There were many ways to wait.

One could wait with patience, hands folded and expression serene, as if time itself was a well-trained servant that knew not to overstep.

One could wait with anxiety, pacing across carpets until the poor woven threads began questioning their own existence.

One could also wait as I did.

With tea.

A civilized man must never let fury ruin his digestion.

The small library had been cleared of unnecessary servants. The papers Spiro had written were now arranged in careful stacks across the table, each name copied twice by Bernard before he left and once by William before Spiro was escorted to his room. The originals remained untouched beneath a glass weight, as if they were relics rather than the shaky handwriting of a frightened child.

Perhaps they were relics.

Names had power.

This was one of the first lessons taught to every Konstantin heir. Names bound families, territories, debts, titles, oaths, and graves. A name abandoned was a door left open. A name stolen was a chain placed around the throat.

And a name used in a ritual?

That was a crime.

Unfortunately, crimes of this sort seemed to have become fashionable in the Capital. What an unpleasant trend. I would have preferred ugly hats. Those, at least, could be mocked publicly.

I lifted my cup and took a slow sip.

The tea was excellent. William had brewed it before leaving, naturally. Even when preparing to abduct an orphanage dean with the discretion of a blade entering silk, the old man still made time to ensure his master was properly served.

His professionalism was moving.

Deeply terrifying, but moving.

Abi lounged near the window with one leg crossed over the other, his purple eyes half-lidded as he stared out at the estate grounds. The violet barrier he had placed around the library had thinned, but it had not vanished. It clung to the walls like a second skin.

I had not asked him to remove it.

This was not because I approved.

I was merely too practical to throw away something useful simply because the one who made it had an irritating face.

"You have been staring at those names for a while," Abi said.

"I am reading."

"You have read the same line nine times."

"Then I am reading it thoroughly."

"Is that what we call it?"

"Polite society has many names for many things."

Abi smiled without looking at me. "And what does polite society call a man who plans to flay an orphanage dean alive while drinking tea?"

"A concerned patron of child welfare."

He laughed softly.

I ignored him and returned my gaze to the paper.

Ansel.

Neria.

Bell.

The names sat quietly.

That was the infuriating thing about written words. They did not scream. They did not tremble. They did not announce the suffering buried beneath each letter. They simply remained there, neat and obedient, waiting for someone literate enough and angry enough to read them properly.

Spiro had fallen asleep after some coaxing.

By coaxing, I meant William had placed warm milk and honey cakes before him while speaking in that gentle, unyielding tone of his. The same tone he used when convincing young knights to continue training after their legs had visibly lost faith in their actual function.

Spiro tried to refuse at first. He said he was not hungry.

William told him hunger was not required for warm milk.

Spiro then said he did not want to sleep.

William told him sleep was not a matter of desire but maintenance.

Spiro, recognizing an opponent stronger than himself, surrendered.

Wise child.

Two knights stood outside his room. A maid sat in the adjoining chamber with embroidery in her lap and a dagger beneath her sleeve. Konstantin servants were never simple. Abi’s barrier extended to that wing as well, discreetly threaded through the corridors. Any uninvited guest would need to pass through layers of human vigilance, aura defenses, and Jinn power before reaching my son.

And if they managed that?

Then I would have to become impolite.

The thought was distasteful.

There was a knock at the door.

Abi’s eyes opened fully.

"Enter," I said.

The door opened, and one of the shadows stepped inside. He bowed once, low and silent.

"Your Excellency, a reply from Fate."

"Already?"

"Yes, Your Excellency. The messenger used the third route."

That was fast.

Either Fate was more eager than expected, or the bait had been sweeter than I thought. Anima crystals truly had a way of loosening even the most dignified jaws. Greed was such a reliable tool. It lacked elegance, but one could not deny its efficiency.

The shadow approached and placed a sealed black envelope on the table.

No crest. No scent. No decorative wax.

How refreshingly suspicious.

I picked it up and turned it over. A thin line of silver dust clung to the edge of the seal. Not poison. Not quite. More of a verification powder. It reacted faintly to aura, then dissolved.

"She is cautious," Abi remarked.

"She sells illegal things to dangerous people. I would be disappointed if she were not."

I broke the seal and unfolded the message.

The handwriting was neat, small, and deliberately plain.

Your Excellency,

Your requested categories are too specific to be coincidence. I have no fondness for becoming involved in temple affairs, noble charity, or old rites that make bones sing. However, I am fond of profit and remaining alive.

Recent purchases matching your inquiry were made through three intermediaries.

Preservation salts: acquired by a merchant operating under the name Halwen Grey.

Temple incense, old ward stones, and ritual-grade bone: purchased by a solicitor connected to the House of Gentle Mercy.

Child transport papers: forged through a clerk in the lower registry office, now deceased.

A repeated mark appears in all related transactions.

A red glass bell.

I stopped reading.

Abi leaned forward. "That sounds ominous."

"It is a bell. Bells are often ominous. People insist on ringing them before disasters."

"You dislike bells?"

"I dislike being summoned."

"Naturally."

I continued reading.

I can give you names in person. Not through paper. Too many things below the Capital listen through ink.

Midnight. East bridge. Third arch. Come with no more than two visible companions.

Payment will be discussed.

Fate.

How troublesome.

The audacity of inviting me to a bridge at midnight.

Did I look like a third-rate noble sneaking off to meet a lover, a traitor, or a poorly dressed assassin? I was the Grand Duke of Sonomi. If I wished to conduct suspicious business, I could do so from a velvet chair with better lighting.

"Are you going?" Abi asked.

"Of course."

His smile widened.

"Do not look so entertained."

"I am merely admiring your commitment to villainous midnight meetings."

"It is merely information gathering."

"At midnight."

"Criminals have terrible schedules, you know."

"Under a bridge."

"Hmm. You’re right. The location truly is not ideal."

"With a black market owner."

I folded the letter. "Are you finished?"

"I can continue."

"Please don’t."

The shadow remained kneeling, gaze lowered.

"Send acknowledgment," I ordered. "Use the second route. Inform her I will attend with one visible companion."

"Yes, Your Excellency."

Abi lifted a brow. "One?"

"You."

His face brightened.

I immediately regretted my decision.

"You trust me that much?"

"No. You are simply difficult to kill."

"That is almost affectionate of you."

"It is practical."

"In my experience, practicality is where affection hides when it is embarrassed."

"Your experience has been inside a lamp."

"Precisely. I had a lot of time to think and ponder things."

"How unfortunate for the rest of us."

The shadow’s shoulders remained perfectly still. Admirable discipline. I would have given him a raise if he had not already been paid handsomely for pretending not to hear things.

"You may leave," I said.

He bowed and disappeared as silently as he came.

A red glass bell.

The phrase sat beside the children’s names like another stain.

I had seen many emblems during my years handling Sonomi’s trade routes. Merchant marks, smuggler codes, temple seals, noble ciphers, occult sigils pretending to be decorative flourishes. A red glass bell did not immediately call to mind any major house, which meant it was either older, smaller, or deliberately buried.

Or all three.

"Do you know it?" I asked.

Abi’s expression changed.

It was slight. A small pause. A thinning of amusement around his mouth. To most people, it would have meant nothing.

Unfortunately for him, I had been raised by Lady Konstantin. That woman could detect moral failure from the way someone held a dessert fork. Reading faces was practically an ancestral survival skill.

"You do," I said.

Abi looked out the window again. "Not clearly."

"That is not an answer."

"It is the only honest one I have."

How rare.

I set the letter down. "Explain."

He was quiet for a moment.

The room seemed to listen with him.

"There were bells in the old age," Abi said slowly. "Not the kind used in temples now. They were instruments of announcement. Some called spirits. Some warned cities. Some sealed doors. Others opened them."

"And red glass?"

"Blood memory."

"That sounds distasteful."

"It was."

I waited.

Abi’s gaze remained on the darkening gardens beyond the glass. His reflection looked almost human there, if one ignored the faint violet gleam in his eyes and the weight of old things pressing behind his smile.

"A red glass bell was not rung for prayer," he continued. "It was rung to gather what had been promised."

Promised.

My fingers stilled against the table.

"Including children?"

Abi’s jaw tightened.

"I do not know."

Again, honest.

How troubling. His lies were easier to tolerate.

Before I could ask more, another knock came.

This one was different.

Three measured taps. A pause. Two taps.

William.

"Enter."

The door opened, and William stepped inside with Bernard behind him.

Between them stood a man in a plain brown coat, his hands bound in front of him with aura-thread. A cloth gag had been tied over his mouth. His thinning hair was damp with sweat, and his pale face had the collapsed look of a person who had discovered, far too late, that respectability was not armor.

The dean.

He was shorter than I expected.

How disappointing.

Evil should at least have the courtesy to look impressive. Otherwise, dealing with it felt like cleaning mold from a wall.

"Your Excellency," William said, bowing. "We found him attempting to leave through the southern laundry gate."

Bernard’s expression was dark. "He had travel papers, coin, and a temple token."

The dean made a muffled sound behind the gag.

I studied him.

He avoided my eyes.

Coward.

That made sense. People who harmed children often had that particular talent. Cruelty downward. Fear upward. A spine made of wet parchment.