“Yasmin registered as Kian’s official partner?” Shireen’s voice, raw and thin, barely scraped past her lips. The words rasped through the gritty dark, while her pulse rattled her ribs like loose gravel. The Sun-Ruby knife, now a beacon of warmth in her palm, felt impossibly heavy. Kian hadn’t killed her. He had *loved* her. He had saved her at the cost of his own core, and she, in her blind, fragmented terror, had tried to pawn him off like an old tea set. And now Yasmin, that viper from the Cobalt House, was swooping in to claim him. “Shireen! Kian! Are you two alright down there?” Omid’s frantic calls grew louder, accompanied by the distinct scraping and groaning of disturbed rock. “Hold on! I’ve got a rescue team from the Emerald Spire! They’re specialists in… well, not so much rescue, but definitely breaking things!” Shireen didn’t wait. “Omid!” she screamed, her throat tearing. “Forget the rescue! We need to get out *now*! Where is this gala? The Sapphire Faction, right?” Kian, who had been leaning against the cold stone, a silent, watchful presence, pushed himself upright. “The Cobalt Guild's annual Gala of Bound Ribbons. They’ll be signing the official partnership contracts for the Grand Exhibition. Tonight.” His voice was calm, but Shireen detected a tremor beneath the surface, a tight-drawn strain that hadn't been there before. “Tonight?” Shireen gripped the warm ruby pommel until her knuckles turned chalk-pale. She’d spent weeks trying to marry him off, and now, when her entire world had been flipped, there was no time. Not a single, precious moment. “Omid! Is there… a faster way out? A service tunnel? Anything?” A beat of frantic scratching and then Omid’s voice, closer now, almost directly above them. “Faster way? Oh, uh, yeah, actually! There’s a maintenance shaft connected to the cargo transport network. It opens near the academy’s eastern plaza! But… it’s a bit of a tight squeeze, and the skiffs are usually unmanned.” “Unmanned means unpiloted,” Kian stated, already moving towards the distant thrum of machinery. “We’ll manage.” Shireen didn’t argue. She couldn’t. Her mind raced, a whirlwind of regret and desperate strategy. The Exhibition. The mutual oath. It was no casual pact; it was a pact inked before the Arch-Weavers, nearly impossible to dissolve. Shireen had to stop it. She had to, before her own schemes sealed her fate – and Kian’s – in a way she never intended. The maintenance shaft was indeed a tight squeeze, smelling of ozone and stale oil. Shireen scrambled after Kian, dust coating her clothes and hair, teeth set so hard her molars ached. When they finally burst out into the cool night air of the eastern plaza, they found three woven cargo skiffs resting on brass skids, rigged to haul crates across the academy. One, woven from thick scarlet thread, sat idling, its brass aetherium coils humming against the stone flags. “Perfect!” Omid, having apparently found his own, less dignified way out, stumbled into view, wiping grime from his face. “Uh, Kian, you sure you want to…?” He trailed off, catching Shireen’s furious gaze. “Right. No time for questions! Let’s go!” Kian wasted no time. He vaulted onto the red deck, sure-footed despite the scrape of limestone dust on his boots. Shireen followed, pulling Omid up beside her. “Can you steer this rig?” she asked, grabbing the bronze stanchion as the platform lurched into the air. “Enough,” he grunted, expertly manipulating the control panel. The rig tilted upward, shooting toward the stars like a flare of dyed fleece. Below them, the Mirrored Citadel glittered, its spires piercing the dark. The Cobalt Annex, a tier of blue tiles and brass eaves, loomed ahead, its high leaded casements blazing yellow against the night. “The gala is in the grand banquet hall,” Omid explained, his voice strained against the wind. “The signing ceremony usually happens right after the first course of Crystallized Desserts. We’re… probably cutting it close.” Shireen leaned forward, her eyes fixed on the distant windows. “Not close enough,” she muttered. She saw the figures moving inside, tiny silhouettes behind the sparkling glass. She pictured her rival sneering over an inkpot, which made the skin across Shireen's jaw burn. “Kian, can you… get us closer?” she asked, her voice tight with urgency. “Much, much closer.” He glanced back, his pupils catching the brass lamp glow. A sardonic twist played on his lips. “My pleasure, Nazari.” The runners hummed underfoot, rushing through the updrafts. The annex walls hurtled forward, the colored glass resolving into scenes of ancient stone-cutters. Kian aimed the carpet with unnerving precision. Shireen braced herself. Omid let out a high-pitched yelp. With a splintering crack that showered sharp green and violet crystal across the long banquet boards, the skiff smashed through the window bay. Gasps and cries erupted from the assembled dignitaries, their opulent robes and dazzling gems catching the sudden, dramatic light. Shireen tumbled onto the parquet amidst cracked glass, while Kian planted his heels between her and the crowd. Omid pitched over the trailing ropes, skidding on his belly until his forehead met a tower of sugar-spun peacocks. “Nazari! Rostami!” The heiress's screech sliced through the tinkle of falling glass. She stood near the main dais, a quill clutched in her hand, a freshly signed parchment laid out before her. Her face, usually composed, was contorted with fury. “Guards! Get these ruffians out of here! They’ve desecrated the sacred halls!” Before the hall sentries in enameled blue breastplates could unhook their batons, Omid scrambled up. “Not so fast, you big blokes!” He fumbled in his pouch, pulling out a small, intricately carved emerald. “I’ve got just the thing! A harmless diversion gem! Totally safe!” He hurled the gem into the air, a confident smirk on his face. The emerald pulsed with a sickly green light, expanding rapidly. Instead of a gentle mist or a soothing chime, a massive, grotesque hologram flickered into existence above the banquet tables. It was the guild mistress's daughter blown up forty paces wide, squinting cross-eyed as she dug a blunt thumb into her left nostril. The phantom turned slowly in midair, showcasing every knuckle twitch to the dining tables. A collective gasp, followed by choked snorts of laughter, rippled through the hall. “Omid!” Shireen hissed, mortified, even as Kian’s shoulders shook with barely suppressed mirth beside her. Her cheeks mottled purple beneath her powdered rice flour. She shrieked, pointing a trembling finger at Shireen. “This is an outrage! I demand their immediate arrest!” Just then, a deep, resonant voice, accustomed to commanding immediate attention, cut through the chaos. “Enough.” From the shadows near the main entrance, a figure emerged. Tall, gaunt, cloaked in charcoal robes that seemed to absorb the light, the Grand Inquisitor, Lyran Faran, stepped into the hall. His gaze, colder than any winter wind, swept across the shattered window, the humiliated Yasmin, the snickering guests, and finally landed on Shireen and Kian. He held out a hand, palm open. “The trial roster scroll.” She surrendered the ribboned vellum with shaking fingers. The Grand Inquisitor’s eyes, like chips of obsidian, fixed on Shireen. “To strike an entered roster name, Nazari, the code is absolute. You must duel for it. In the courtyard. Immediately.”

Stealing Back the Groom