Theodore Carter waited until his mark's head fell forward, onto her plate of roast beef, before slipping from the shadows of the gambling house. Lorna Crogan. The wife of a respected merchant. Screams erupted around the card table but he was already through the side door.

He'd watched Lorna for two days before choosing poison as the best option. Quite a few Spects discounted it, preferring more exact methods like blades. He preferred whatever got the job done without drawing attention. And since Lorna preferred to occupy Silver Hill into the late hours of the night, much to her husband's displeasure, this was the easiest option.

He slipped out onto the streets, making his way through the city to his safe house nestled in the Bents. This district was far worse than most, making it an ideal location. People didn't poke around in the Bents. Or so he believed. Things had been changing lately.

It was nearly four in the morning. He'd been all over the city. He was ready for a drink and bed—ready to forget how irked Tabby's behavior made him. That she'd discount his efforts so easily.

Muffled cries rang out, muted by the fog. He hesitated, cocking his head to listen, then slipped closer to the buildings to remain shadowed. There were blades in his sleeve, weapons stowed all over him should he need. He kept his hands ready.

A horse drawn cab, shabby, with a door and bars on the back, was parked in the deserted street. It looked similar to most constable jail cabs, but this one was unmarked. Hmm. Odd. He'd seen it in this area before. Curiosity peaked, he moved closer.

More cries sounded and figures emerged from the gloom. Activity—a struggle. There were four of them, dragging two squirming victims towards the cab. They wore caps pulled low over their foreheads to go unrecognized.

"Interesting," he murmured. His eyes swept over the struggling figures. They were dressed in tattered clothes. The alley they'd been pulled away from was frequented by Bloody Serpents. These were probably a few of their gang members.

He clenched his fists. Not out of anger for what he saw, but because of what Tabby would do if she were here. She had a soft spot for much of Chroma's lower ranking members—a soft spot he needed to eradicate if she was to survive long enough to earn her three quarter mask.

He waited until the Bloody Serpents were locked inside. The figures took up positions on the cab's railing, slapping it hard before setting the horses in motion. He waited longer still until it completely disappeared, swallowed up by the fog, before retiring to his safe house for the night.

***

The following morning, Prince Edwin scanned the front page of the Chroma Times then slapped it on the table, ignoring his breakfast. A black and white photograph of Norhaven Hall took up most of the page, its drive crowded with carriages and constables in tall hats. The story below it continued, but he didn't bother flipping the pages to read the rest.

"What is it, dear?" Matilda asked, without looking up from her book in hand. Another murder mystery, judging by the title. Her other hand rested on a coffee cup, already drained.

"Lord Parlow's dead. Found in his study with his throat cut and a stab wound to the chest."

"Light!" She looked up then, glancing at Harriet and Rachel. "Girls, breakfast is over. Run along to your governess. It's time for your lessons."

"A murder?! But Mama, I want to hear—"

"Listen to your mother, Harriet," Edwin snapped, leaving no room for argument.

"Yes, Papa." Servants rushed to pull out their chairs. They excused themselves from the table with curtsies and a proper farewell.

The dining room in Lightborne Palace was the grandest in Chroma. Seating fifty guests, it had the potential to expand to seventy-five, and spanned most of the room, overlooked by three chandeliers, and lit during the day by large windows facing the vast gardens of the estate.

Edwin, Matilda, and their daughters kept to the end. He took up the head, unless King Alistar was present. Those were rare days. His father's health was failing, and quickly.

Years ago, when they moved into the palace, Matilda had insisted they keep their meals as normal as possible—mostly for the girls' sake. Much had changed after giving up Starlight Manor in the country. So they dined for breakfast and dinner here, except in the case of dinner parties, when the girls were often excused to dine with their governess. But they were older now, and Harriet would be out in society next year, followed a year later by Rachel.

"Have a look." He slid the paper over.

Matilda scanned the front page and frowned. "The Spectrum?"

"More than likely, yes. Keep reading."

A minute passed before she hissed, cursing under her breath. "Those rats! How dare they drag your name into it?!" She tossed the paper on the table. "Just because you have a good deal to gain?"

"Yes, yes." He waved a hand. It was hardly news—that.

"It's the Spectrum's doing, of course," she decided. Ever one to be suspicious. She read too many novels. Her eyes blazed with conviction. "One of their assassins—I'm sure of it. Edwin, can you not...?" She let the statement go unfinished.

"An assassin is merely a blade, Til. The Spectrum will have received a handsome price for this. You know well as I, the Temple operates outside of my jurisdiction."

"Oh tosh!" She sneered. "They're whores, Ed. They sell themselves to the highest bid—"

"Careful, love, hat sounds a lot like blasphemy." The warning in his tone was feigned for their benefit.

"But...we're the royal family. Can you not...can you not pay them off? Consider it a generous donation for the sake of religion." Perhaps if he stared at her long enough, she would realize how silly the idea was. She met his stare, sighed, and squared her shoulders. "Well! Thank Light I declined Parlow's invitation. I won't have myself associated with such nonsense."

He huffed. "Singing a different tune now, hmm?"

She had wanted to go—it was the party of the season—and complained repetitively when he forbade it. Word had gotten around about Parlow's involvement in the Reddell Uprisings. He couldn't tie the crown's name to any involvement in that fiasco. Eighty-seven rebels dead, mostly coal miners, whose families would starve with winter approaching.

Technologists dreamed of a world powered by prisms but would take jobs from honest workers to achieve such an end. Men like Parlow recruited miners to fight for lofty goals under the delusional pretense of better working conditions. What did working conditions matter when there were no more jobs left? When prisms replaced steam, and the great industry of Candela ran on renewable means from Ipsum? Ipsum would grow rich, of course. But where would that leave Candela?

Reliant—that's where. Enslaved. Bad enough they needed Ferrum for the steel industry. But plans were already underway there. Oh yes, he had contingencies.

Matilda sighed. "The prime minister will have something to say about it, I'm sure."

"He always does, Til. Perhaps it's not too late to change the seating arrangements for tonight's dinner?"

"Yes. Yes, of course. I'll have another look at them."

A door clicked. Hubert Maltby strode into the room, shoulders back, head high. Hubert had been many things to him over the past twenty years. For now, he was the crown's official head secretary.

"Your Highness, the dignitaries have arrived." Hubert stopped to bow low, more for Til's sake.

"Ahh, good. That's my cue, darling." Edwin stood and kissed Matilda on the cheek, a formality more than anything. Their relationship had never been about love or passion. It was a marriage of means, as were all. She had always been the schemer he needed beside him. Cold and unfeeling, even if a little silly. Not warm like Elenora—never like Elenora. He hated that his mind went back to her so often, even after all these years. To the nights they'd spent sequestered in his hunting lodge, hidden from the rest of the world. Light, he'd been so naive in his younger days. Years filled with broken promises and misguided ideals while outside forces hardened him into what he was today.

Hubert helped him in to his frock coat, freshly pressed. "They'll want an explanation on the Reddell Uprising, Your Highness, and your plans for expanding revenue into Ferrum's private sector. I need not tell you, be sincere and convincing."

"What? Oh...yes. Yes, of course." His mind returned to the present. He straightened the lapels of his coat and followed Hubert from the dining room.