"You're one devious noble miss Velrosa,"
"Oh, you flatter," she said softly, not looking at him.
And then—A bell tolled thrice. A signal.
Servants swept through the halls, relighting the sconces. The council had finished its private deliberations and was departing for the night. Guests were guided out in slow tides.
Velrosa stepped back from the rail. "Time to leave."
He offered his arm. She paused—but took it.
———
Six days.
Six days until the vote that could determine the future of Esgard, of House Elarin, and of everything Velrosa and Ian had clawed toward from the gutter.
And in that shrinking window of time, the city shook—not with war drums or revolution, but from low voices.
They wormed through parlors and across ledgers, carried on parchment and tucked beneath coin. A
nd at the heart of that plague of secrets sat a man with ink-stained fingers and a glinting eye: the Rat.
---
Blackrat's office wasn't grand.
