Chapter 42: Val…
"Don't call me Lord Raylas. It makes me sound like my father. And your nanny is doing something."
Hania followed his gaze.
Lusha had risen from her seat among the attendants. She moved through the crowd with grace. She was walking toward the cluster of imperial advisors gathered near the dais—the silver-spectacled man who had whispered in the Emperor's ear, the military mages who had been dismissed earlier, and several other officials whose robes marked them as high-ranking members of the Imperial Council.
"Who is she targeting?" Hania asked quietly.
"The one in the blue robes. Lord Varen, Minister of Northern Affairs. He's been trying to get intelligence on the Tower for fifteen years. Three of his spies have been caught. Two were returned frozen. One was returned as a potted plant."
"A potted plant?"
"Your father's sense of humor. The plant was very healthy. It bloomed for six months before reverting to human form. The spy resigned immediately and became a gardener. He said it was less stressful."
Hania filed this away for later. Right now, Lusha had reached the cluster of advisors.
Raylas shoved his chair back from the table.
"You're leaving?" Hania asked.
"I'm just watching," he said with a quick grin. "You've got Thalira, teach her something useful. I'll be back soon."
He slipped into the crowd before she could argue. Hania watched him go, the way he wove between groups of nobles and gave casual nods to the minor lords like he belonged anywhere. Raylas was an Emberlyn, and from what Lusha had told her years ago, Emberlyns were damn good at digging up whatever they wanted.
She turned back to Thalira. "Hey, have you ever tried balancing a spoon on your nose?"
Across the hall, Lusha had already pinned down her target.
Lord Varen, the Minister of Northern Affairs, was a skinny guy with silver glasses who always looked like he was one bad day away from a breakdown. He'd been trying to sneak back toward the imperial dais when Lusha suddenly appeared right beside him. Her eyes were half-closed, and her spider-silk dress shimmered and changed colors with every shift of her body.
"Lord Varen," she said softly, almost like a cat purring. "I don't think we've properly met. I'm the Spider Queen of the Southern Caves, nanny to the Noctis heir, and... well, I'm very curious about certain things." She let the silence hang for a second. "I've heard you've got questions about the Tower. Thought I might answer a few myself."
Varen's face went pale, then red. "I— that is— the Ministry doesn't have any official—"
"I'm not talking about official questions," Lusha cut in, stepping closer. Her voice dropped. "Those are boring. I'm more interested in the ones you don't write down. The kind your spies keep failing to get answers for before they end up... returned to you as flowers."
Varen's mouth opened.
Lusha reached up and straightened his collar. It looked gentle, but her fingers stayed close to his throat. "Fifteen years, Lord Varen. Fifteen years of failed operations. Let me make this simple for you. The Tower can't be broken into. The Archmage can't be manipulated. The heir can't be studied. And me?" Her smile turned sharp. "I really shouldn't be underestimated. Got it?"
Varen gave a frantic nod.
"Good." She let go and lightly patted his cheek. "Now, the Minister of Agriculture has been asking about our silk production. Why don't you introduce me?"
She looped her arm through his and started guiding him across the hall like they were old friends. Over near the east colonnade, Raylas watched the whole thing with open admiration.
"Damn," he muttered to himself. "She just shut down the head of imperial intelligence in under two minutes... and made it look like small talk."
Then he turned to keep moving through the crowd and froze.
There was a man at the refreshment table.
Tall, put-together, with warm brown hair and sun-tanned skin. He carried himself like someone who'd been working these court events for years. His velvet coat was nice but nothing flashy. He was chatting with the old Duke of the Eastern Marches, gesturing with his wine glass, and the Duke was actually laughing.
That was weird. Raylas made it his business to know every face at court, every name, every little loyalty. It was an Emberlyn thing—kept you alive. But this smooth stranger with the easy smile was a complete blank.
He started drifting over, keeping it casual. On the way he stopped to tell the Duchess of Silsa how much he liked her earrings. By the time he got to the table, he'd picked up nothing useful.
"—and that's why the whole Imperial way of classifying vintages is completely off," the stranger was saying. "Wine isn't about where it's from. It's about what it feels."
"Emotion?" The Duke sounded half-skeptical, half-curious.
"Exactly. A vineyard that's seen a wedding makes different wine than one that's seen a battlefield. The grapes soak it up. Back in the old Southern kingdom—" He paused. "Well, it doesn't exist anymore. But they used to keep records of every big emotional moment near each vineyard. Called it the Bibliothèque du Cœur. The Library of the Heart. Beautiful idea. Shame it's gone."
The Duke nodded slowly. "I've got a vineyard near my place that makes this really sad red. Previous owner died of a broken heart, they say."
"See? The grapes remember."
Raylas stepped up, grabbed a glass, and turned to the stranger with his friendly grin.
"Don't think we've met. Raylas Zyveris Emberlyn, heir to the Southern Dukedom. You are?"
The man turned. Warm brown eyes met his. The smile stayed easy.
"Valentin. I am a traveling scholar. Wine's my main thing, but I mess around with architecture when the mood hits." He offered a hand. Grip was firm, but cool. "Pleasure, Lord Emberlyn."
"Just Raylas. Lord Emberlyn is my father."
"Raylas it is. Titles get old fast."
Raylas shook his hand. The skin felt noticeably cool, not freezing, just... off for a living person. Not fully human. Or at least not normal.
"A traveling scholar," Raylas said. "What brings you to the Imperial Palace?"
"Curiosity mostly. I've been away from all this for a while. Wanted to see how things have shifted." Valentin gave a crooked smile. "Turns out, a lot. Did you know people don't say 'henceforth' anymore? I used it earlier and a footman stared at me like I'd sprouted horns."
"I still say 'henceforth.'"
"You're showing off. Different story."
Raylas laughed before he could stop himself. "You mentioned architecture. What do you like?"
Valentin's eyes lit up. "Gothic stuff, mostly. I'm obsessed with gargoyles. The old Cathedral of Luxemenia had forty-seven unique ones before the war, all done by the same sculptor. Awful taste in wine, but the man could carve stone like nobody else."
"You talk like you actually knew the guy."
Valentin's hand stopped mid-gesture for just a split second before he sipped his wine. "Studied his work a lot. Occupational hazard for a scholar."
"Right." Raylas mentally noted the hesitation. The cool skin. The way he knew details about a kingdom that died two hundred years ago. The slightly old-fashioned way he spoke.
Something's off about this one. Can't put my finger on it yet.
"You know," Raylas said, "I've been coming to these things since I was a kid. I know pretty much every noble here. Never seen you before tonight."
Valentin's smile held steady. "Traveling scholars don't usually make the guest list."
"No. They don't." Raylas looked him in the eye. "But here you are at an imperial banquet. Talking old wine with a Duke. And your hands are cold."
The air between them went tight.
"Poor circulation," Valentin said lightly.
"Sure."
They stood there a moment. Raylas couldn't read the guy's face. Whatever was underneath that charm was buried deep.
"Hope you enjoy the rest of the night," Raylas said eventually. "If you ever head south, stop by the Emberlyn estate. My great-grandfather's got a collection of ancient gargoyles. Thirty-seven of them. Most are pre-Empire."
For a flicker, Valentin looked genuinely surprised. "Thirty-seven? Pre-Empire?"
"Says they remind him of the old days. Won't tell me which ones."
"A man after my own heart." Valentin lifted his glass. "I'll make sure to visit."
Raylas clinked glasses with him and stepped back. His mind was racing.
Cool skin. Knowledge of a dead kingdom. Outdated words. Some scholar who showed up out of nowhere.
Not human. But not anything I recognize either. Undead? Spirit? Some kind of construct? Nothing fits right.
He glanced back. Valentin was already back to chatting with the Duke, warm and relaxed, fitting in like he'd always been there.
Who the hell are you?
★★★
At the kids' table, Hania had three spoons balanced, one on her nose, two on her upturned palms and was trying for a fourth.
"The secret," she said, "is thinking about bread. The soft kind with honey. If you focus on the spoons, they drop."
Thalira grabbed her own spoon and tried. It clattered straight onto the table.
"You're tilting your head back too much," Hania told her.
"Show me again."
While demonstrating, Hania's own focus had already wandered. Her eyes had locked onto a tall figure at the refreshment table, gesturing with his wine glass while chatting up the Duke of the Eastern Marches.
She knew that posture. That dramatic way he waved his hands. That little lift of the chin right before he dropped something he thought was brilliant.
Val.
She nearly laughed out loud. The disguise was solid: the warm tan hiding his usual pale skin, the hair tinted to a normal brown, the small changes to his face that made him look like a good-looking scholar instead of a five-hundred-year-old vampire. He'd clearly gone through her stolen makeup bag before making his own way to the palace. And whatever magic he'd used to tweak the rest was subtle enough not to set off alarms.
Where the hell did he get better makeup? And when did he figure out how to do his hair? Last time I saw him, he looked like a mess. Now he could pass for minor nobility.
She watched Raylas walk up to the table. Watched them talk. Then Raylas eventually stepped away from the table, looking thoughtful. He caught Hania's eye as he passed the children's area.
"Who was that?" she asked, keeping her voice light.
"A traveling scholar named Valentin. Pretty charming." Raylas hesitated. "But something's off. He talks about Luxemenia like he was there. And he threw out 'henceforth' like it was normal conversation."
"That's weird."
"It's more than weird. I just can't figure out why." He shook his head, annoyed. "I'm gonna keep an eye on him. Tell me if you notice anything strange."
"Sure," Hania said sweetly.
She waited until he was gone, then glanced back at the refreshment table. Val was holding court with a group of minor nobles, hands painting pictures in the air, warm smile in place. He looked completely at home.
You're damn good at this. Five hundred years of court life, and you can still work a room full of strangers. Even with a borrowed face.
Their eyes met across the hall just for a second.
Val's hand froze mid-gesture. The mask didn't slip for anyone else, but Hania caught it: the quick flash of recognition, the tiny head tilt, the almost-hidden smirk.
I see you, her look said.
I know you see me, his answered.
Then he turned back to his crowd and picked up his lecture on wine like nothing happened. Hania turned back to Thalira and her spoons. Neither of them needed to say a word.