Above us, the chandeliers drip violet shards; beneath that, the world shudders a little less.
We walk toward the balcony again—escape from performance. The smell of sea and formal roses fills us. Her dress rustles against my tux.
She tilts up to the stars—once more seeks perspective. I stand close, senses taut with afterglow.
She breathes out: “They saw… civility.”
I murmur back: “with strength baked in.”
She turns to me. “Aebon—do you trust this will be enough?”
I press thumb to her cheek. “With you, it will.”
She closes eyes. “I’m unsettled…but hopeful.”
I circle one arm around her waist. “This is our forging. Night-light, velvet, threat under soft voices.”
She opens keyhole eyes. “It’s beautiful.”
I kiss her temple. “Yes.”
We lean into each other as music drifts thin.
Power disguised as gala, diplomacy anchored in steel—we’re walking the line, testing the Nine’s restraint.
And on this balcony, between performance and promise, we hold our breath for what comes next.
But for now, we simplyare.
Together.
CHAPTER 26
ARIA DAWSON
The envelope felt like a weight in my hand, its silver-etched seal too familiar. A summons from the Nine—clearly a test of loyalty, tucked beneath the pretense of diplomatic courtesy. The paper was thick, parchment-smooth and cold:You are invited to discuss Goldwin’s future.
I stare at the words in my private quarters, hearing the distant rush of the city below. My heart hammers—not from fear, but from resolve. They want to assess me—not Aebon, not the Sect, butme. I tighten my grip on the invite and press my palm to the balcony glass.Alone. Unarmed. No guard. No entourage.That’s how I must go.
I dress deliberately tonight: tailored gray suit, no jewelry beyond a simple platinum band, hair pulled back in a sleek coil—no distractions, no theatrics. I taste antiseptic tension on my tongue as I step into the night.
I glidedown the Supernova’s jet port, the shriek of plasma stacks echoing in my ears. Outward-bound transports breeze off into star charts. My sleek personal skiff waits—unmarked, discreet. The pilot offers a nod; we lift into the dark.
My stomach rolls as the city falls behind and orbital lights twinkle ahead. I cling to the steel-cold armrest until space opens before us. We dock with a station that looks dead: metal skeleton, dangling cables, and empty habitation modules—an abandoned mining station scrubbed of work but not of stillness. A hush that smells of grease and vacuum.
My boots clang on the flight deck as the airlock slides open with a hiss. A single figure stands in the dim: silver eyes reflecting overhead lights, skin pale as moon dust—Madame Ink.
The door slides shut. We're alone in a circular chamber lit by a single holo-lamp. Satellite debris glints through portholes. The hum is minimal—cold metal resonating in vacuum.
She gestures to two seats: one opulent, carved black obsidian; the other simple, utilitarian steel. “Sit,” she commands, voice honeyed but precise.
I choose the simple one. It’s a statement: I come asme, not as queen, not as tie.
She reclines into the polished throne, legs crossed. Her silver eyes scan me, noting crease of jaw, tension in neck, gloved fingers curling. She speaks:
“I’ve watched your ascent, Aria Dawson.” Her voice is soft, remorseless. “You have shaped Goldwin’s underworld faster than I thought possible. You’ve carved steel from blood and shadow?—…”
I slow her with a lifted hand. “Then you know I didn’t do it alone.”
