spoke again, her tone thoughtful.
"We delay him," she said. "We find the girl first. Or at least make sure no one else does."
"And if she's found?" Halvard asked.
"Then we intercept," Marrowayne replied calmly. "The longer Alaric is stalled, the more time we have to decide how to respond."
Halvard laughed softly. "I knew there was a reason I liked you."
Back in the lower district, smoke drifted lazily from the open hotel window as Oscar and Stephanie sat together, the night stretching before them like an unwritten promise.
For the first time since the world turned against them, the future did not feel entirely hostile.
Just uncertain.
And waiting.