The fortress had changed in days. Walls shored up with scavenged stone, watchtowers manned by Grafted who now moved with purpose instead of despair. Kaelith drilled them relentlessly—hook flashing as she corrected stances, barked orders. The air smelled of forge smoke and sweat. Our little empire was breathing.
But tonight we left it behind.
The Memory Ball was held in the upper city—neutral ground where High Mnemonics, nobles, and black-market dealers mingled under truce. No weapons. No extractions. Just memories traded like wine, secrets whispered over crystal vials, and alliances forged in shadowed alcoves.
We needed information on Veyra's daughter—the transport route, guards, timing. Mirael's visions had given us the when and where, but not the how. The Ball was our best shot at eavesdropping on the Council's inner circle.
We dressed for the part.
Liraya wore a deep blue gown—slit high on one thigh, silver embroidery tracing the neckline that plunged low enough to draw every eye to her heavy breasts. Her braid was pinned up, exposing the graceful line of her neck. She looked like a fallen noble—dangerous, untouchable, and utterly fuckable.
Sylvara chose black silk—backless, clinging to every curve, living tattoos visible through sheer panels like dark veins under moonlight. Her raven hair loose, crimson eyes lined in kohl. She moved like sin.
Mirael… we kept simple. Pale lavender dress, modest but form-fitting—accentuating soft hips and full breasts without overwhelming her. Silver hair braided with black ribbons. She clung to my arm—small, nervous, but steady. The claiming had given her confidence; she no longer forgot her own name.
I wore black velvet—tailored coat, silver-threaded vest, boots polished to a gleam. No weapons visible. The strength graft made me feel like I could tear the building down bare-handed if needed.
We entered through a side gate—forged invitations courtesy of Sylvara's shadow contacts. The hall was opulent: crystal chandeliers dripping aether light, marble floors, long tables laden with vials and delicacies. Music drifted—haunting strings. Couples danced. Laughter echoed. Underneath it all: the scent of ambition and fear.
We split up naturally.
Liraya drifted toward the wine tables—drawing stares, listening to nobles gossip. Sylvara melted into shadows near the balconies—eavesdropping on hushed conversations. Mirael stayed with me—her small hand tight in mine. Her visions were strongest when she touched someone; I kept her close.
We circled the room—smiling, nodding, blending. I caught fragments:
"…Veyra's girl is unstable. Visions too strong. They're moving her to the Capital machine-core tonight…"
"…High Mnemonic Veyra herself will oversee the transfer. She doesn't trust anyone else…"
"…The Thief's been quiet. Maybe the Dead Zone swallowed him…"
I kept my face neutral. Mirael squeezed my hand—whispering, "She's here. Veyra. Northeast alcove. Black gown, gold mask."
We moved that way—casual, like any curious couple.
Veyra stood tall—raven hair coiled, violet eyes sharp behind the mask. She spoke low to a Council aide. I caught the tail end:
"…the oracle's transport is secure. If Voss interferes, we'll have him. The girl's visions say he's coming for her."
Mirael tensed. I pulled her closer—arm around her waist.
Veyra's gaze flicked our way. Lingered. Recognition? Suspicion? She smiled—slow, predatory—and turned back to her aide.
Sylvara appeared beside us—shadow-step silent. "She knows we're here. Or suspects. The trap's already set."
Liraya joined us—wine glass in hand, expression calm. "Guards doubled at the exits. They're watching for us."
I scanned the room. Eyes on us now—subtle, but there. Veyra's doing.
Mirael's breath hitched. "I see it… a balcony. Private. She'll go there soon. Alone. For a moment."
I looked at the women. "We take the risk. Follow her. Get close. If she's alone…"
Sylvara's lips curved. "We listen. Or more."
Liraya's eyes darkened. "If it comes to it… we claim what we need."
We drifted toward the northeast balcony doors—casual, laughing softly like lovers enjoying the night air.
Veyra slipped out first—alone, as Mirael predicted. We waited a beat—then followed.
The balcony overlooked the city—lights twinkling below like fallen stars. Veyra leaned on the railing—back to us. Mask off now, face beautiful and cruel.
She spoke without turning. "You're bold, Voss. Coming here. With your little harem."
I stepped forward—women flanking me. "You know why I'm here."
She laughed—low, amused. "The silver-haired girl. My daughter. You think you can take her from me?"
Mirael whispered, "She's lying. She doesn't care about her. Just the visions."
Veyra turned—violet eyes meeting mine. "You're strong. Grafted well. But you're still a thief. And thieves get caught."
She raised a hand—rune on her palm glowing.
Trap.
Guards poured from hidden doors—rune-staffs raised.
Sylvara shadow-stepped—dagger flashing. Liraya drew a concealed blade from her thigh slit. Mirael pressed against me—trembling.
I summoned blue flame—hot, ready.
Veyra smiled. "Let's see how far your power goes, Memory Thief."
The balcony erupted.