Oliver, as unruly as ever, came in without waiting. He yawned after he closed the door behind him, stretching with the morning’s newspaper in hand as he did so.

  “Hey, Sully, I’m ba-ACK?” He nearly jumped out of his skin at the sight before him.

  There, in his usual chair—his usual place—sat Sullivan, with the Princess curled in his lap, asleep like a cat in a spot of sun.

  “Wake her, and you will be flogged,” Sullivan whispered with menace dripping from every word.

  “Heh. Don’t threaten me with a good time now.” Oliver kept his impish grin, but lowered his voice.

  His eyes flickered with shock—only for mischief to swallow it whole.

  He walked further into the room, his own exhaustion getting the better of him as he stifled another yawn. Without caring to ask, he plopped himself into his usual chair across from Sullivan’s desk, swinging around a full 360 to meet him. The Daily Ring placed onto the polished hardwood with a theatrical flourish.

  “Soooo…” he began, quietly.

  His eyes kept shifting from the Princess to his cousin, conjuring the questions into existence without him saying a word.

  Sullivan’s eyes slid to Oliver, lingering just long enough to issue a silent warning. Before he returned to his paper on the floor. He gave a short, quiet whistle, more like a hiss through his teeth, and a shadebound formed before him—thick with his abyssal black mana.

  “Bring me my schematic,” he ordered quietly. And it did so dutifully, picking up the paper, handing it to its master, before spilling itself back onto the cold stone floor.

  “I’m guessing you performed your duties,” Oliver wiggled his eyebrows and bit his lip, hoping to convey exactly what he meant, making sure to keep his voice just above a whisper.

  Sullivan smoothly swiveled his chair so that his wife wouldn’t be in view of his cousin.

  “Enough with your antics. What happened after I left?”

  Oliver’s eyes went wide, his nose flaring. His lips wavered—caught between a pout and a grin. Sullivan shutting him out was giving him withdrawals, but he knew not to press.

  At least for now.

  “Well, I just wanna say that the youngest Silverthread? Totally into me. No need to thank me.”

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  Sullivan gave him a look so dry it could’ve withered crops. But he didn’t interrupt. Encouragement, by Sullivan’s standards.

  “From what I gathered,” Oliver continued, “there’s a new cold war brewing between the wood elves and high elves. Big scandal. Something about a marriage pact gone wrong. She was pretty tight lipped about it.”

  “Not my concern,” Sullivan muttered. “Did you get a foot in the door with the Concord or not?”

  “Didn’t even get the chance. I had her laughing, and smiling, cause you know how hilarious I am, then her siblings swooped in like vultures. Caillou threatened me with castration.”

  Typical Caillou. Interspecies romance was a crime in his book.

  “So our planned foothold was a catastrophic failure.”

  Oliver hesitated to answer. It wasn’t that Sullivan couldn’t take bad news, it was that Oliver hated giving it.

  “I mean… when you put it like that… Yeah.”

  “Wonderful. What else?”

  Sullivan’s sarcasm scraped against Oliver’s insides like a rusted spoon against bone.

  “The Mana Port’s leakage is worse now. The storm tore the patch clean off.”

  “Number 7?”

  “Yup.”

  Sullivan’s sigh was fully resigned. “I’m sure that’ll be my fault as well.”

  “I struck out, but Evie picked up something juicy. Paris Jones has been buying up silver futures.”

  Now that was something worth listening to. Silver futures in the Old World would have meant Paris was expecting the price of silver to go up. But these futures weren’t for money. Not completely.

  Sullivan’s hand balled into a fist on his desk. His mana burn stabbed at every taut tendon.

  “What kind?” he asked.

  “I asked Chien to see if he had any more info on it. And well, you gotta love the Jiangshi.”

  Oliver snapped his fingers, a shadebound, one made of Oliver’s own mana, dropped from the ceiling like a glob of shadow. It sprung up, handed Oliver a ledger, then reached back into the rafters to disappear once more.

  He scooted his chair in the same way a dog scooted across the rug to reach his cousin. He placed the ledger on the table as Sullivan gently swiveled his chair back around to look through it.

  Oliver glanced at the Princess, but said nothing. There was espionage afoot.

  “Apparently Mr. I’m-so-important-I-got-third-seat Jones has been investing in smelted stock, newspaper contracts, Glass Chapel charity banquets, and there’s even a rumor going around that they’re grooming some Tower Mage brat on the side.”

  Sullivan’s jaw tightened as he flipped through the ledger. Paris was an avid supporter of the Eternal King. It would surprise no one he was doing Magnus’s dirty work.

  “Smelted stock”—likely silverwork for weapons. Silver was such a dangerous metal. The Glass Chapel was particularly fond of silver bullets since they could cut clean through werewolves and vampires alike. The latter being their favorite game to exterminate.

  “Newspaper contracts”—now they were just copying Sullivan’s strategy. Magnus wanted to poison what little reputation the vampires still clung to. Stir the pot. Make mortals nervous. Force the Vampiric Court to spend every waking moment on defense.

  He could only hope Venice and Avalon crafted better stories for The Weekly Ring.

  The last two plans seemed just as mundane on the surface: charity banquets to keep the humans loyal, a Tower Mage brat to show loyalty to Magnus’s reign, mistaking his favor for admiration. Worse still, admiration for worth. But each was another perfectly placed piece on the board.

  A sardonic smile overtook him. “I’m so hurt. Magnus wants to replace me.”

  Oliver scooted back, voice raising. “Replace you?”

  Aleiya stirred.

  Both men stilled.

  Not.

  A sound.

  Was made.

  Then she settled again.

  Sullivan let out a slow breath. He placed his ungloved hand gently on her head—an unconscious gesture. Steady. Protective.

  Oliver’s lips were completely sucked into his mouth, his hands clenched on the armrests of his chair. His instincts told him, right then and there, that he almost died, but somehow, death by Sullivan was evaded once again.

  But then the double take. He almost shook his head off his shoulders as his stomach plummeted.