Baron Dullgave. Courtesy name unknown. On parchment, he was no different than a dozen other petty barons who dotted Bast's fringes—land, title, and just enough power to keep himself above common rabble. The report I'd pulled together was thin. Too thin.

"Tall. Dark. Handsome. Golden hair. Pink eyes." I tapped the list with the quill. "Three smallswords at his waist, always. Gambles at The Blue Ballet. Preferred drink: Tempestarii Wine."

We were seated in the tea room again, the one place in the estate that had unintentionally become my war council. A steaming cup rested by my left hand, as inevitable as the ink stains on my fingers.

Cordelia arched a brow, her porcelain calm barely cracking. "You ask why this has become your council room? Perhaps because it is the only one you ever use for its intended purpose. You write here. You think here. You drink here. It has become your seat of power by habit, not design."

I glanced at the teacup, then back to her. "Fair." I gave a shallow sigh. "But still—Tempestarii Wine? That's what stands out?"

"Not stands out," Wallace rumbled. "Explains him. It's just wine infused with storm mana. That's it."

"That's it?"

He shrugged, shield-sized shoulders shifting. "Storm mages claim it sharpens reflexes. Sailors say it helps them read weather. Mostly it's a drink for people who want to look dangerous while sipping luxury."

I scribbled another note. Likes Storm-mana wine. Drinks for appearance or edge. The page now looked more like a caricature than a profile.

Fallias leaned forward, chin resting in her palm. "If this is all we have, no wonder he hides well. Gambling, drinking, looking pretty with too many swords—that describes half the nobility of Bast."

"How does a noble keep himself this secluded, though?" I asked aloud, more to myself than the group. "Where are his enemies? His rivals? Someone must know more."

V snorted, flipping a dagger of crystallized salt between his fingers. "Alex, you should look yourself up. You're probably worse."

I narrowed my eyes. He smirked, which meant I couldn't not check.

Prince Alizade.

The entry unfurled before me, thin but cutting. Appearance: copper hair, shifting deeper with mana and miasma exposure. Copper eyes. Frequently carries unusual cubes. Suspected Labyrinthian in the making. Ruler of Everis, a land now notable for wool, mutton, and milk trade.

That was it. No mention of my Arte, no mention of my companions, no mention of how I'd bled and clawed to even stand where I did.

I leaned back. "You're right. I'm worse."

"Bast doesn't want rivals reading dossiers on one another," Cordelia said quietly. "The Vial—one of the ways one rises from commoner to noble—already stirs enough envy. They would rather suffocate information than give ambitious lords and ladies reasons to sharpen knives."

Wallace nodded. "Knowledge begets vendetta. Vendetta begets blood feuds. And Bast has too many of those already. Better to let nobles remain unknowable, a collection of masks. Easier for the court to control."

"Except it makes hunting someone like Dullgave a nightmare," I muttered.

Ten cracked her knuckles, chains clinking faintly. "Not if he's as vain as this makes him sound. Men who dress themselves in beauty and bad habits usually want to be seen. We just have to follow the performances."

"Which means…" I rubbed my temples. "The Blue Ballet."

"The Blue Ballet," V confirmed, his grin sharklike. "If he gambles there, we'll catch him. Nobles can hide a hundred crimes behind veils of etiquette, but gambling tables strip people bare. Every habit, every weakness, every tell—it's all there, waiting to be read."

Cordelia's eyes flicked to me, sharp and assessing. "Then the question becomes: do we watch him? Or do we bait him?"

"Either way. We can agree on one thing."

We all looked at Fractal waiting to continue.

"V isn't allowed to play cards or dice."

"Oh you glorified turkey I'm going to roast you." V started chasing Fractal around the estate uselessly as she just turned into her weaverbird form, always fluttering away.

***

Researching a gambling den that doubles as a noble salon required the kind of patience and petty cruelty I usually reserved for proofreading old contracts. The Blue Ballet smelled like perfumed money even from the Gloss window: lavender smoke, crushed citrus, and the faint metallic tang of coin. We couldn't just walk in and ask for Baron Dullgave's autograph. We had to become an argument worth listening to.

"First: layout," I said, folding my hands over the gloss pad that hovered above my tea table. Basarioel made a small, disgruntled noise from the bag at my shoulder—he did not appreciate the warm, wool-smelling fabric being disturbed, but tolerated it for the sake of my nerves. "If we're going to watch him, we need places to hide, vantage points for Lumivis, and routes for extraction. No heroics. No grand gestures."

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Cordelia tapped a finger against her lip, eyes narrowed. "The Blue Ballet is theatrical by design. It's two main floors—public gaming and the mezzanine balconies for higher-tier gambling. Below that are private salons, accessible only by invitation or via a very expensive signature. The owner, Marquis Tallis, makes sure the nobles never have to mingle with the rabble unless they're being useful."

I felt the old, familiar itch—the one that came when possibilities unfurled themselves like a map. "How do we get in the sofas without invitations?"

Ten snorted. "You don't. You get in by being more interesting than the cushions. Or you spike the cushions and steal their attention later."

Fractal, who had been braiding a strip of my sleeve into a knot for reasons I couldn't follow, piped up. "We can always buy a table. A show of money; a little flash to get us in the room. It's obvious, but obvious is practical." Her bright voice carried an edge—she was ready to play the part of the dazzled ingenue for two hours if it kept us from a diplomatic mess.

Wallace's response was a low rumble. "Buying a table is simple. Too simple. It draws eyes you can't control. The private salons are where Dullgave hides. You cannot buy your way there; you have to be invited—either by someone who already belongs or by a performance that demands the Marquis's favor."

"Which brings us to rumor-gathering," I said. "Cordelia, sweep the guest lists. Fractal and Ten, you two catalog behavior patterns—the tells, the drinks, the route the servants take to the back. Wallace and Sven, physical layout and extraction. V, you do salt-scry—find where the safe rooms are and how often they change. I'll compile, and Lumivis will run constant overlays."

Sven's pen scratched like claws across paper. "I'll contact a few freightmen under the guise of a textile resupply. Nobles love textile metaphors; it's ridiculous, but effective. They'll talk and, if not talk, they'll show."

V's grin was all cold angles. "I already have friends in alleys who owe me favors. A quick whisper, a coin, and a drunk will spill the existence of any secret door."

Fractal sat up a little straighter. "What about Jasmine? The admiral's logistics officer—I hear she traffics in information almost as well as spices. She could get a peek behind the curtain without us risking a lookout."

I considered that. Admiral Jasmine was a useful problem-solver. She moved like a blade disguised in a bouquet. I drafted a quick message in my gloss, fingers steady: Captain Jasmine—request brief liaison. No alarms. Ferren can vouch. Signed: Alizade.

Cordelia watched me send it, then leaned forward. "About the wine—Tempestarii. That's a lever. Storm-mana wines are rare and expensive. If Dullgave drinks it, he either wants the edge for gambling reflexes, or he wants people to see him as dangerous. Either way, who supplies him the wine? The supplier will have ledgers. The ledger will have names. Follow the wine and you follow the web."

"Ledger, supplier, routes." I wrote the words down. "Sven, add a secondary note to your freight guise: ask about beverage suppliers—specifically small-batch vintners who dabble in storm infusion."

Wallace grunted his agreement, then added, "Security. Blue Ballet's muscle is not ordinary. They hire ex-militia and a cadre of charm-wardens. The charm-wardens are not just bouncers; they use artifact collars to dull miasma signatures. If they suspect you, your aura will look like a broken lantern. Lumivis needs lines—give him the room overhead. He can sniff mana and report through the weave."

We discussed details for hours. I watched my own anxiety distill into logistics; there is comfort in lists. Cordelia filled in notes with a careful hand, adding subtler data: who bowed to whom, who wore what sigils, which noble gestured with their right hand frequently. Those little tells mattered. They were the fine friction of politics that could grind someone down.

"Social engineering is essential," Cordelia said, her voice steady as ink. "You don't just walk in and accuse. You weave a story. The Blue Ballet runs on theater; the nobles are both actors and patrons. You must create the right scene." She looked at me, reading me like a script. "You need a motive that fits local politics. Dullgave is a glimmer smuggler—expose the snort of powder on a noble's cuff, make the right person see it, and a scandal blooms."

Ten tapped her ankle with a paddle of impatience. "And I can be a menace. I'll sit with the dealers, ask the right dumb questions. Make people underestimate me. Then I hit them with the truth and watch their mouths seize."

Fractal's smile was bright. "I'll be the distraction. Flounce in, do something flamboyant, then get whisked away to the balcony. People will follow. They always do."

V folded his hands in his lap, salt crystals tinkling. "I'll place a few small traps—nothing lethal. Just enough to make a noble cough up their drink at the exact wrong moment. Chaos reveals tells."

Sven, methodical as ever, chewed the end of his pen. "We must account for political fallout. If we unmask Dullgave and he's linked to a figure with court favor, they will retaliate. We need plausible deniability and a back channel. Jasmine could be that channel. Ferren's shipping network could hide the evidence until we decide how to use it."

Wallace's eyes were slow and sure. "And we need to make sure the evidence will stand in front of a Duchess. Evidence is not emotion. We will get names, ledgers, signatures—things a Duchess can present. If it's only rumor, it dies in the court."

Basarioel shifted in my bag and peeped. His feathers at the nape were still damp from earlier preening, but his bright, obsidian eyes watched everything. He could not speak, but his presence steadied me in a way Lumivis's logic never could. He was a reminder of what this all came back to: not power for power's sake, but people under my care.

By the time the sun slipped low and the lamps in the tea room bloomed gold, we had a plan scaffolded with contingencies. Cordelia would refine a conversational script tailored to the Blue Ballet's clientele: idle curiosity, a recommendation for a Tempestarii varietal, half-knowledge about shipping channels. Ten and Fractal would play the visible sparks—distracting and probing. V would lay salt to make nobles cough. Wallace and Sven would map exits and routes silently, while I played the role of quiet patron with dangerous pockets.

"Do we want to go tonight?" Ten asked, eager enough to snap.

I felt the sharp weight of the decision. In politics, timing is a blade. Strike too early and you fall upon it. Strike too late and it rusts into your heart.

"We don't go in blind," I said finally. "Lumivis, run the overlay. Jasmine—if she can, get me a contact at the service entrance. Cordelia, polish the script. Ten, Fractal—find outfits that blend in but stand out. Sven, Wallace—trace the suppliers and the staff rotations. V, make your salt maps."

They all agreed, in their own ways—some with looks, some with nods, some with a promise to break a few faces if I asked nicely. The plan was messy, deliberate, and entirely the sort of thing a Walker should do: not charge the castle, but rearrange it until an ally could open the door.

I slid my cup aside, fingers lingering on the warm porcelain. We had the night to prepare; the Blue Ballet would not be empty of sin. When we moved, we would need to be quieter than a dropped coin, and louder than a scandal.

Basarioel snuffled at my sleeve, and I rubbed his smooth feathers. He did not know what a ledger was or why Tempestarii Wine mattered. He knew only my voice, my scent, and the safety of the bag. It was stupid, perhaps, to protect a creature who would one day fly higher than any of us. It was also very human. And that—more than any plan or courtly etiquette—was what I wanted to protect when we pried open the Blue Ballet and let truth spill out like wine.

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