Page 76 of Song of the Heart Scale
“They’re not in-laws yet,” Lord Vauren stated. “Zacharia has been trying to arrange a marriage alliance between his son and Lord Mercer’s daughter for years now, to no avail.”
I frowned. “How come? Jacob is part of the Nightwing. He’s a good kid.”
Lord Vauren shrugged. “Maybe so, but is Lord Zacharia?”
That was a fair question. How good was Lord Zacharia? If Lord Mercer was stalling because he didn’t agree with Lord Zacharia’s politics, that might be beneficial for us.
“Uncle?” I turned and peered up at him.
He nodded. “I’ll reach out,” he offered casually. “I’ll feel him out before saying anything. If we can get the Nightwing army on our side… Thorne won’t stand a chance.”
The two lords and lady nodded in agreement, but our plan would only work if Lord Mercer agreed.
Either way, Thorne was in for a rude awakening.
Lady Mirena rose, stretching. “Well, Shadow Prince. You have a smirk that says you’ve got more planned than you let on. Care to share the real game?”
I stood too, casting a glance to Uncle Bai. “Let’s just say that Elaria is about to remember what happens when you cast a shadow into the fire.”
The lords exchanged wary glances. But no one walked away.
Not yet.
The Saltspire Wharfslept under a shroud of fog and moonlight, the sea lapping against ancient wooden piers like the steady breath of some great sleeping beast. Lanterns swayed in the salty breeze, flicking long, distorted shadows on the slick cobblestones. I kept my hood low and my steps even as I moved beside Uncle Bai, both of us wrapped in thick traveling cloaks that made us blend into the night like smudges of ink.
We didn’t speak. We didn’t need to. The meeting with the ministers still weighed heavily on our minds. Each of them was powerful, yet each was cautious about siding with a prince who’dbeen branded a disgrace since birth. But they listened. And sometimes, that was the first step toward rebellion.
We passed rusty anchor chains and empty crates reeking of brine, slipping between fishermen’s stalls and shuttered harbormaster shops. Saltspire Wharf was a place forgotten by the nobility unless it needed something smuggled in or out. Perfect for secrecy. Dangerous by design.
Uncle Bai softly cleared his throat. “We shouldn’t linger. This district has eyes, and Thorne’s men don’t sleep.”
I nodded and quickened my pace.
We were nearly past the last stack of fishing barrels when I felt it—a shift in the air, like a drop in barometric pressure before a lightning strike. Then came the clink of armored boots. Four of them. Too coordinated to be dockhands.
A group of imperial guards emerged from the mist like specters, cloaks flaring, silver-scaled armor glinting with residual moisture. One held a torch, the flames spitting sparks as the wind buffeted the wick.
“Hold there!” the lead guard barked.
Uncle Bai tensed beside me, just a flicker. My hand brushed the hilt of the dagger hidden beneath my cloak.
“Late night for a stroll, don’t you think?” the guard asked, his voice oily with suspicion. “State your business!”
“We’re fishermen,” I said quickly, deepening my voice into something rougher. “Missed the tide and got caught in the fog.”
“Fishermen don’t wear boots that fine,” one of the guards observed, nodding toward my leather soles.
Another stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. “And they don’t smell like Northern District cologne.”
Uncle Bai subtly shifted, balancing his weight on the balls of his feet.
“Show your faces!” the lead guard commanded.
“We’d rather not,” I replied. “We’re disfigured. The sight might offend you.”
A beat. Tension thickened.
“Arrest them!”
