Part 1
The morning after the "Iron Altar" was signed brought no warmth to the Foundry, but the fog had retreated, replaced by a sky the color of a bruised plum. In the daylight, the Vane Estate revealed its true, jagged nature. The stone was not merely grey; it was veined with seams of obsidian and brass, carved with ancient, geometric symbols that purportedly helped stabilize the Resonance of the earth below.
Cassian stood in the center of his dressing room, his eyes—a striking, unnatural shade of molten amber—bloodshot from lack of sleep. His hair, dark as a raven's wing with a faint, iridescent sheen of indigo in the light, was a mess. He looked at the reflection of the "Golden Son" and saw only the "shattered emptiness" staring back.
On his vanity sat a bowl of heavy, hammered silver, filled with ice water. He plunged his face into it, the cold a brutal shock to his "maddeningly sensitive" skin.
"The carriage is ready, My Lord," Arthur said, standing by the door with a velvet-lined coat draped over his arm. "The Duke expects you at the High Exchange for the opening of the trade floor."
Cassian pulled his face from the water, droplets clinging to his eyelashes like diamonds. "Tell the Duke I'll be there when the sun decides to show its face in this godforsaken district. And Arthur?"
"Yes, My Lord?"
"Check my pockets. If you find any... stickers... dispose of them. Discreetly."
"I found a sparkly triceratops on your morning coat, sir. I took the liberty of placing it in your... private collection drawer."
Cassian froze, his "cocky attitude" momentarily replaced by a "guilt-ridden" flush. "Good. Don't mention it again."
He dressed with a "timid" carefulness, choosing a waistcoat of brocaded silk the color of dried blood, with buttons carved from polished bone. He felt the "many walls" closing in. The High Exchange was a place of high noise and higher stakes—a nightmare for his "cursed sensitivity." But he had to be the hawk. He had to be "unapologetically himself."
Elara was already in the North Wing's small observatory, a room dominated by a massive, brass-bound telescope and walls lined with tinted glass plates of astronomical charts. She was wearing a gown of deep forest green, the fabric a heavy, textured damask that whispered with every movement. Her hair, a pale, silvery blonde that looked almost translucent under the violet light of the Resonance-lamps, was pinned back with combs carved into the shape of dragonflies.
Her eyes, a pale, clinical grey with fleicks of violet near the iris, were pressed against the viewfinder of her Lumen-Box.
"The light is more stable today," she whispered to the empty room. "The fractures are healing. Or perhaps they're just hiding."
She wasn't just taking photos; she was looking for the Resonance-signatures of the estate's foundations. Her mother's legacy was hidden in these vibrations, in the "chaotic little" movements of the earth.
She heard the heavy thud of the front doors closing—Cassian leaving for the Exchange. She moved to the window, watching the black-and-gold carriage pull away.
"Go on, Little Bird," she murmured, her voice "brutally honest" and cold. "Go and play your games with the wolves. I have a basement to explore."
She had a "kink" for the secrets of the Foundry, and she knew that the real power didn't lie in the trade floor, but in the iron-bound vaults deep beneath the coal-towers. She reached into her pocket and felt the iron key she had "opportunistically" lifted from her father's desk before leaving The Rookery.
It was time to see what the Vanes were truly hiding.
The High Exchange was a cathedral of greed, a massive rotunda of gilded iron and green marble. The air was thick with the scent of expensive tobacco, unwashed coal-workers, and the sharp, acidic tang of ink. The noise was a physical weight—a roar of shouting men and clattering telegraph machines that made Cassian's head throb.
He walked onto the floor, his "Golden Bastard" mask polished to a brilliant, blinding shine.
"Lord Vane! How's the bride?" a merchant shouted, slapping him on the shoulder.
Cassian's shoulder lurched, a "random but make sense" twitch that he masked by swinging his arm into a broad, welcoming gesture. "She's a dream, Thompson! Though I'm starting to think she married me for my wine cellar and not my charming personality. Can you imagine?"
He moved through the crowd like a shark through a school of tuna, his "cunning and smart" mind tracking the fluctuations in Resonance-stock. He was "smart, creating complex plans" in his head even as he joked about his honeymoon.
But as he reached the center of the rotunda, he saw a man standing by the Great Ticker—a man with eyes like cold flintand a suit that cost more than the average worker made in a decade.
It was Julian, his "childhood best friend," but also his fiercest rival in the "transactional" games of the Sovereignty. Julian didn't move; he just watched Cassian with a look of "reserved and innocent" malice.
"You look tired, Cassian," Julian said, his voice a low, smooth purr that cut through the noise. "Marriage not agreeing with your... sensitive disposition?"
Cassian felt the "shattered emptiness" in his chest flare. He stepped closer to Julian, his "arrogant and blunt" side taking point. "The marriage is perfect, Julian. Better than your last three mergers, at least. How's the debt-ceiling looking from down there?"
Julian smiled, a slow, "dangerous" expression. He reached out, his hand moving toward Cassian's arm. "You're always so defensive. I was just going to offer my congratulations."
He didn't shake Cassian's hand. He gripped his forearm—hard—and his thumb grazed the maddeningly sensitive skin of Cassian's wrist, right where the pulse point was.
Cassian's breath hitched. A "crybaby" jolt of pure, electric ticklishness surged up his arm, making his fingers curl involuntarily. He had to bite his tongue to keep from yelping.
"Careful, Julian," Cassian wheezed, his voice straining to stay "tough." "I'm a married man now. People might talk."
"Oh, I'm sure they will," Julian whispered, leaning in. "They're already talking about the 'Iron Duke's Son' who can't even hold a glass steady at his own wedding. What happens when the wind blows too hard, Cassian? Do you just... break?"
Julian let go and walked away, leaving Cassian standing in the center of the roar, his heart hammering against his "shattered" ribs.
He was twenty-five, he was the heir to the Foundry, and he was being hunted by his past and his present simultaneously.
He needed a drink. He needed Elara. And he hated himself for wanting either.