Mirak winced as the leather straps of his formal jacket were pulled tighter. "Look at you, all dressed up and fancy," Kord teased, leaning against the doorframe with an amused grin.
Mirak raised his hand to run his fingers through his neatly combed hair, only for the noble dressmaker to slap it away with a sharp smack.
"Touch your hair, and you'll ruin all my work," she scolded, glaring at him as if he were an unruly child.
Grumbling under his breath, Mirak turned to the mirror and froze. What stared back at him was a stranger. His hair, parted neatly with a slight curl to the bangs, was reminiscent of how it had been before he'd left his village. He twirled a strand between his fingers, the motion stirring a memory he hadn't visited in years. His mother had often said he looked like his father, though that was a face he barely remembered.
But this wasn't him.
The starlight gleam in his eyes—a gift, or perhaps a curse, from the Atta he wielded—was alien to him, as if he were peering into someone else's reflection. His skin, far cleaner and paler than it had been during his years in the mines, looked unnervingly refined. And then there was the most telling change: his left hand—or the lack of it. His white glove and elegantly tailored sleeve mocked him, hiding the void that was a constant reminder of the life he'd lost.
The clothes were of high quality, tailored to display his role as Sanni's protector and servant of House Fell. A breezy white undershirt lay beneath a buttoned, dark purple overcoat embroidered with subtle silver designs. His trousers were simple black, tucked neatly into polished boots. The white gloves he wore, accented with purple highlights, were almost gaudy.
"Akash would've cackled," Mirak muttered under his breath. "And Daenys would've called me dashing."
Unfortunately, the faint snickering behind him wasn't Daenys. He glanced over his shoulder to find Lock smirking in quiet amusement while Kord barely managed to stifle a full-blown laugh.
"Look at him," Kord wheezed. "The Ghost of the Lunar Storms, dressed like a noble's lapdog. You're one brush away from being a painting."
"Would you like to trade places?" Mirak snapped, tugging at his collar.
"Not a chance," Kord replied, shaking his head as he stifled another chuckle.
The seamstress huffed, clearly fed up. "Lady Fell expects you at the front gates in less than an hour. I've done all I can. If you ruin it, that's on you." With a dramatic swish of her skirt, she stormed out, muttering about ungrateful men.
Kord stretched lazily, closing his eyes as he leaned further into the doorframe. "To think, you'll be strolling into the Palace like you belong there. Being Sanni's protector certainly has its perks."
"And its disadvantages," Mirak retorted, tugging lightly at his gloves.
"True," Lock said with a shrug. "Everyone will be watching you. Nobles aren't exactly subtle about their disdain for outsiders—or Publici."
There was a soft knock at the door. Mirak straightened, clearing his throat. "It's open."
The door flew open, and Mistress Elissa stormed in, radiating authority. She glared at the three of them before marching up to Lock and shoving a folded letter into his hands.
"I did not work my way to this position to become an errand girl for the likes of you," she said sharply. "Keep your activities outside of work far away from this estate. I will not be fired because I'm sent chasing after your messes."
Before Lock could respond, she turned on him with another scowl. "And stay away from Min. That girl has a bright future ahead of her. She doesn't need to get tangled up in your world."
Lock raised his hands, his golden Publici bands clinking softly. "You say that like I plan to leave."
"Men with your kind of past don't walk away without strings attached," Elissa said curtly. "If you care for her at all, stay away. For her own good." With that, she strode out, slamming the door behind her.
Lock sighed, running a hand through his hair as he opened the letter. The room fell silent as he scanned the contents, his eyes narrowing slightly before he handed the letter to Mirak.
"It's from Lancelot," Lock said. "He writes of rumors circulating among the Noble Houses. They're hiding something deep within the Palace—something ancient and powerful. Some whisper it's a dragon. Others think it's a mechanism built by the neph and dwarves."
Mirak's brow furrowed as he read the words scrawled in sharp, deliberate handwriting.
"He wants me to find it?" Mirak asked incredulously. "And not just find it, but go to the deepest recesses of the Palace? That's easier said than done."
Lock shrugged. "He doesn't want you to open it. Just locate it."
"Easier said than done," Mirak repeated, rubbing the back of his neck.
Kord grinned, his eyes alight with excitement. "Think about it, Mirak. If it's a dragon, imagine the possibilities! You could sell it for enough resin to buy half the city—or keep it for yourself. Just picture it: you, soaring through the skies on a dragon's back, the wind in your hair—"
"Dragons haven't been seen in Lorian for centuries," Mirak interrupted, rolling his eyes.
"Details," Kord said dismissively, waving a hand. "The important part is the possibility."
Lock, ever the pragmatist, leaned back against the wall. "Or it could be nothing. A trap designed to lure thieves and treasure hunters to their deaths."
"And I'm the one who'll trigger it," Mirak muttered.
Kord clapped him on the shoulder. "You love it."
Mirak gave him a deadpan look. "I do not."
"You do," Lock said with a smirk. "Mirak the scholar, Mirak the truth-seeker, Mirak the Ghost of the Lunar Storms—always in the middle of things. You can't help yourself."
"Me and my foul luck," Mirak grumbled.
Kord chuckled. "What could stop the great Ghost of the Lunar Storms? Certainly not a few nobles and their Saki warriors."
"The name hasn't exactly stuck with the common folk," Mirak pointed out dryly.
Lock handed Mirak the letter again. "So, will you do it?"
Mirak hesitated, his hand brushing against the letter as he glanced between Lock and Kord. Before he could answer, Lock pulled out a small pad of paper and scribbled something on it.
Mirak read the hastily scrawled words, his stomach dropping as they sent a chill through him:
Do not speak out loud. Lancelot is playing us.
A faint cough escaped Mirak's lips as he folded the paper and tucked it away. "I'll search the Palace when I have the chance," he said evenly. "Hopefully, it's a dragon. That would be something to uncover."
At that moment, Mirak felt the now-familiar pressure of Kord's mind reaching for his. The sensation was more forceful than usual. Mirak exchanged a glance with Lock before nodding slightly, granting Kord permission.
Kord's thoughts poured into their minds, urgent and clear.
"Do not openly mention the note. Even writing could tip him off if we're not careful. Mirak, follow your plan. Lock, be wary of what lurks in the Palace depths. And both of you—watch for the Silver Mark assassins."
Mirak's chest tightened, but he kept his expression neutral as Kord's mental voice continued.
"Volim will speak when the time is right. If you need to communicate in secret, mention how working with the Sanni family is… challenging. I'll create a link so we can talk without words. But be careful—Lancelot is always watching. The Revenant may already be diverging from the paths he's foreseen."
The connection broke as Kord withdrew from their minds.
Mirak exhaled slowly, glancing at Lock and Kord. "It seems I have my task. Let's hope the rumors are worth the risk."
Kord grinned, though his expression held a note of seriousness beneath the surface. "What's life without a little danger?"
Lock chuckled softly, though his gaze remained sharp. "Let's just hope it doesn't turn into too much danger."
Mirak adjusted his gloves, steeling himself for what was to come. Whatever awaited him in the Palace, he knew one thing for certain: nothing would be simple. Nothing ever was.