Gilded Dust

(Paige’s POV)

A flicker of noise, then music spills through the city's core. Lord Protector Eamon hosts what burns brighter than torchlight. The crowd moves like smoke - shifting, rising, never still. This gathering breathes on its own, restless under stone arches. Laughter cuts through cold air instead of silence. People press close, drawn without needing reason. Flame jumps when wind passes; so does celebration.

A blaze of lamps spills from his mansion, a fresh sprawl of white marble and gilded edges rising too tall against the night. Crowds of carriages jam the roadways, each one coughing out nobles wrapped in bold silks - hues pulled by sea routes: loud as tropical birds, pale as salt-worn reef, or a strange golden sheen that pulls shadows inward. Perfume hangs thick - not just blossoms from distant soil or sizzling meat on spits - but underneath, something unfamiliar. It clings. Reminds me of fruit left too long in sun, mixed with warmth rising off baked rock.

That sound scrapes right through me.

Up the wide stairs, Noah’s grip stays steady beneath my fingers. Not like the flashy scene around us - he stands apart, dressed in strict black. Only hints of metal mark him: an old spy’s ring, a plain silver clip holding his coat closed. Picture a knife resting on a golden plate, that is how he appears among the bright chaos.

"Hold on," he says, voice low, eyes shifting toward two people bending forward. "Watch first. Then wait. Say nothing."

Fine fabric it may be, still I murmur that grey makes me feel out of place.

A flicker of warmth passes through his eyes, almost like shelter found in sudden storm. “You seem like calm inside an asylum,” he says - quiet, certain, held close.

A vast room hums with crafted beauty. Wine spills from fountain spouts like water. A sharp, strange beat pulses through the air from hidden instruments. Smiles stretch across every face - wide open, nothing held back. These are not careful court expressions. Pupils shine unnaturally vivid. Laughter bursts without warning, sharp and echoing.

Golden light follows him like a second skin. Maybe around Noah’s years, though where Noah stands stiff and dark, Eamon bends like grass in warm wind - thin, bright, pale hair catching every beam. People part without noticing, his presence slipping between them. A hand brushes someone’s shoulder, then another shares quiet amusement moments later. Draped in shimmering gold fabric, his clothing shifts like liquid whenever he pivots slightly. The material dances even when the air stays still.

There he sees us, grin stretching even wider now. Over he moves, smooth like water, arms opening wide. "Lord Protector Wingknight! Then there's the famed Duchess Paige - my little event shines brighter just having you." Smooth words roll out, well-rehearsed, each one placed just so. Pale blue eyes pass across me, curious but sharp, more like a study than a stare. "Stories about how strong you both stood up north - they give others something real to hold onto."

“Lord Protector Eamon,” Noah replies, his tone perfectly neutral. “Your… hospitality is renowned.”

A twist of fate, perhaps, but joy finds its way through tiny folded papers handed round by a quiet server. Eamon watches the tray pass, then reaches - snatching two without hesitation. Not waiting for permission, he presses one into each of our palms. His voice drops, warm like firelight: “Taste what I crossed oceans for.”.

My hands close around it first. This sheet feels ordinary, marked by a sun drawn sharp and bold. He stays still, fingers loose on his copy, waiting without words.

“Sun-Dust,” Eamon whispers, like he’s letting slip a secret only the wind should hear. From the Fire Islands, supposedly - some rare thing that wakes up your senses. Put just a speck on your tongue… suddenly colors punch harder, thoughts cut clearer, tiredness slips away like old skin. Ideas start moving again, smooth and steady. To show how it goes, he flicks open his little pouch, balances a glinting fleck of golden grit on his thumb, then brings it to his lips. His eyelids drop shut, face going still, almost dreamy. For him, that moment tastes like hope given form.

Faces catch my eye, shifting near him. Not long after that young noble pinches some snuff, he's already deep in talk about buildings, racing through ideas with a grin, while an elder listens, half puzzled, half amused. Elsewhere, a woman draws fingers down her dress, slow and soft, like touching skin she misses.

Something more than fun. This slips you away. Light, shiny, lifting past second thoughts, past stress, past the slow drag of real life.

“We are still weary from our travels,” Noah says smoothly, tucking his unopened packet into his belt. “I would hate to dull its effects.”

Eamon’s smile doesn’t falter, but his eyes sharpen. “Of course. Prudence is a virtue. But do observe! See how barriers fall. See how ideas flourish!” He gestures to the vibrant, chattering crowd. “This is the future, Wingknight. Not grim duty, but joyful expansion. A ‘Wisterian Destiny’ unburdened by the past.”

A bright grin lingers last before he slips into the throng, pulled along by voices bubbling with laughter.

A whisper of touch guides me along, fingers at my waist nudging forward. Into a pocket of calm near the wall, away from the noise. He waits. A question hangs without words

“It’s a trap,” I say quietly, my stomach churning. “But not one with walls or blades. It’s a trap that makes you love your cage.”

He nods, his gaze tracking Eamon across the room. “He’s not selling a product. He’s selling a feeling. And he’s giving away the first taste for free.” He looks down at the packet in my hand. “Don’t even open it. The scent alone might be part of the design.”

Hidden inside my robe, I tuck it away, skin crawling. My voice comes out quiet - what now?

“We learn.” His eyes are like chips of flint. “We find the source of his supply. We find the cost - not in gold, but in what happens when the dust wears off.”

A noise rises suddenly by the wine fountain, as though called into being. There he is again - that sharp-tongued nobleman from the talk on columns and arches - now bent low, choking, hands pressed to stone. Color drains fast from his skin, leaving it slick under dim light. What burned bright minutes ago sputters into tremors, breath coming short. From nowhere, two figures in plain livery arrive, each taking an arm without speaking. They move like they’ve done this before, guiding him through shadows, gone just as quickly as the moment began.

Still, the party moves on without pause, sound steady despite everything. Some look across, faces showing something between sorrow and mild irritation. This kind of scene happens often enough.

The words slip out like smoke. "The crash," he says, quiet as a breath.

A sharp voice slices into the moment, slicing through sweet-smelling air like glass. The north’s icy presence draws a sneer - suddenly there, dripping sarcasm. "Gracing us with your frosty company," it mocks. Heat hangs heavy here. Too much? That pause suggests doubt

Kira stands by a marble pillar, once a mercenary leader, now holding the title left vacant when Greymont fell. Reality hits hard here among shimmering gowns and soft laughter - her clothes are tough leather, untouched by fashion. Grey strands pulled back tight show years earned, not given. A drink sits near her fingers, unadorned, just like the woman beside it. Nothing escapes her gaze, every flicker noted, filed away without noise.

Kira shows up, and Noah's voice lifts - just slightly - as he speaks her name. Here you are, he means to say, but only gets out the basics

“Someone has to keep an eye on the children playing with fire,” she grunts, pushing off the column. She nods at me. “Duchess. Your boy did well with the mountain. Heard about that.”

That means a lot, I think to myself.

Not my doing. The celebration, that mess over there, nods toward the noise, has become the issue instead. Fighting soldiers is one thing. What happens when it’s just... feeling? Drinks deeply from the cup. Eamon knows what he’s doing. Never said you were wrong, Wingknight. Nowhere near exciting, is it? Feels stuck in the past. Picture this - stuck in meetings, debating wheat prices, while a handful of bliss waits, whispering about jungles and distant shores ripe for taking

Right off, she lays it bare. That question hangs - Noah wonders what drives him.

Strength, sure - though nothing like the worn-out version we’ve seen before. What drives him is building something fresh, shaping what comes next. A grin spread wide, like he’s already glimpsing tomorrow. What holds everything together? The Sun-Dust. Down in the lower city, people need it - not only for the rush, yet also since he controls every bit of supply. Among the idle rich, it keeps their favor locked tight. Meanwhile, each sale feeds money into his coming journey, another land to claim. Her eyes lock onto Noah without blinking. His plan isn’t mere power - it's hunger shaped into rule. While your Charter, built on duty and common labor, remains untouched by his powder, impossible to twist

A figure in uniform moves silently past, carrying sweets coated in sugar flakes. One gets grabbed by Kira - she lifts it close, takes a slow breath through her nose, then lets it fall. Her face twists like she bit something sour. “Could be soaked in that stuff,” she mutters. “How they make you crave it without knowing.”

A jigsaw of clues comes together into something unsettling. Not an enemy from politics. Instead, a slow pull toward another way of life.

“We need to find where he processes it,” Noah says, his mind already racing ahead. “The source in the city.”

Kira smirks. “Already on it. My people are tracking his shipments from the docks. Leads to a warehouse in the merchant’s quarter. Heavily guarded. By men who don’t look like they partake. They look… sharp. Unsmiling.”

A single guard stood by. This thing made people grin. That mismatch spoke volumes.

“We need to see it,” I say. “Not the revel. The machinery behind it.”

His gaze meets mine, worry flickering across his face. That moment, he says it’s not safe. Danger hangs heavy in his voice

“So is staying here, breathing this air,” I counter. “We need to understand what we’re fighting. Not the dream, but the factory.”

Kira looks between us, a grudging respect in her eyes. “I can get you in. Tonight. After this circus winds down. The guards change at the fourth bell. There’s a weakness in the perimeter. A short window.”

Staring back at me, Noah weighs it all without words. The need is clear to him. Yet the danger hangs heavy. A beat passes. His head dips once, sharp and stiff. "Fine," he says. "Follow orders. Not one move on your own."

“No dramatics,” I say.

A haze swallows what comes after, thick and sour. That sugary smell presses in, almost tangible. Laughter rings flat now, strained at the edges. Eamon moves through it all - shining, flawless - and yet I catch a flicker: something precise watching from behind his grin. Reality bends where he stands, reshaped into something smoother, brighter, unreal.

Fresh off the edge of that moment, breath catches in my throat - each pull of air sharp, as if pulled through water. Apologies hang behind us, half-formed, while shadows stretch long beneath our feet.

Fingers tight on my sleeve, Noah draws me nearer inside the swaying coach. His voice comes low - “You feeling steady?”

“I feel like I need a bath in vinegar,” I mutter, resting my head on his shoulder. “He’s so… plausible. That’s what’s frightening.”

“He offers a solution to weariness,” Noah says, his voice quiet in the dark. “To doubt. To the hard, unglamorous work of building something that lasts.” He turns my face toward his. “But we know, don’t we? What’s built in a dream collapses in the morning light.”

Then he kisses me - no fire behind it, just quiet agreement between us. This is how we stand together. His mouth on mine becomes an anchor, something steady while Eamon stirs up chaos all around.

Afterward, under blackened skies, wearing tight dark garments, we find Kira waiting in a narrow lane by the market district. Festivities hum far off, muffled like old memories. Cold air bites here - this part of town tells no lies.

Kira points to a large, windowless stone building across a deserted courtyard. “There. The guards patrol here, here, and here. There’s a twelve-minute gap at the loading door on the north side when the shift changes. We go in, look, get out. No engagement.”

A squeeze on my hand comes from Noah. Ready? he asks

Breath quickens, yet thoughts stay sharp. Behind the shine sits this fact. “Ready.”

Floating through the yard, we barely make a sound. Just as Kira said, the entrance sits empty - only for moments that matter. With calm precision, Noah opens the latch, no noise at all.

A push makes it move inside. It opens toward the room.

Something sharp fills the air right away. Not sugar, but a bitter sting that scrapes the windpipe. Inside, walls stretch far into shadow under glaring lamps. Light cuts across empty floors like warnings.

It isn’t just rows of burlap bags filled with herbs. What you see goes beyond stacked crates and dusty jars.

It is a factory.

A row of long tables holds rows of people - men, women, kids - their skin dull beneath the dim glow of lamps. One after another, they move like gears, crushing dry leaves in stone bowls. From vat to vat, powder shifts by hand, sifted through fingers before landing on small sheets marked with a sun symbol. Each fold wraps the glittering orange dust tight. Their stares go nowhere. Not a word passes between them. All that cuts the silence is the grind of tools, soft paper shuffling, sometimes a deep cough tearing through.

A heavyset worker pauses, glancing up from his task. A club hangs by his side, strapped to a thick belt. His gaze - keen, wary - fixes on our figures standing stiff in the entrance. The air stills as he studies us without speaking.

Last time we looked, it was already too much. Way past that now.

“Run,” Noah says.

Fate already sealed. Across the hollow dark, a voice cracks - sharp, sudden.

“INTRUDERS!”