Sandree delighted in wearing silks again, the fabric against her skin turning into a comfort long missed. During her prime, she’d wear little of it though, always proud to show as much skin of her perfect beauty as possible. The reactions of men always amused her. But that was all part of the past. A delight for a young girl with no scars. The fact her current attire, a modest gown of greys and blacks, revealed very little of her, did not diminish her pleasure. Neither the bumping of the carriage ride or the incessant chattery of count Izan. It had been ages since she went to see a play. So long, she’d forgotten how much she used to enjoy such entertainments.

When the carriage drew to a halt before the Grand Royal theatre, Sandree stepped down, aided by a metal hand hidden under a white glove. “You look gorgeous,” the Count said.

The slum’s rat turned into a wealthy businessman was as charming as anyone could be. And not only was charm part of his repertoire, but since the last time they met, he had worked on his body and mind. With an athletic figure and impeccable manners, he accompanied her to the entrance, his suit on par with the elegance of her dress.

“Are you going to tell me why you brought me here?” she said, the distrust of her inquiry hidden under a complacent tone.

A sly smile of amusement popped in him. “To enjoy the night, what else! I’ve heard that ‘Picaro’s wedding’ is excellent. Patel Asir and Ulia Nabarkan are phenomenal. And the music- “

“Enough already.” She cut. “I understand you don’t want to give me details. But please, don’t treat me like a fool.”

Contrary to what Sandree tried to appear: a cold and experienced woman who couldn’t be amused by expensive gifts and glamorous dates, she was hooked. Deeply hooked. The Count, using her as an excuse to link him with his brother-in-law, had pampered her at every turn and, although he had made no comment or advance to openly declare his interest in any romantic way, for someone like her who had lived it in every color, it was obvious. And she adored every inch. Feeling desired again, seeing herself on a pedestal instead of a hole made her feel alive.

She tucked her hair behind her ear. Not that she needed it. Her tight bun left no single string loose. What seemed a casual, nervous gesture was, in truth, an assurance to her bodyguard she was fine. The art complex, surrounded by parks lit by hundreds of gas lights, left little places to hide. Not even at night. Still, Sandree could find no trace of her. Not doing so didn’t bother her. It didn’t matter. The Krait’s daughter would appear out of nowhere in case of trouble. She’d do her job impeccably and without hesitation. That was her oath to the Harpy’s daughter. And she never broke one.

Like the outside, the theatre’s interior was a masterpiece of opulence. The entrance gleamed with golden coverings, while the walls were adorned with grand paintings, marble statues and exquisite furniture. Of course, this grandeur did not stand unguarded; dozens of soldiers, clad in ceremonial armor, stood vigilant, ensuring the safety of those wealthy enough to bask in such splendor. At the entrance, the most guarded place of the building, none dared search them for hidden weapons, another proof of the influence the Count had already gained in his new home.

Sandree directed her gaiter towards the grand staircase, nodding gently to the many who welcomed them. She remembered faces from her days flirting with power, yet no one seemed to recognize the daughter of the Harpy. The fear and respect for the Lady of Cards was long gone. Together with her youth and beauty.

“You are outshining all the other ladies tonight, dear,” Izan said, almost as if he could sense her insecurities.

Her chest tightened, and her chicks blushed. Once, those words were enough to get a stab to the neck. But as corny as they were, she couldn’t get enough of them.

A servant, with the silent efficiency of long practice, opened the door to a private box. Inside, a massive soldier stood like a statue, his presence unaffected by their arrival. The Count, ever attentive, adjusted a chair to accommodate her seating before settling into his own.

“I think the adjacent box is the royal one.” She said, “And tonight the Oksar himself is coming. I assume you didn’t book these amazing views just for me.”

“Why wouldn’t I? Don’t think so little of yourself.”

Sandree’s eyes narrowed and her head tilted as she crossed her arms. The lady of Cards may have died in a cell, but she still had a bit of her inside. At least, enough to put the Count into a flick and an uncomfortable chuckle.

“You are correct. We are meeting the Oksar,” he replied. “But it will be for a short time. I promise we will watch the rest-”

Her jaw tightened, her gaze drifting down towards the stage. “When we finish the meeting, I want to go back. I’m actually not feeling too well.”

The macha boy shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Before he could give any sort of answer, a knock interrupted their hushed conversation. The massive soldier moved to open a hidden door, cleverly concealed within the ornate flourishes of the overly decorated wall. As the door swung open, a voice from the adjacent box called out for them.

“Come with me,” the macha said, extending a polite hand before standing. “The Oksar is expecting you as well.”

In the Royal box, the true ruler of Tampraparni sat in a chair positioned against the wall, deliberately facing the room instead of the theater. His presence, quiet and authoritative, dominated the space in an imposing, threatening manner. Beside him stood a man in an advisor’s tunic, his demeanor as cold and assertive as his master. In another corner, two men sat stiffly in simpler chairs, their postures rigid with the weight of the occasion.

As the soldier closed the secret door behind them, Sandree’s awareness sharpened. The absence of overt security struck, drawing on her just how much trust the Oksar may have had in the macha. To his eyes and the eyes of the entire government, the slum boy was a Count after all. An agent of the state.

The Oksar extended a gentle hand, inviting them to sit before him. As they complied, his advisor silently passed him a stack of papers, documents the Oksar feigned interest to check once more. Time stretched on, the heavy silence only broken by the distant sounds of the play starting below.

At last, the Oksar spoke, his voice deep but measured. Warm and somehow friendly. “My informants are confident that these writings are indeed from the one who signed them. The papers match, the events align. But…” He paused, his frown deepening as he looked forward with sharp, discerning eyes. “I have questions.”

“We are here to answer them all, Your Highness,” the macha replied with an epitome of politeness.

“Who is ‘we’?” the Oksar said. “I know her. I know her past and her future. You, on the other hand, are a different story. Your past is half found and little proven. And your future is as potentially fruitful for me as it is dangerous. Before you got your Lordship by coin, there are no records of you.” the Oksar nodded sideways, towards the two men sitting in the corner. “My informants' failure doing their job must be explained to me carefully and with little to no need of polite talking. I’m tired of Oksar, or Highness.”

Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

“I wouldn’t be of good use if everyone knew about me, your excellency. And not until Kumar was arrested did I know that the use he required of me was for him and him alone.”

“No ‘excellency’ either. Just Atharv. Or just gugur if my name weighs too much in your mouth.” the Oksar launched a disarming smile that fit little in his face. “And before we continue, let us both be gentlemen and give a formal greeting to your beautiful companion.”

“Atharv, this is Sandree Ectur-Arin,” the macha replied smoothly. “Sister of your brother’s fiancée and my business partner. She has my full trust and she will be my liaison in case my duty puts me far from the city.”

“Your intellect must match your beauty, then, Lady Sandree,” Atharv said. “I must apologize for not meeting you before. To be honest, I’m so busy that I’ve only seen my brother’s fiancee once, and we barely got to talk. Remarkable woman, your sister. She has put some common sense into my brother’s head. Something that even our father couldn’t manage.”

Despite his casual demeanour and the breaking of formal rules, she knew it was not her place to speak much. Instead, she inclined her head slightly and gave a soft, polite answer. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, gugur.”

“Oh… to be called gugur by such delight gives any man goosebumps, am I wrong, Amil?”

The man in a tunic bowed and hummed, his smile lacking the honesty of Atharv’s. “So?” The Oksar continued. “If my old friend had proof of his innocence, then why did he plan to break out of prison?”

“You’ve read the letters and documents,” the macha said. “There’s no sufficient evidence to exonerate him completely. For sure, it’s clear he was framed in many ways, but he was no angel either.”

“Well,” interrupted one man from the corner. “We knew about Vega and the Siren. And Vega and the Romeii royal family.”

The Oksar shushed and raised a finger. “Yet, you failed to foresee the involvement of our guild of commerce in all this. And the connections of that hideous man to the lizards.”

“I assure you, my lord, the hunt for Jeremiah will-”

The Oksar‘s sidelong glance froze the room. After a tense silence, Atharv turned around, affability returning to his features. “I have given the Count the contracts of the southerner plantations. The protection of such valuable assets will be under Parni hands, not foreign mercenaries.”

“But sir…” said one of the men.

“Silence.” The Oksar cut. “And I will reopen the routes to the northerner cluster as Vega desired. But he won’t put a finger on it. But neither will your partner in the Red island, Count. We’ll handle that ourselves. Now I wish to be alone and enjoy the play.”

His words stirred unease among those present, a quiet murmur replacing the earlier stillness. For the first time, Sandree saw defeat over Izan’s face. Worry and discontent carved with the Oksar's last statement. Yet, the punch to his plans lasted a second. Time enough to regain his composure and charm. Taking the hit, the count rose gracefully, bowing before exiting. Sandree trailed behind as he strode towards the stairs instead of their box. She quickened her pace to grab his arm. Noticing her hand, he stopped, giving her time to reposition her grip to a formal hold. The display of affection, which she knew could help at a time like this, was met with a shy smile.

“Does it change much? Not getting anything from the trade with the north?” she said.

Izan reprised his walk. Slower this time. “Yes. I need those routes to finance the protection of the plantations.”

The count’s brow furrowed deeper with each step as he descended the grand staircase. His eyes staring blankly at the nothingness where deep thoughts had him trapped.

“I’m sure that friend of yours has a solution for that.” Sandree said. “You said everything was well planned, didn’t you?”

The entrance porter opened, and Count Izan gestured for her to leave first, offering some reassurance with his silence. As they crossed the threshold, a shadow moved from the side of the carriage and stopped at its door. Then, it pulled it open. A hideous smile broadened over his face, yellowed teeth gleaming in the dim light, while inviting them closer with a burlesque curtsy.

Sandree halted, her hand instinctively gripping Izan’s sleeve. The Count’s confidence shattered, although his resoluteness to protect her made his feet step in front instinctively.

“Well,” the man drawled, “Unless you want your livers in a bag, you’d better enter quietly, little mice. We need to talk.”

Izan hesitated, the metal hand checking through his waist. Sandree’s eyes scanned the area, searching through the shadows for clues of her protector. She reached for her chest, her fingers in a trembling search for the silver flower. The jewel her sister had given, and the piece she’d use to call for aid.

“My gun is in the carriage,” Izan whispered. “I’m unarmed. And this man is extremely dangerous.”

As a hooded figure emerged from nowhere and stood between them and the stranger, Sandree tightened her grip on Izan’s arm. “I am not unarmed, and she is dangerous, too.”

Izan’s shock deepened as the hooded figure revealed herself. Disbelief carved lines into his face.

“This woman is my master, and her partner is also under my protection, Issanu,” Uri said with unbreakable authority.

The mocking expression on the stranger’s face suddenly disappeared. He snorted and hissed deeply before talking again. “How do you know that name, girl?”

“My father was one of your kind. Yorush was his war name,” Uri replied.

Issanu’s jaw clenched, chin lifting, eyes widening. Uri’s hands drifted slowly behind her back which triggered in him an equal movement, but his, felt rushed and clumsy.

“Your eyes speak sense, but your hand seeks conflict. Which one will you listen to?”

“Tell me, little girl. Do you follow the same paths as your father?” he said, almost a growl.

“No,” Uri said, calm and focused. “But I wear the same boots. Does my answer have enough weight to make you reconsider your next move?”

“Yeah, I suppose.” His hand returned to the side: Empty. “But only on the ‘when’ and the ‘where’. The ‘why’ and the ‘how’ I can’t change. I suppose you already know the Krait’s creed, uh? You, who wear boots bigger than your feet.”

Uri’s shoulders lifted slightly. “You won’t know how well fitted these boots are until you see me dancing.”

He snapped his teeth and closed the door with a disdainful push. Then he stepped aside. Feet never rising from the ground, eyes never leaving Uri unwatched. With the advantage of a respectful distance, he turned and quickened his pace until he disappeared into the night. Only a yell giving a clue of his presence. “We’ll dance another day, daughter of Yorush! Keep those boots polished until then!”

For a brief moment, Count Izan lost his well-woven facade of charm and class, and he returned to be that scared, hesitating boy Sandree met in a thug’s tavern long ago. “Hey! I know you! I was…we were... ”

Uri scanned her surroundings meticulously, only giving the Count a glimpse of attention with a fast check over the shoulder. “We need to go. Now.”

He fidgeted and leaned towards Sandree to cheerfully whisper. “I thought she was dead!”

She leaned over too, grabbing his arm even more tightly. “She told me everything about what happened in Jo. Including your presence there.” She pulled him to the carriage as soon as Uri opened the door. “A girl can keep her secrets, too. Especially when she deals with a skilled liar like you.”

“Not so skilled, I suppose. That man means no good. Something went very wrong with my plan.”

“How about this?” She halted midway to enter the car. “From now on, we talk to each other like the partners in crime we are. No more secrets. No more lies.”

His lips pulled to a line as the horses spurred. “That sounds great to me.”