Part 5
The Council Chamber was a circular room of oppressive grandeur, located at the very peak of the High Spire in Oakhaven. Here, the "Resonance" was so strong that the air felt thick, humming with a low-frequency vibration that made the fine hairs on the back of Cassian's neck stand on end.
The Council of Twelve—men and women whose families had controlled Vespera's mineral veins for centuries—sat in tiered mahogany benches, looking down like a jury of stone idols.
Cassian walked into the center of the room with Elara on his arm. He had spent the last hour in the carriage mentally reinforcing his "Golden Bastard" armor, layer by layer. He was smiling—a brilliant, cocky, "unapologetically himself" grin that reached his eyes but didn't warm them.
"Gentlemen, Ladies," Cassian projected his voice, the sound rich and confident, echoing off the domed ceiling. "I'd apologize for the delay, but I'm sure you all remember your own wedding nights. Or perhaps you've forgotten what it's like to have a pulse?"
A ripple of uncomfortable coughing went through the benches.
"Lord Vane," a woman in the front row spoke—Countess Valerius, a woman who smelled of ancient dust and iron. "We are not here for your banter. We are here to confirm the integration of the Nightingale Attunement into the Foundry's power grid. The Sovereignty's energy levels are at a critical low."
"And the integration is proceeding with 'cookie-cutter' perfection," Cassian replied, giving Elara's hand a squeeze that was a bit too tight—a silent warning for her to play her part.
Elara stepped forward, her "quirky, optimistic" mask in place. She looked "shy and hesitant," her fingers fidgeting with the strap of her Lumen-Box camera.
"The Resonance is a living thing, Countess," Elara said, her voice a soft, musical melody. "It doesn't like to be forced. It needs to be... courted. I've been taking photographs of the mineral fractures. The light tells a story of great potential, if we only have the patience to listen."
"Patience does not power the refineries, child," the Countess snapped.
"But my husband does," Elara replied, turning her "affectionate" gaze toward Cassian. "He has such... intense energy. Such a 'driven desire for entertainment.' I find that the Resonance reacts quite vibrantly when he is near."
Cassian felt a cold spike of alarm. She was weaving him into her "Resonance" narrative, making him a variable in a calculation he didn't understand.
"Indeed," Cassian said, his voice dropping into that serious, tough rasp. "I've always been told I have a magnetic personality. Now, if we can move on to the trade tariffs, I'd like to get back to my drink before the ice melts."
For the next two hours, the "transaction" continued. It was a grueling mental chess match. Cassian used his "cunning and smart" side to deflect questions about the Vane family's debts, while Elara played the "reserved and innocent" debutante, providing just enough technical jargon about the Resonance to keep the Council satisfied.
They were a perfect team—a pair of liars performing a duet.
But the Council Chamber was a place of high tension, and tension was Cassian's greatest enemy. The vibration of the Resonance in the room was beginning to gnaw at his "maddening sensitivity." His skin felt tight, his nerves raw. Every time a Council member raised their voice, he felt a phantom jolt in his chest.
As the meeting finally began to break up, the Council members descended from their benches to offer their "congratulations." It was a sea of handshakes, shoulder-claps, and crowded proximity.
"A fine match, Vane," a Duke boomed, slapping Cassian on the back.
Cassian's smile didn't waver, but his internal "crybaby" was screaming. He felt trapped, his "violent exterior" wanting to lash out just to create space.
Then, he felt her.
Elara moved in close, stepping into his personal space under the guise of "affectionate company." She leaned her head against his shoulder, her scent—that rain-on-steel essence—cutting through the stale air of the chamber.
"You're doing so well, Cassian," she whispered, her voice a "sentimental" musical note. "So brave. So strong."
She reached up, her hand sliding around his waist as if to pull him closer for a public display of marital bliss. But her fingers didn't settle on the leather of his belt. Instead, they found the exact, "vulnerable" spot on his side where his ribs met his waist—the same spot the Baron had mauled yesterday.
She didn't poke. She just... rested her thumb there, applying a tiny, microscopic amount of pressure.
It was worse than a poke. It was a lingering, static charge of pure, agonizing ticklishness.
Cassian's entire body went rigid. His "Golden Bastard" smile turned into a strange, pained grimace that looked like he was passing a kidney stone. His breath hitched in a sharp, audible "Hhhhk—!" and he had to clench his teeth so hard he feared they might crack.
He couldn't move. If he jumped away, he'd look like a fool in front of the Council. If he stayed, he was going to explode.
"Is something wrong, Lord Cassian?" Countess Valerius asked, her eyes narrowing as she noticed the sweat suddenly bead on his forehead.
"Just... the Resonance," Cassian wheezed, his voice three octaves higher than usual. He was vibrating, his legs feeling like jelly. "It's... it's quite... stimulating... today."
Elara looked up at him, her face a picture of "altruistic" concern. "Oh dear. Is your condition acting up again, darling? Perhaps we should find a more... private... space for you to vent that energy."
She moved her thumb—just a millimeter—swirling it in a tiny, agonizing circle against the silk of his shirt.
Cassian's eyes bulged. A small, involuntary "Pfft—!" of a repressed giggle escaped his nose, and he had to double over, pretending to cough into his silk handkerchief.
"Excuse... excuse us," Cassian managed to gasp, grabbing Elara's arm with a grip that was less "affectionate" and more "drowning man reaching for a life raft." "My wife... she's right. The air in here... is quite... heavy."
He practically dragged her out of the chamber, his stride jerky and "shy-ridden," his head down as they hurried past the whispering nobles.
He didn't stop until they were in the lift—a brass-and-iron cage that began its slow, creaking descent down the High Spire.
As soon as the doors hissed shut, Cassian lunged away from her, hitting the back of the lift with a dull thunk. He was gasping for air, his face a bright, unrefined red, his hair disheveled.
"You... you absolute... demon!" he shouted, though his voice was still breathless and shaky. "That was... in front of the Council! I could have lost everything! They would have seen... they would have known!"
Elara stood in the center of the lift, her Lumen-Box camera held to her eye. She clicked the shutter. Thunk.
"The 'Golden Son' in a state of 'shattered emptiness,'" she said, her voice clinical and cold. "The composition is breathtaking. The way your pupils dilate when you're overwhelmed... it's a very honest reaction, Cassian."
"It's not honest, it's a medical anomaly!" he barked, his "violent exterior" flaring in a desperate attempt to regain control. He stepped toward her, his jaw set, trying to look "tough and serious." "You think this is a game? You think my vulnerability is your personal entertainment?"
"Isn't it?" she asked, lowering the camera. She looked at him with her "chaotic little mind" laid bare. "You view life as a transaction, Cassian. I'm simply collecting interest on my investment. I saved your reputation in there by giving you an excuse to leave. That service has a price."
"The price is my dignity!"
"Dignity is a luxury for people who aren't pawns," she replied. She stepped closer, her straordinaria sense of smell gauging his "essence." He smelled of adrenaline, peppermint, and a deep, "guilt-ridden" sadness.
She reached into the pocket of her gown and pulled out a small, familiar object.
It was a sparkly dinosaur sticker—the triceratops with the googly eyes.
Cassian's heart stopped. He felt his "shattered emptiness" turn into a cold, bottomless void. He slapped his hand against his waistcoat pocket. It was empty. It must have fallen out when he was fumbling with his handkerchief.
"Where... where did you get that?" he whispered, his "cocky attitude" completely gone, replaced by a raw, "timid" fear.
"I found it on the library floor," Elara said, her voice returning to its musical, "quirky" lilt. She held the sticker up, the brass lights of the lift making the glitter sparkle. "It's very... sensitive. Very... 'goofy.' It doesn't match the 'Golden Bastard' at all."
She stepped forward and, before he could react, she reached out and pressed the sticker onto the lapel of his midnight-blue coat.
"I think it suits you," she whispered, her smile turning "unpredictable and dangerous." "The man of violence... who likes sparkly dinosaurs."
The lift doors hissed open, revealing the bustling lobby of the High Spire.
Cassian stood frozen, the sparkly triceratops staring out at the world from his chest. He felt like a "shattered emptiness" that had been filled with something bright, terrifying, and utterly "vulnerable."
He looked at Elara, who was already walking toward the exit, her sunflower yellow skirts swaying, her "optimistic idealism" back in place as she greeted the guards.
He was twenty-five, he was a "Golden Son," and he had just been branded by his wife with a googly-eyed dinosaur.
"Monotonous," he whispered, his voice cracking.
He reached up to rip the sticker off, but then he stopped. He looked at the glitter. He thought of the "crybaby" inside him, and the way Elara had looked at him—not with mockery, but with a dark, intense curiosity.
He didn't take it off. He adjusted his coat, straightened his shoulders, and walked out into the fog, a man of iron and velvet, hiding a sparkly secret on his heart.