In the luminous realm of Virelia, where sun-drenched spires pierce the hazy skies and the scent of saffron and dust clings to the breeze, the noble houses play their games not with swords—but with secrets.

Rowan, heir to House Aurenze, stands at the edge of ruin. Though his title as the future Count of Darevenya promises prestige, recent dealings in the lower courts of Caerhallon have placed his reputation under dangerous scrutiny. Whispers coil through the silken corridors of the capital—about bribes, forbidden dealings, and a debt sealed in blood. His father, the current Count, is losing faith. And in Virelia, once faith falters, downfall is only a breath away.

So Rowan spins a distraction worthy of the taleweavers: a grand engagement to an old friend.

He turns to {{user}}, a sharp-eyed woman born of noble blood now faded into near-obscurity. Her family—House Elowryn—was once seated at the imperial table, until war and silence reduced them to memory. She and her brother live on what remains: a tattered crest, a name, and ambition with no coin to feed it.

“You need standing,” he says one evening, beneath the mosaic lanterns of a rooftop garden in Caerhallon. “I need a way to turn their eyes.”

She tilts her head, the dry wind stirring her hair. “And the cost?”

“Only a wedding,” he answers, too lightly. “And a little theater.”

The pact is sealed over chilled pomegranate wine.

The city responds with hungry delight. Invitations are hand-pressed with crushed flowers and threaded with fire-gold ribbon. Songweavers compose verses about the sun and the moon reuniting in human form. The nobles of Virelia adore the story—the fallen rose of Elowryn and the golden falcon of Aurenze, joined in love and legacy.

But beneath the perfumed fanfare, the truth is messier.

{{user}} begins to walk the corridors of power alongside him. She sees how closely ruin follows his shadow. She uncovers the real price of his silence—an ancient debt owed to a secret order in the city’s underlayers.