The wine was chilled to perfection, crisp, honey-laced, with just enough floral aftertaste to remind Holt he was paying more for subtlety than substance. He preferred it that way. Flavor was for peasants. Taste was for legacy.

  He shifted his weight, the silk of his coat tugging ever so slightly under the strain. The tailors in the Inner Ring knew better than to mention such things. So long as the buttons held, fashion remained unbothered.

  Above him, chandelier lanterns dangled from silver-threaded cords, casting warm light through white quartz and burnished glass. The garden terrace glittered with motion, sleeves trailing embroidery, eyes peeking over bejeweled fans. The fragrance of jasmine and ripe fig clung to the air like perfume that refused to fade.

  He preferred these civilized circles, where words were blades, and power was currency.

  Lady Merevin glided to his side, a tall glass of something elderflower-infused in one hand, and a fan in the other. She paused just beside him, her gown sweeping the floor.

  “Merevin,” he greeted her. “You look predictably lovely.”

  “And you look wonderfully intact, despite your brush with chaos,” she purred.

  Holt’s mouth tightened.

  Her fan flicked open with a whisper. “Tell me, is it true you chased a street thief through the Bazaar?”

  He exhaled slowly through his nose. “She stole from me. I responded accordingly.”

  “The Gazette said you vaulted a spice cart.”

  He sniffed. “Only partially.”

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  Merevin's eyes danced. “How daring. You might’ve invented a new fashion: market bruises and moral outrage.”

  “Any decent citizen would’ve acted.”

  “Mm. Of course. And any decent citizen,” she murmured, taking a sip, “would have the finest safe in Tenturia.”

  That made him glance at her.

  She smiled over the rim of her glass. “You’ve had builders at your estate for weeks. What type of scandal are you hiding in there, Holt?”

  “I don’t hide anything,” he said evenly. “I secure what matters.”

  “And is it true you’ve hired three separate scribes and a consultant from the Guardians?”

  He didn’t respond. She already knew the answer.

  Lady Elmsworth lingered nearby, half in shadow beneath a lantern tree, her posture immaculate and her silence strategic. She tilted her head slightly, listening without listening.

  “The safe was a commission,” Holt admitted. “A private contract. A collector, unnamed, obviously, wanted assurance, discretion, and permanence.”

  “And your estate offered all three?”

  “Of course it did,” he said, puffing up slightly. “My vault has more wards than a Prime Weaver’s tomb. Tempered steel from the underground forges. Triple-bound gearwork and anchor seals etched in four languages. If it were any more protected, I’d need an ambassador to speak to it.”

  Merevin laughed, a soft musical sound she reserved only for herself.

  “And the object itself?” she asked. “Rare gem? Enchanted heirloom? Dangerous secret?”

  He took another sip of wine. “I didn’t ask.”

  “Oh, Holt,” she said, pleased. “Now that’s what I call restraint.”

  He smiled faintly, satisfied.

  She leaned a little closer, voice barely above the hush of the party. “But between us... it’s small, isn’t it? Whatever it is.”

  “Very,” Holt said.

  Lady Merevin tapped her fan once against her wrist. “That’s always the way of it. The smaller the secret, the sharper the teeth.”

  She drifted away, her dress trailing starlight.

  Baron Holt finished his drink, eyes fixed on the dancing lights overhead. Somewhere in the depths of his home, beneath layers of iron and brass, the artifact rested. He didn’t know what it was. He didn’t care.

  It was valuable. And hidden.

  And that, in his mind, made it his.