Sanni turned her gaze away, fingers nervously twisting the edge of her ivory hair. "I may have… searched for information on the Divine Towers."
Solomon froze, his scowl deepening. "So, the Sorcerers may have contacted the Silver Marks. Who exactly did you ask?"
Sanni hesitated, her shoulders stiffening. "It's a possibility," she admitted reluctantly. "But I only spoke to those who are firmly within the Fell family's grasp."
"Which ones?" Solomon pressed, his tone sharp.
Sanni's voice dropped to a near-whisper. "...Thieves."
Solomon crossed his arms, his brows arched in exaggerated disbelief. "Would you care to repeat that? I didn't quite catch it."
Sanni avoided his gaze, looking very much like a child caught in a lie. "Brother, it's not—"
"Sanni," Solomon interrupted, his glare cutting through her protest.
She exhaled, knowing there was no escape. "It was the King of Thieves," she admitted, wincing.
Solomon hissed through his teeth, his displeasure unmistakable. "How could you do something so foolish?"
"How could I not?" Sanni shot back, her voice gaining strength. "The Divine Towers could be the key! Six of them still stand, representing Lorian's oldest secrets. They must have a purpose—one only the Neph would know. If we unravel their mysteries, we might just find a way to Makeeth's Domain."
Solomon released a frustrated sigh, pacing the length of her study. His lips moved as he muttered to himself, his boots scuffing the polished floor.
"Be at peace, brother," Sanni said gently. "It's only one possibility."
Solomon's glare snapped back to her. "I'll be at peace when the Silver Marks aren't targeting my sister," he growled.
Sanni grabbed his arm, forcing him to stop pacing. "We both knew this would be dangerous."
"For me," Solomon snapped, his voice a low snarl.
"Then you're a fool if you think I'd never be in danger," Sanni countered. Her voice was steady, resolute. "We've started down this path, and I will not turn back now."
She reached for a sheet of parchment and held it up—a harshly scribbled drawing done in charcoal. "I know what a Silver Mark assassin looks like. If I see one, I'll run."
The crude image depicted a masked figure clad in steel and leather. Its face was molded from silver, with jagged thorns sprouting from the forehead. Twin streaks of red ran down its featureless mask, like blood tears. A tattered cape clung to one shoulder, and its arms ended in deadly tools: a clawed right hand and a jaw-like weapon on the left, shaped like the maw of a hound.
The Silver Marks were infamous, their inhuman abilities as deadly as their reputation. They were no longer men but creatures forged for the sole purpose of assassination. To face one was to face certain death.
Outside, the glass panes of Sanni's study rattled as the Lunar Storms whipped against the estate. She tapped her desk thoughtfully. A Silver Mark assassin being dispatched was no small matter—it meant the noble houses were staking claims in the power struggle ignited by the Revenants' actions.
The city was in turmoil. The nobles were scrambling to secure their positions, and the people whispered of rebellion. They called the Revenant who broke the Thirteenth Wall the Ghost of the Lunar Storms. His accomplice was named the Mistling.
The Revenants' sudden war against the nobles was far from ideal for House Fell, but Sanni knew there was opportunity in chaos—if only she could wield it properly. Still, they needed to find the Revenants before those flames spread too close to the Fell estate.
"We'll need to call Robben," Sanni said finally. "He may have information on the Revenants."
Solomon's grin returned, sharp and wolfish. "I'll pay our dear old friend a visit."
Sanni shuddered, remembering their last encounter with the so-called King of Thieves. "Do not kill him, Solomon. I will be quite cross with you."
"No promises." He flashed her a grin and was gone, leaving the study unnervingly silent in his wake.
Sanni sighed, staring at the silver bell on her desk. After a moment's thought, she rang it gently. Solomon wouldn't return for hours. There was still time.
The door swung open, and the one-armed Publici stepped inside. His damp hair clung to his forehead, likely from a recent bath. Those starlit blue eyes of his met hers as he bowed slightly. "How may I assist you, Sanni?" he asked, his voice holding that peculiar foreign accent.
It wasn't quite Dekal or Breyan, though it carried hints of both. It lacked the elegance of elven tongues and the harsher edges of Cordian speech, but it was pleasant to the ear in its own way.
Sanni frowned slightly. He still hadn't learned proper manners. Addressing her by name in public would be unthinkable, but there was no time to scold him now.
"Sit and read to me," she instructed. "I can't sleep, and I'd like to listen while I rest."
"What am I reading?" Mirak asked, taking a seat in her leather chair.
Sanni reclined on the couch, waving a hand toward the book on her desk. "Start from the beginning."
Mirak flipped open the book with his remaining hand and began to read aloud. His voice was smooth but untrained, his tone shifting slightly to match the characters as he read.
The story was familiar to Sanni. Written by an orc scholar, it detailed the lives of orc clans in the mountains. It described their brutal honesty, their unyielding culture, and their strange mechanical devices—prosthetics they grafted onto their bodies in place of flesh and bone.
For once, Sanni didn't search for hidden truths in the text. She simply listened.
Her gaze drifted to Mirak as he read. His expression shifted with the story, his face scrunching slightly at moments of tension. He was deep in thought, fully immersed in the tale.
"What do you think of the book?" Sanni asked suddenly, breaking the silence. "The orcs have a way of being honest—brutally so. I find it refreshing."
Mirak closed the book gently, his tone guarded. "It's… different."
Sanni smiled faintly. "I'm not surprised. You only ever seem to read about Sorcerers and Harmony."
"I find them interesting," Mirak replied, his voice low.
"They bore me," Sanni admitted. "But if I could wield Atta like you, I imagine I'd find them fascinating too."
Mirak stiffened. "What do you mean by 'wield Atta'?"
Sanni sat up, her amethyst eyes narrowing. "I'm speaking to a Sorcerer, am I not?"
The effect was instant. Mirak froze, his composure crumbling. The boy could absorb knowledge like a sponge, but he lacked the skill to hide his tells. A slight hitch in his breathing, a flicker of his eyes—it was all too easy to read.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Mirak sputtered, his voice betraying him.
"Deny it if you wish," Sanni said, rising from the couch. "Even before my brother told me—" She stopped herself, stepping closer. Her finger tapped his chest, the chains of his Publici shackles clinking softly. "I knew the moment I met you. Atta leaks from you like a broken tap."
"You're a Sorceress!" Mirak blurted, backing away in a panic.
Sanni pursed her lips. "I'd rather not be insulted in my own study."
She stepped closer, her fingers gliding up the sides of his face. Her touch was soft, deliberate. She tilted his chin upward, forcing him to meet her gaze.
"You are mine, Mirak," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "This is not a declaration of love. Every aspect of you—your Atta, your knowledge, your future—belongs to me. My brother may claim you publicly, but in truth, you are mine."
Mirak hesitated, his breath shallow. Her amethyst eyes bore into him, leaving him no room to argue. What choice did he have?
"I am yours," he relented.
Sanni smiled, her hands lingering a moment longer before she stepped back. "The higher nobles often trace their Atta flows through the use of Anntom," she explained. "Some are born with it, passed down through their ancestors. My brother and I were lucky. Our parents, however, were not."
Mirak frowned. "It doesn't seem like your mutations go wrong."
Sanni shrugged. "Some of my relatives weren't so fortunate. One became allergic to milk. Another's skin burned if they stood in sunlight too long. I was simply blessed."
She clasped her hands behind her back, her voice turning resolute. "Anntom is peculiar, and one of many mysteries I hope to solve. You'll help me, Mirak. That much is certain."