The chapel’s silence was suffocating. Ash stared at the spot where the silver-masked figure had vanished, the stench of sulfur clinging to the air like a curse. Lyra lowered her bow, her smirk replaced by a rare frown. “Well, that’s new.”

  Garrick knelt, running a calloused finger over the scorch marks on the stone floor. “Dark alchemy. Not many practice it.”

  “But you know someone who does,” Ash said, sheathing his dagger.

  Garrick’s one eye flicked to him. “Aye. The Undercity. But it’s a death sentence to go there uninvited.”

  Veyra, who had lingered in the shadows, stepped forward. Her auburn hair glinted in the moonlight filtering through the chapel’s broken windows. “The Undercity answers to one person: the Shade Sovereign. If your masked friend is using dark alchemy, they’re either allied with him… or *are* him.”

  Ash’s jaw tightened. *Another player. Another layer to the game.* “Then we find the Shade Sovereign. Tonight.”

  Lyra snorted. “You’ve got a death wish, don’t you?”

  “No,” Ash said, turning to face her. “But I’m done reacting. We find the source. We cut the head off the snake.”

  Garrick stood, his sword gleaming. “North gate. Midnight.”

  ---

  **Scene Break**

  Seraphina stood in the palace gardens, the second letter crumpled in her fist. The words burned in her mind: *“The thorns you cling to will draw blood. Even yours.”* The scent of sage and iron was fainter here, drowned out by the night-blooming jasmine.

  “My lady.”

  She turned to find Rylan, his armor dulled by soot and dried blood. “Your riders found no trace of Lord Blackwell. But there’s… something else.”

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  He held out a small wooden box. Inside lay a single black rose, its petals edged in gold. A note was tucked beneath it: *“The Crown knows.”*

  Seraphina’s blood ran cold. The Crown’s agents had always been a threat, but this—this was a declaration. Someone was exposing her connection to Ash, painting her as a traitor by association.

  “Who delivered this?” she demanded.

  “A child,” Rylan said. “Paid in silver to forget the face of the one who gave it to him.”

  Seraphina closed the box, her mind racing. The Alchemist’s scent on the letters, the Shade Sovereign’s rumored ties to dark magic—it all connected. But to what end?

  “Summon Lady Isolde,” she ordered. “Tell her I require her… expertise.”

  Rylan’s eyes widened. “The Witch of Valencrest? My lady, she’s not to be trusted—”

  “*Now*, Rylan.”

  ---

  **Scene Break**

  The Undercity was a festering wound beneath Valencrest’s glittering surface. Ash followed Garrick through the labyrinth of tunnels, the air thick with the reek of rot and decay. Beggars and cutthroats lurked in the shadows, their eyes gleaming with malice.

  Lyra kept her bow half-drawn, her usual levity gone. “Remind me why we’re doing this again?”

  “Because the Shade Sovereign knows things,” Veyra said, her voice low. “Things that could end this war before it begins.”

  “Or get us killed faster,” Lyra muttered.

  Garrick halted at a rusted iron door adorned with a carving of a serpent swallowing its own tail. He knocked twice, paused, then three times more. The door creaked open, revealing a hulking figure with a face like scarred leather.

  “Garrick,” the man grunted. “He’s expecting you.”

  The chamber beyond was a den of vice and violence. Smoke coiled around gambling tables, and the clang of steel rang out as fighters sparred in a sunken pit. At the room’s center, atop a throne of bones and rusted swords, sat the Shade Sovereign.

  He was younger than Ash expected—mid-thirties, with sharp features and eyes like smoldering coal. His black velvet doublet was unadorned, a stark contrast to the opulence of his court.

  “Garrick,” the Sovereign said, his voice a silken rasp. “To what do I owe the… pleasure?”

  Ash stepped forward. “We’re here for answers. About the silver-masked one.”

  The Sovereign’s lips curved. “Ah. You’ve met my wayward apprentice.”

  ---

  **Scene Break**

  Lady Isolde de Montclair was a specter in green silk, her silver hair cascading over shoulders as sharp as her reputation. She sipped wine from a crystal goblet, her amber eyes studying Seraphina with detached amusement.

  “You want me to trace dark alchemy,” Isolde said, swirling the wine. “A dangerous request, even for you.”

  Seraphina placed the black rose on the table between them. “And this?”

  Isolde’s smile faded. She plucked the rose, her fingers brushing the gold-edged petals. “A calling card. The Shade Sovereign’s mark. But this… this is different. The gold is new. A message.”

  “What message?”

  “That the Sovereign isn’t acting alone,” Isolde said, her gaze sharpening. “Someone is pulling his strings. Someone with a taste for theatrics… and royal blood.”

  Seraphina’s pulse quickened. “The Crown?”

  Isolde set down the rose. “Worse. Someone *in* the Crown.”

  ---

  **Scene Break**

  In the Undercity, the Shade Sovereign leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. “My apprentice serves a new master now. One who wears many faces. One who *knows* you, Ash Blackwell.”

  Ash’s blood turned to ice. “Who?”

  The Sovereign’s smile was a blade. “Why, the same person who sent you here. The same person who’s been watching Lady Seraphina… *brother*.”

  And in the palace, Isolde’s final words hung in the air like a guillotine’s shadow:

  “The serpent in the Crown’s nest has a name: Prince Lysander.”