Ethan pushed the pastry plate across the table and said, "Let's leave the Queen's affairs aside — none of that concerns me."
"What I'm more curious about is this: you said Greymoor found the assassins in his estate. What about Gareth Dunmore himself? Was he caught too?"
The question had been sitting in the back of his mind since Vivienne mentioned it.
The plot shouldn't have deviated this early. Gareth was the protagonist — he wasn't supposed to get caught the moment he arrived in the capital. His whole arc depended on the initial sabotage succeeding. If the assassins had been found, had Gareth himself been swept up in it?
"Lord Gareth Dunmore was personally detained by the Queen on charges of treason," Vivienne said, picking up another piece of honeycake and biting into it without ceremony. "You can relax."
Ethan pressed his hand to his forehead and said, with a pained smile, "The Queen is a fool."
The easy expression on Vivienne's face went flat.
"Why," she said, very evenly, "do you say that."
Beside them, Lily — who had been doing an admirable impression of furniture for the past ten minutes — silently gave Ethan a thumbs-up. The sheer audacity of sitting across from the Queen and calling her a fool, while the Queen visibly could not retaliate, was genuinely unprecedented. Lily was in awe.
Ethan pressed on, entirely unaware of what he had walked into.
"Because she let the real threat slip right through her fingers! Think about it — who is Gareth Dunmore? He's the Duke of Ashenvale's only legitimate heir. Why would the Duke send his actual son into hostile territory to run a sabotage operation? His real son?"
Vivienne's eyes shifted. Something moved behind them.
"You're saying," she said carefully, "that the Gareth Dunmore in the capital was a double."
"A clone." Ethan spread his hands. "The Duke spent a fortune on it — rare materials, months of preparation. A perfect physical replica that could communicate directly with the real Gareth over any distance. Unless a Moonlight Realm cultivator examined its internal structure closely, you'd never know the difference. Which means the real Gareth is still out there, the Duke has lost nothing, and the Queen is sitting very pleased with herself over a puppet."
He shook his head.
"Whatever went wrong that caused the clone to get exposed early — that wasn't in anyone's plan. Something disrupted the original sequence of events."
And Ethan had a very strong suspicion about what — or rather, who — had done the disrupting.
Don't let me find out who's been messing with the plot. I will be deeply unhappy.
He lost all interest in continuing the conversation.
"I have things to see to," Vivienne said, standing rather quickly. "Thank you for the meal."
"Safe travels," Ethan said, waving a hand.
Lily bowed, a faint flush on her cheeks. "My Lord. I'll show myself out."
"Come back anytime," Ethan said warmly, brightening immediately. "The door's always open."
Far from the capital, on a mountain range that looked unremarkable from the outside — forested slopes, nothing worth noticing — the interior told a different story. Decades of quiet work had hollowed it out and converted it into a fortress.
In a dark stone chamber, a young man in black robes trimmed with gold snapped upright from stillness, his throat working, and let out a raw scream:
"THAT BLIND IDIOT—"
He cut himself off, breathing hard.
The young man in the chamber was the real Gareth Dunmore. The clone could operate no further than two hundred kilometers from the original — so while the copy had walked the capital's streets and stood at a vegetable stall, Gareth himself had been in this mountain chamber, experiencing every moment of it in perfect parallel.
He had felt the exposure. Felt the arrest. Felt the self-destruction sequence when the clone was seized.
He sat for a long time before the rage settled into something colder and more functional. Then he reached into his coat and pulled out a small round mirror — palm-sized, old-looking, its surface etched with faint patterns.
He fed it a thread of spiritual energy.
Points of light bloomed across the surface like stars, then sharpened into the face of a man who didn't need to raise his voice to make a room feel smaller.
"Report," said the Duke of Ashenvale. Nothing in his expression suggested concern.
"Father." Gareth lowered his head. His jaw was tight. "The operation failed. The clone has been destroyed."
The Duke's heavy brows drew together.
"Useless," he said, quietly and completely. "I send you to handle one thing."
"It wasn't entirely my fault." Gareth's voice had an edge he couldn't fully suppress. "Ethan Ashford. He laid out our entire plan in the middle of a public market. In front of the Queen. With specifics. I don't know how he knew — but he did, and the clone was taken before it could act."
The Duke went still.
"Ethan Ashford," he repeated. "The Queen's new consort? The blind one?"
"Yes." The word came out with considerable feeling. "Father, this man is dangerous. Leaving him free will only create more problems. I'd like your authorization to remove him."
The Duke looked at his son for a moment.
He understood Gareth perfectly — the resentment wasn't really about strategy. Gareth had wanted the Queen, and Ethan Ashford was standing in the way of that ambition. The talk of precognition and hidden danger was dressing over something much more personal.
He didn't bother saying so.
"Granted," he said. "Do it cleanly. No trace back to Ashenvale. Kill him and return immediately."
"In the meantime, I'll move our people into position across Goldmere's regions — stoke enough fires in the outer territories to keep the Queen's attention stretched."
Gareth straightened, something lighting up behind his eyes. "Thank you, Father. I won't fail you."
"See that you don't."
The Duke's image broke apart into scattered light and faded.
Gareth let the pleased expression hold for exactly one second, then dropped it.
"Violet."
From somewhere in the dark stone corridor, the sound of measured footsteps approached — unhurried, deliberate, like someone who had never once needed to rush.
The woman who stepped into the candlelight wore a deep purple dress that fit precisely, her posture unhurried and exact. Her skin was pale and luminous in the low light. She moved with the specific ease of someone who had long since stopped worrying about most threats.
She smiled — the kind of smile that knew things — and gave a shallow bow.
"What do you need, my Lord?"
Gareth's eyes moved over her with poorly concealed intent. He cleared his throat.
"You've been keeping watch these past few days. Must have been dull." He made a beckoning gesture. "Come here. Let me see if you've been neglecting yourself."
Violet stepped forward, her voice staying light and perfectly pleasant.
"My Lord should be careful. Every inch of this body carries poison — stronger than anything grown from a mandrake root. My hair included. I'm happy to come closer, but the question is whether you'd survive the courtesy."
Gareth took one involuntary step backward.
Treacherous woman. All show, no access.
Violet's deep purple eyes dropped briefly to his retreating foot. Something flickered in them — too quick to name, but not flattering.
"I didn't call you out here for that," Gareth said, recovering his composure with effort. "I have an assignment. Ethan Ashford — the King-Consort of Goldmere. I need him dead."
Violet tilted her head, considering.
"That can be arranged. But what's in it for me, my Lord?"
"Complete the job," Gareth said, "and I'll reunite you with your brother."
Violet went very still.
"Truly?" Her voice had changed — something raw pressing up beneath it.
"You have my word," Gareth said, keeping his expression neutral.
And thought, privately:
Your brother has been dead for two years.
By the time you return, my Heaven-grade Detoxification Pill should be complete. And then, Violet — whatever I decide to do with you — you won't have much say in it.