Keston watched the security detail escort Corin Kallis, a limping, defeated mess, out of the lobby. The silence that settled after the glass doors hissed shut was heavy, punctuated only by the distant hum of the Spire’s infrastructure. Keston turned, his gaze sweeping over the pristine marble floor where Corin had spat, then landed on Veyna. She stood by the massive viewport, her shoulders hunched slightly, a faint tremor in her hands. The pristine white gown she still wore seemed a cruel mockery of the violence that had just unfolded. Her eyes, wide and luminous, reflected the grey, rain-streaked sky of Mirel. She didn't look like a shark. She looked like something caught in its wake. “He called you bait,” Keston stated, his voice flat, devoid of the savage fury that had just consumed him. He walked towards her, each step deliberate. “What did he mean?” Veyna flinched. The question hung between them, a fragile thread. “My father… he often said things to provoke,” she murmured, her voice barely audible. She clasped her hands, twisting her thumbs together. “He has considerable debts. Gambling, mostly. He uses manipulation.” It wasn’t a lie, not precisely. But it wasn’t the whole truth either. Keston stopped inches from her, his shadow falling over her slender form. He studied her face, searching for something she prayed he wouldn’t find. The scent of archival paper, faint but distinct, seemed to cling to her, a detail he’d noticed that morning and couldn’t shake. His jaw worked. “Corin Kallis believes he owns a piece of you. Or your sister. It doesn’t matter which. If he believes he can use you to undermine this syndicate, he will try.” His gaze hardened. “We have a merger gala tonight. The envoys from the Norlandic Arc are notoriously difficult. Your sister, I’m told, has a particular talent for navigating their… eccentricities.” Veyna’s heart sank. A gala. She’d barely survived a wedding breakfast. “Keston, perhaps it would be better if I—” “No,” he cut her off, his voice unyielding. “You will attend. You will demonstrate to anyone who doubts it that you are the shark. You are my wife. And you have value that transcends your father’s petty manipulations.” His eyes, the color of a winter sky, held hers, a command burning in their depths. “Go. Prepare. I expect you in the main salon in three hours.” He turned abruptly, leaving her alone in the cavernous room under the cold glare of the viewport. Three hours later, Veyna stood in the penthouse dressing room, a dizzying array of gowns, accessories, and shimmering fabrics surrounding her. Jorja had laid out a dress of deep, midnight blue — a creation of shimmering silk that clung in all the right places before flaring out into a dramatic train. It was beautiful, terrifyingly so. A seam of fine silver teeth ran down the center of the back, entirely out of reach. She twisted, her hands straining blindly as the silk rustled. A soft knock echoed at the door. “Veyna? Are you ready?” Keston’s voice, a low rumble, filtered through the wood. “Almost,” she answered, reaching behind her shoulders until the joint burned. The pull tab stayed two inches below her grasp. The door opened, and Keston stepped inside. He wore a tailored charcoal suit, the fabric impeccable, the cut sharp enough to wound. His presence instantly filled the room, making the air crackle. His gaze swept over the unfastened silk along her shoulder blades, then settled on her lifted arms. “Let me,” he said, his voice quiet. He moved behind her with an economy of motion that spoke of innate grace. Veyna went rigid. She could feel the warmth radiating from him, the subtle scent of expensive cologne and something uniquely Keston – ozone and cold air. The callused pads of his hand brushed the skin along her lower vertebrae as he pinched the pull. His knuckles tracked the groove of her spine as he drew the metal runner upward. The silk whispered against her skin, a soft rasp. Each inch of progress felt like an eternity, a slow, agonizing slide of metal and warmth against her flesh. She held herself rigid, every muscle tense, acutely aware of his proximity. His breath, soft and even, stirred the stray hairs at her nape. At the nape clasp, his thumb rested against the base of her neck before he stepped back. The contact was fleeting, but it left a trail of goosebumps in its wake. “There,” he murmured, his voice a low thrum. He stepped away, creating a sudden, chilling void. Veyna turned, her cheeks flushed. She met his gaze. His eyes were dark, unreadable, but a spark, hot and intense, seemed to glow in their depths. He cleared his throat. “We should go.” The gala hall on the Spire’s 70th floor was a shimmering expanse of crystal and light. Ornate chandeliers dripped diamonds of luminescence onto tables laden with exotic canapés. A soft, melodic symphony drifted from a hidden orchestra. Executives from half a dozen syndicates mingled, their voices a low drone beneath the violins. Keston, a formidable figure at Veyna’s side, navigated the room with practiced ease, introducing her to the key players. She offered polite smiles, her replies measured, her quiet demeanor a stark contrast to the boisterous, self-important men and women who surrounded them. They approached a cluster of men from the Norlandic Arc. Their leader, a broad-shouldered man with a neatly trimmed beard, introduced himself as Telos. He spoke in a clipped, formal accent, his eyes assessing, calculating. Negotiations began in the Common Tongue, but the envoy soon drifted into Old Aethel, an archaic northern regional speech preserved mostly in trade ledgers. It was an ancient, complex language, deliberately chosen to obscure and confuse, full of double meanings and archaic idioms. Keston’s expression tightened. He understood enough to know they were being swindled, but the nuances of Old Aethel were beyond him. He shot a glance at Veyna, a silent question in his eyes. She remained impassive, her gaze fixed on Telos as she parsed the phrasing. Telos was demanding an exorbitant percentage for resource extraction, cloaked in flowery, convoluted phrasing that made it sound like a generous offer. “Forgive my interruption, Director Telos,” Veyna interjected smoothly, her voice clear and surprisingly resonant, cutting through the din. “However, the terms you propose, as conveyed in the traditional parlance of the Narthic Accord of 184, are quite disadvantageous to the Varr Syndicate. Particularly clause seven, which, by ancient custom, refers not to ‘shared risk in transport,’ but specifically to ‘exclusive riparian rights for all subterranean aqueducts within the designated territory.’” A hush fell over the cluster. Telos blinked, his smug posture sagging as the other envoys traded startled glances. Veyna continued, her voice gaining a quiet confidence, fluent in the rolling, guttural cadences of Old Aethel. She meticulously dissected his proposal, exposing every veiled demand, every subtle manipulation, translating the archaic legalisms into stark, modern terms. The Norlanders stumbled over their rejoinders. The air crackled with their humiliation. Keston, who had stood stiffly beside her, now watched Veyna with an intensity that burned. His initial shock gave way to a dawning comprehension, then something fiercely possessive. She didn’t just speak the dialect; she wielded it like a precision instrument, shattering their carefully constructed deception. The merger, which had teetered on the brink of collapse, was now firmly in Keston’s favor. Telos conceded the baseline points with a curt bow. The contingent retreated into the crowd, drinks untouched. Keston turned to Veyna, his gaze a raw, burning fire. His hand reached out, brushing her arm, a gesture entirely unplanned, entirely unguarded. The triumph in her eyes, the quiet satisfaction of a battle won, mirrored his own. For a moment, the world outside them ceased to exist. Only the two of them, connected by an unexpected victory. Then, a sharp gasp pierced the air. Matriarch Sylis, who had been observing the exchange from a nearby lounge chair, suddenly clutched her chest, her face contorting in pain. She swayed, her eyes rolling back, and collapsed heavily to the polished floor.

The Forgotten Dialect