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AVOID DIFFICULT CONVERSATIONS (WHILE SHARKS CIRCLE)

KAZIMIR

The war room settled into near-silence after midnight, save for the whisper of candle flames and Griffin’s tired muttering.

We’d retreated there as soon as the workers left, craving the dead-of-night quiet for unholy paperwork and half-finished enchantment diagrams. I hovered over the table, scanning Griffin’s meticulously sketched runes—complex bindings and arcs that hurt my eyes if I stared too long.

“This stabilization matrix should work,” Griffin said, tapping the parchment with an ink-stained finger. “In theory.”

My eyebrow twitched. “I loathe that phrase.”

One of his lenses had cracked earlier in the week, giving him a permanently disgruntled look. “You’re asking me to fix an artifact that’s never been broken, using an untested method to ensure it doesn’t explode and annihilate half the Western Realms. So yes, ‘in theory’ is the best I can promise.”

I bit down the urge to snap and examined the schematic again. It appeared elegant—spells layered in interlocking patterns, designed to feed the Heirloom’s unstable magic back into itself.

“How long until you can test it?”

“Two or three days,” he replied.

I ran a finger over the drawn runes, half convinced we were all courting catastrophe. “And it won’t interfere with the Heirloom’s function?”

He gave a beleaguered sigh. “I can’t know until the enchantment is finished and tested properly… which I can’t do if you keep hounding me. My lord.”

I opened my mouth for a suitably domineering retort, but the door swung open before I could deliver it. Arabella stepped inside, wearing my robe over a thin nightgown. Her hair spilled down her shoulders, and that single sight twisted something possessive deep in my gut.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said, voice soft.

My chest tightened. Over the last week, I’d buried myself in war plans and enchantment details, hoping to keep my mind off her and her effect on me.

We still trained and ate together, but outside that, our interactions were tempered by the presence of others.

It seemed wise, considering the circumstances.

Griffin cleared his throat. “Perhapsss?—”

“Stay,” I ordered, still watching Arabella. “We’re finishing the stabilization discussion.”

She reached the table, eyes roaming over the runes. “Any progress?”

“Some,” Griffin answered, visibly grateful for a distraction. “We’re close.”

Arabella turned to me, all challenge and unwavering gaze. “And the Lifeweave Ritual? Have you decided? Or are you still hoping to stall until the Heirloom collapses?”

My spine went rigid. I’d been putting that decision off for days. “We have other options to explore first,” I said, layering my voice with finality.

“Do we?”

I forced a measured exhale. “Yes.”

When Griffin tried—and failed—to look anywhere else, Arabella caught him with a direct question. “Tell me honestly: is the ritual our best shot at repairing the Heirloom permanently?”

He stood there, loyalty and honesty waging war behind his eyes. Then he sighed. “Yes. Stabilization might keep it usable in limited fashion, but the Lifeweave Ritual is the only method that could fully mend that fracture.”

Arabella gave a curt nod. “Thank you, Griffin.”

I glowered at Griffin for his betrayal; he busied himself collecting notes. “I’ll, uh, continue my calculations elsewhere,” he mumbled, then practically sprinted out before I could banish him to the scorpion-infested vaults.

Silence draped the room as I turned to the window. A flicker of lightning rimmed the sky. Behind me, Arabella steadied her breath.

“You’re avoiding me,” she said.

I stared at the faint reflection of my own face in the window’s glass. “Are you suggesting I ignore Auremar massing troops on our borders? The Hero’s Guild planning a frontal assault? My time is better spent anticipating them than placating you.”

Her voice dropped a notch. “I’d rather have your honesty than your placation. Why won’t you discuss the Lifeweave Ritual?”

A cold spike of dread traced down my spine. “It’s too dangerous.”

“For who?”

I turned, half tempted to hurl a paperweight to release tension. “If you connect your bloodline and healing power directly to that damaged artifact, you could die. We have alternatives?—”

“Stop lying to me.” She moved closer, eyes snapping with anger. “You’ve been hiding in the war room all week so you won’t have to decide. At least admit that.”

The flare of anger in me nearly ignited a corner of a map. I inhaled through my teeth. “Yes. The risk to you is unacceptable. And yes, apparently, that matters to me. Satisfied?”

She took that in, her anger wavering. “Complicated,” she murmured.

I let myself laugh darkly. “I’d call that an understatement.” Shifting topics, I gestured at troop movements. “Morana whined again this morning about my forces clogging her borders. But she’s terrified Auremar will come for her first.”

“Are you deliberately drawing the king’s ire toward Arvoryn?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “She’s strategic ground. Besides, I’m tired of her attempts to hedge her bets. Edmund is more malleable.”

She eyed me with faint amusement. “That’s a polite way of saying you plan to dispose of Morana.”

“She’s outlived her usefulness,” I admitted. “No sense pretending otherwise.”

Arabella folded her arms, apparently unbothered by my casual cruelty. “So you’re done changing the subject?”

I held her gaze. “What do you want, Arabella? I can’t think straight where you’re concerned. Sacrificing you is no longer something I’m willing to risk. That’s the truth you demanded.”

She opened her mouth—maybe to respond, maybe to press for more—but an icy jolt of magic shot through my runes. The wards flared in warning.

“Visitors,” I muttered. “Stay here.”

Naturally, she trailed after me as I rushed into the corridor, and I wondered why I bothered giving orders at all. We nearly ran into Thorne, who looked agitated enough to chew nails.

“My lord,” he said, bowing. “The Syndicate is here.”

“Which representative?”

Thorne’s face tightened. “All of them.”

“I thought the Syndicate attended our wedding,” Arabella said.

“They sent proxies,” I corrected. “The actual members rarely leave their sanctums. For all of them to appear together, unannounced...”

It was like having six hungry sharks suddenly appear in your bathtub.

Thorne’s voice dropped. “They demand an immediate audience.”

I steeled my expression. “Demand, do they?” Then I gave Thorne a curt command: “See them to the Great Hall, and order a meal prepared.”

He took off at once. Arabella turned to me. “You hold a seat among them, don’t you?” she asked. “That’s what I suspected when they showered us with wedding gifts.”

“Seventh Chair,” I confirmed.

“Do they know about the Heirloom?”

I tapped a finger against my wedding ring. “They might suspect something, but not the specifics. That’s likely why they’re here.”

Smuggling, assassination, information brokering, magical artifacts—nothing moved without the Syndicate’s knowledge or approval. But I’d kept my quest for power a secret, and if they discovered my true plans before they were fully realized, I’d end up fighting a war on two fronts.

Without the benefit of the artifact that had started all the trouble.

I turned away, voice low as I led us toward our chambers. “I won’t let them sabotage our plans. Or you, Arabella. But watch out. They’re a nest of vipers.”