Chapter 6: The Weight of Absence

The trek back to the Silas estate was a blur of adrenaline and cold realization. Julian moved through the city’s veins—the narrow alleys and the service tunnels—shedding his midnight-blue jacket the moment he reached the perimeter of the property. He felt lopsided, untethered. The loss of the left cufflink felt like losing a limb.

He scaled the trellis and slipped through the attic window, his chest heaving. He barely had time to hide the suit under the floorboards and pull on his soot-stained tunic before the heavy thud of the front door echoed from below.

The family was back. And they were not happy.

Julian hurried down to the cellar, splashing water on his face to simulate the sweat of a long night’s labor. He grabbed a polishing cloth and began rubbing a silver tray with frantic energy just as the cellar door was kicked open.

Aris stood there, his face a mask of purple rage. Behind him, Bastian and Giles looked disheveled, their expensive silks rumpled and their spirits clearly dampened.

"Where is it?" Aris roared, his voice bouncing off the stone walls.

Julian didn't stop his rhythmic scrubbing. "The inventory is nearly complete, sir. I’m just finishing the—"

"Not the silver, you idiot!" Aris lunged forward, grabbing Julian by the collar and shoving him against the cooling forge. "The Queen dismissed the ball early. She claimed a 'scholarly emergency.' But before she left, word spread. Someone was seen in the East Wing. Someone wearing a suit that looked like a shadow."

Julian kept his eyes down. "I wouldn't know, sir. I’ve been here, as you ordered."

"Have you?" Aris’s eyes narrowed. He looked around the workshop, his gaze landing on the floor near the forge. He leaned down and picked up a single, tiny thread of midnight-blue velvet that had clung to Julian’s boot.

Julian’s heart skipped.

Aris rolled the thread between his fingers. "You’ve always been too clever for your own good, Julian. Just like your father. He thought he could keep secrets from me, too." He tossed the thread into the embers of the forge, where it vanished in a tiny blue spark. "I don't care where you went. But if I find out you’ve been interfering with my sons' prospects, I won't just throw you out. I’ll make sure you never hold a hammer again."

"I am a Silas," Julian whispered, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and defiance. "The metal knows my hand."

"The metal knows whoever pays for it," Aris snapped. "Get back to work. We have a commission for the Duke of Westfall—a replacement for the 'trash' he claims we sold him. Apparently, the Queen has developed a sudden taste for precision."

While Julian labored in the stifling heat of the cellar, the Royal Archives were bathed in the cool, blue light of dawn.

Queen Althea hadn't slept. She sat at a long oak table, surrounded by stacks of guild registries and geological surveys. Before her lay the silver swan and the tiny, unfurled vellum scroll.

The coordinates weren't for a map. They were a filing code: 32-B-9.

"Your Majesty, please," Lord Corvis pleaded from the doorway, holding a tray of untouched tea.

"The Council is waiting. The Southern Delegation needs a formal signature on the—"

"The signature can wait, Corvis. I’m looking for a different one."

Althea stood up and walked to the towering shelves of Section 32. She climbed the rolling ladder, her fingers tracing the spines of the leather-bound ledgers until she found it: The Silas Guild Register, Volume 9.

She pulled it down and opened it on the table. She flipped through pages of intricate diagrams and chemical formulas until she reached the final entry, dated fifteen years ago.

There, in the margin, was a hand-drawn sketch of a swan. It was identical to the cufflink.

"Thomas Silas," she read aloud. "The Master of the Cigna."

She scanned the text. Thomas had died years ago, and his workshop had been taken over by his partner, a man named Aris. The registry noted that Thomas had a son, but the boy's name had been struck through with a heavy line of ink, as if someone wanted to erase him from history.

Althea ran her fingers over the scratched-out name. She could still feel the indentations on the paper.

"You didn't just lose a cufflink," she whispered, her eyes shining with the thrill of the hunt. "You left me your name."

She grabbed a piece of charcoal and a fresh sheet of paper. She began to rub the charcoal over the scratched-out section of the ledger, using the old investigator's trick to reveal the relief of the hidden letters.

Slowly, the name emerged from the darkness: J-U-L-I-A-N.

Althea stood up, her weariness vanishing. "Corvis! Prepare the carriage. We are going to the Merchant District. I have an 'urgent need' to inspect the House of Aris."