Calculated Moment.

Four mornings inched along since the engagement party. Quiet had fallen like dust on unread books. His voice followed me everywhere-what was his sorrow, now was my stain, to be carried by no cleaning hand. Father jumped when a carriage drew up before the door. Mother smiled less; her lips shivered as if to keep cold air out. Silence thickened. It wasn't peaceful silence but watching, held-halfway up in one's chest.

And in one silent instant, the whole thing broke open. There, at the window, the light coming in soft, sat my mother, her hands turning small pearl earrings over and over. No gems from the old miniatures. Nothing so large as that. The actual things had been gone and gone. These alone - tiny, shining, free of any implication. This choice hovered in the room: who would have them first.

There I stayed, stuck at the entrance, just looking. Years gone quiet, like a shadow slipping through rooms, knowing deep down how it would stop - now it flared alive. Not terror running hot under my skin. Pure anger did. Sharp. Searing. Like something backed into a wall choosing teeth instead of surrender.

If being eaten were the plan, I'd make sure I went hard to swallow. Down that throat I might go, but not without trouble first.

A thought started the ball rolling-one scene buried between the center pages of the book. Not because it was conspicuous but, on the contrary, because silence spoke loudly around it. This man, Alistair Foy, connected with Christian through business down south, siphoned funds quietly behind closed doors. When the truth finally came, it shook things only a little for Christian-more nuisance than disaster-yet somehow, people saw him as wronged. Facts were thin, hard to grasp. Still, one detail held fast: a place Foy trusted too much. The Lusty Mermaid, near the wharf, was loud but oddly orderly. Every Thursday past noon, he ducked inside to meet shadowy figures involved in hidden cargo deals.

Today was Thursday.

“I’m going to the bookseller,” I said to Marianne, my voice amazingly steady. “I need a new volume of poetry.”

Fog clung to my skin as we neared the docks, thick and cold from the water. There were men standing around the crates, their voices sharp, eyes too watchful. Yet I reached for the cloak without hesitation - rough fabric, earthcolored, deep hood pulled low. Under it, just a simple dress, nothing marked, nothing noticed. Blending in came naturally that morning.

Stale beer hung in the air, mixing with salted fish, sharp and low, and the thick scent of men who'd worked too long without washing. Voices crashed together, loud and rough, tankards slamming down like punctuation after each shout. My chest pulsed fast, tight, urging retreat-get gone before anything sticks. Then there he sat, exactly how they said: wide through the middle, face red as a sunset, fingers buried under heavy gold rings that caught what little light came through the smoke. He owned that table tucked into the wall, didn't need to speak to show it.

Alistair Foy sat there, his voice booming through the room, with three hard-looking men sitting close and listening intently. A tale of sharp turns evokes a hand onto the wooden surface with a hard thud.

It was loud, but fear did not win. A single truth-taken, not given-fed what burned behind my eyes.

I walked, heavy of foot, carrying with me the burden of four quiet years straight towards his chair. All talking stopped when eyes landed on me. There was silence, hard between us.

Foy's beady little eyes swept over me, dismissing a plainly dressed woman right off. His voice came out sharp- "Looking lost, sweetheart? That door leads to the kitchen."

Foy looked up when I spoke, the clatter of tankards fading behind my words. A message concerning his dealings had arrived, one tied to Lord Christian Zephry. The mention of Sundial Mercantile settled between us like dust after a door slams shut.

Then something inside him clicked. The laughter was gone, erased. His cheekbones bloomed purple, ink from a bruise spreading through skin. Others shifted uncomfortably, fingers in the direction of what they kept hidden. His words came in a rush - "I don’t know what you’re talking about" -, but his voice betrayed him, bloodless and wide with fear.

“Don’t you?” I took one step closer, my voice barely audible over the crackle of the fire. “The ledgers outlining the skimmed profits are crystal clear. Twenty percent off the top, funneled to a bank in Free Cities. The transfers on the third and the seventeenth of last month were really brazen.” I spoke like the words of a novel were holy writ, hoping my memory served.

His bravado fell. “Who sent you?” he snarled, half-rising from his seat. “One of Zephry’s men? Trying to cut me out?”

“No one sent me,” I said, and for the first time let a cold smile touch my lips. It felt foreign and powerful. “But if you think Lord Christian will protect you when he finds out you’ve been stealing from him before the first ship even docked, you’re a bigger fool than you look.”

I turned to his companions. “He’s been skimming from you, too. Check your shares. You’ll find them lighter than agreed.”

A flicker started it all. Trust among thieves burns fast when doubt creeps in. A thin man, his face marked by a slash of scar tissue, seized Foy’s arm. His voice cut sharp: “Al, did you do this?”

A hush broke loose as things spun fast: words snapped like whips, sharp and loud; wood cracked as a mug hit the floor. From behind the bar, a roar cut through-stop it now. Foy stood there, damp palms open, jaw tight with no, not me-but faces closed in, cold and changed.

A figure in darkness, hood pulled low - silent, unmoving. Victory weighed heavy in my chest, unspoken. Not a blade raised, just words loosed like fire.

I backpedaled slow, the fight near spilling over, my heels brushing the tavern door. Outside, the dock mist clung-wet and sharp-slapping my skin raw. Lightheaded now, wired, stomach churning.

A cold shiver ran down my spine at the sudden thought: someone was watching. The air seemed to thicken, as if with some weight, pressing against me. Not imagined-realtight, focused attention. It settled there, just above the shoulders, silent yet loud with its presence.

I turned slowly.

Fog clung low between the cobbles when I saw him-Duke Noah Wingknight-still as stone beyond the shadow of a sealed carriage. Its polished frame blocked most of the view, yet his eyes found mine without effort. Noise from the tavern cracked through the air behind me, but he didn't turn. His gaze stayed fixed, quiet, unmoving.

A figure paused there, almost unmoving, fingers brushing against the edge of the carriage. Attired in travel-stained clothes, fit for rides of length, gray with trail grime. Fresh from the journey, plainly. Nothing eluded him. Sharp, steady gaze - pale brown, unblinking - fastened on every detail. A stillness broke inside the panther. Now it watched like something that had learned surprise could come from small things. The rabbit stood firm, jaws open toward the wolf, showing what even fear can whet into courage. Our eyes met over the din of the road; a sudden stillness between us amidst all that rush. A mask of nothingness passed over his face. Yet, deep in his eyes, something flickered to life: cold, sharp attention sparked into being. This wasn't approval. In fact, this felt a little like discovery, like catching sight of a hidden mechanism beneath plain paint. Smiling? No. Any sign of agreement? Nowhere to be seen. Just steady watching, storing every detail of me and what I had done. After that silent moment, his eyes locked with mine one last time before he stepped into the carriage. It moved down the street noiselessly. Rain misted the air as I stayed there, watching it fade into the gray. A shape moved through the trees, different from the rest. That moment rewrote everything I had thought I knew.