Part 6
The return to the Vane Estate was a descent back into the cold reality of the "Foundry." The fog had settled into the valleys, leaving only the jagged, obsidian-like spires of the house visible above the mist. Inside, the atmosphere was thick with the residue of the day's political chess—the scent of damp wool, coal dust, and the lingering, clinical ozone of the Resonance.
Cassian walked through the foyer, his "Golden Bastard" mask now a jagged, precarious thing. The sparkly dinosaur sticker was still on his lapel, a tiny, defiant splash of glitter against the midnight-blue silk. He felt it like a brand. Every time he caught his reflection in the mirrored panels of the hallway, the googly eyes of the triceratops seemed to mock his "shattered emptiness."
"Lord Cassian," Mrs. Hallow's voice cut through the silence. She was standing near the base of the staircase, her shadow long and thin against the charcoal marble. "The Duke is in the library. He requested your presence immediately upon your return. Alone."
Cassian felt a familiar, "timid" jolt of anxiety in his chest—the "crybaby" side of him flinching at the prospect of a lecture. But his "cocky attitude" took the wheel, his chin lifting.
"He'll have to wait, Hallow. I need a bath, a bottle, and a moment to remember why I haven't jumped off the High Spire yet," Cassian drawled, his voice loud and unapologetically blunt.
"He was quite insistent, My Lord," she replied, her eyes dropping to his lapel. She paused, her expression shifting just a fraction—a microscopic ripple in her granite composure. "There is... something on your coat."
Cassian didn't look down. He couldn't. "It's a statement, Hallow. High fashion from the lower districts. You wouldn't understand. It's called 'whimsy.' Look it up in the archives if you can find the section on joy."
He turned and stalked up the stairs, his heart hammering. He didn't go to the library. He went to the North Wing, heading straight for the "Vault"—not the gymnasium this time, but his private study, a room tucked behind a heavy oak door that he kept locked from the inside.
Elara watched him go from the shadows of the gallery. She had stayed behind in the foyer, her "chaotic little mind" already processing the data from the Council Chamber. She held her Lumen-Box camera to her chest, the brass casing warm against her skin.
She could smell him—the adrenaline was fading, replaced by a "melancholic and lonely" scent of old paper and suppressed guilt.
He didn't take it off, she thought, a spark of "quirky" amusement lighting her eyes. The Golden Son is wearing my mark.
She moved through the house with the silence of a predator, her bare feet—having discarded her shoes the moment the carriage door closed—feeling the rhythmic thrum of the turbines beneath the floorboards. She headed for her own rooms, but stopped at the entrance to the Resonance Lab, a restricted area in the basement where the Vane family attempted to harness the minerals.
She slipped inside. The lab was a forest of glass tubes and copper wiring, lit by the pulsing, violet glow of the Resonance shards. It was a place of "morally ambiguous" science, and Elara felt more at home here than in any ballroom.
She approached a central vat where a large, jagged shard of Resonance mineral sat suspended in a solution of heavy oils. She leaned in, her extraordinary sense of smell picking up the "clinical" tang of the mineral.
"The light is hungry tonight," she whispered, her voice musical but tinged with a "dark, violent" edge.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small glass vial containing a sample of the peppermint creams she had given Cassian. She dropped a fragment of the sugar-coating into the solution. The violet glow flared, the mineral vibrating with a sudden, sharp intensity.
"Reactive," she noted, her "perfectionist" streak narrowing her focus. "Just like him."
She thought of his skin—how "maddeningly sensitive" it was, how his whole world seemed to collapse at a single point of contact. It wasn't just a "medical anomaly." It was a gateway. If she could understand why he was so physically "vulnerable," she could understand the man who views himself as a "pawn."
And she wanted to see him break. Not out of malice, but out of a "creepy and crazy" curiosity to see what the "shattered emptiness" looked like when it was completely laid bare.
Cassian was in his study, the door bolted. He had finally ripped the sticker off, but he didn't throw it away. He sat at his desk, staring at the sparkly triceratops as it lay on the green blotter.
He felt "guilt-ridden" and "shattered." The day had been a series of tactical defeats. He had been poked, prodded, and branded. He reached into the bottom drawer of his desk—the one with the false back—and pulled out a tin box. Inside were his other "goofy" treasures: a collection of smooth river stones, a half-eaten bag of those strawberry marshmallows, and a small, hand-drawn map of the stars he'd made when he was ten.
He was twenty-five, a "man of violence," and he was hiding dinosaurs and marshmallows from a woman who smelled like the rain.
"I'm losing my mind," he whispered, his voice cracking. He felt the "crybaby" side of him wanting to surface, the hot prickle of tears behind his eyes. He hated it. He hated the "cursed sensitivity" that made him feel everything a thousand times more intensely than anyone else.
He heard a soft, rhythmic scratching at the door.
He froze, quickly shoving the tin box back into the drawer. He straightened his waistcoat, wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, and put on his "serious and tough" face.
"Who is it?" he barked.
"The shadows are asking for a password," Elara's voice drifted through the wood, melodic and playful.
Cassian groaned, rubbing his temples. "Go away, Lark. I'm busy being a 'Golden Son.' Come back when I'm less... agitated."
"I brought more currency," she said.
Cassian hesitated. His "cunning" side told him to ignore her, but his "opportunistic" side—and the part of him that was "unnaturally lucky"—wanted to see what she had.
He unbolted the door and cracked it open.
Elara was standing there, holding a silver tray. On it sat two glasses of the heavy, dark Vesperan ale he liked and a small plate of the most "quirky" thing he'd seen yet: sandwiches cut into the shapes of stars.
"Star-bread?" Cassian asked, his "cocky attitude" faltering. "What is this, a nursery?"
"The stars are the only things that don't need the Resonance to shine," she said, stepping past him into the room without waiting for an invitation. She set the tray on his desk, right next to where the sparkly sticker had been a moment ago.
She paused, her eyes landing on the triceratops on the blotter.
"You saved him," she noted, her voice turning "sentimental." "I thought you'd have burned him by now."
"I... I was going to use him for target practice," Cassian lied, his face heating up. He grabbed a glass of ale and took a long, defensive swallow. "What do you want, Elara? Why are you here?"
"I want to know about the 'shattered emptiness,'" she said, her voice dropping the "cookie-cutter" mask entirely. She sat in the chair across from his desk, her "energetic" posture turning into something "reserved and innocent" yet "dangerous."
Cassian stiffened. "There is no emptiness. Only profit and loss. You should know that, 'Muse.' You're the one who signed the contract."
"The contract is for the Duchy," she replied. She leaned forward, her "extraordinary sense of smell" picking up the scent of the marshmallows in the drawer. "But this room... it smells like a child hiding from a storm. Why do you hide, Cassian? You're so loud out there. Why are you so quiet in here?"
"Because out there, I'm a pawn," he said, his "arrogant and blunt" side taking over. "And in here, I'm the one who decides where the pieces go."
"Even the dinosaurs?" she asked, gesturing to the sticker.
Cassian felt a surge of "intense guilt" and "irritation." He reached out to grab the sticker, but Elara was faster. She picked it up, her fingers light and "adaptive."
"Don't touch that," Cassian snapped, reaching for her hand.
But as he reached out, he forgot the first rule of his own existence: Distance is safety.
His hand brushed hers, and Elara—ever the "cunning" predator—didn't pull away. Instead, she turned her hand and caught his wrist.
Then, with a "chaotic little" flick of her fingers, she traced a line right across the palm of his hand.
It wasn't a poke. It was a light, feather-soft "tickle" that sent a jolt of pure, "maddening" electricity straight up his arm.
Cassian's reaction was a "random but make sense" disaster.
His whole body spasmed. He let out a sharp, breathless "Eep!"—a sound so high and "crybaby" that he immediately slammed his other hand over his mouth. He lurched backward, his chair spinning wildly until it hit the bookshelf with a crash. He tumbled to the floor, his legs kicking out in a frantic, "vulnerable" scramble to get away from the sensation.
"Hrk—! No! Stop!" he wheezed, his face a bright, unrefined crimson. He was curled on the rug, his "superiority" gone, replaced by a "cute and funny" loss of all dignity.
Elara stood up, looking down at him with that "unpredictable" clinical curiosity. "The palm is also a fracture point. Interesting."
"You... you... sadist!" Cassian gasped, his eyes watering as he tried to regain his breath. He was laughing, but it was an involuntary, "sensitive" sound—a "crybaby" giggle he couldn't suppress. "I'll... I'll have you... put in the stocks!"
"You're smiling, Cassian," she noted, her voice melodic. "It's a much better look on you than the mask."
She knelt down beside him on the rug. She didn't touch him again, but she stayed close, her scent filling his "shattered" senses.
"The transaction is changing," she whispered.
"I don't want your industrial clout. I want the man who hides the dinosaurs."
Cassian looked up at her, his "guilt-ridden" heart thudding against his ribs. He felt "shattered," yes, but for the first time in years, he didn't feel "empty." He felt seen. And it was the most terrifying, "vulnerable" thing he'd ever experienced.
"Monotonous," he whispered, but his voice was thick with emotion, his "emotions slipping out" despite his best efforts to complain.
"You're... you're making my life... very difficult, Lark."
"Good," she replied, a "quirky" smile touching her lips. "Difficult things are much more fun to photograph."
She stood up, smoothed her sunflower-yellow gown, and walked toward the door.
"Eat your stars, Husband," she called over her shoulder. "They're strawberry flavored. I know you like them."
She walked out, the door clicking shut behind her.
Cassian stayed on the floor for a long time, the silence of the library returning. He looked at the star-shaped sandwiches. He looked at the sparkly triceratops.
He was twenty-five, he was a "Golden Son," and he had just been "tickled" into a stalemate by a girl with a "chaotic little mind."
He reached out, grabbed a star-shaped sandwich, and took a bite.
"Baby steps," he muttered, the "crybaby" giggle finally fading into a small, "goofy" smile.
The "Iron Altar" was still there, but the
"shattered emptiness" was beginning to glow with a very faint, very violet, Resonance.