The air between the towering cedar stacks grew dense with ozone and cold parchment. Calculations failed to churn behind her ribs, replaced by a hollow pang of exposure. Not for the revelation of her identity – she had always known this day would come – but for the predatory certainty in Tazien’s grip, the way his body caged hers against the dust-moted shelves. His skin gave off clove, dry salt, and the sharp tang of tempered iron. Then, a sharp *thwack* shattered the quiet. A figure hooded in slate wool dropped from the crossbeam, boots striking the polished dur-stone without a scrape. Two more stepped from between the codex aisles, curved parrying daggers drawn and held low. Their blades caught the lantern oil, tipped with the matte scum of belladonna resin. “So much for subtlety,” Jasirya muttered, her voice barely audible beneath the sudden clamor of approaching footsteps outside the hall doors. Hakim was thorough. He wouldn't risk leaving witnesses, or an undestroyed secret. “Stay behind me,” Tazien commanded, his tone hardening, shifting from intimate whisper to iron-clad order. He shifted his weight, his broad shoulders tensing. The blindfold, a thick strip of black silk, remained tightly bound, yet his head tilted, as if tracking the intruders by the scrape of their soles. Jasirya scoffed internally. *Stay behind him?* That wasn’t her strategy. Her gaze swept the room, taking in the antique star-globes suspended from the ceiling, the shelves laden with fragile, ancient star-charts pressed between sheets of crystal, the heavy, ornate braziers emitting faint plumes of scented smoke. The repository held enough unstable celestial relics to level the wing. “The doors won’t hold for long,” she stated, pushing away from Tazien’s chest. The abrupt movement earned a low growl from him, but she ignored it, her eyes fixed on a massive, intricately carved star-globe depicting the Constellation of the Serpent, hanging precariously close to the nearest Shadow Hawk. “What are you doing?” Tazien snarled, his hand tightening on her arm. He caught the brace of her heels, but not where her weight leaned. “Strategic demolition,” she replied, her voice crisp. She snapped her elbow against his thumb joint and broke loose. Her hand shot out, not for a weapon, but for a heavy, discarded brass sundial from a nearby display. She hurled it with surprising force. It spun end over end, a gleaming projectile, and struck the suspension chain of the Serpent Globe with a sickening clang. The chain snapped. The massive globe, made of obsidian and etched with glowing star-lines of raw star-magic, plummeted. “Down!” Tazien barked, his shoulder lowering as the killer glanced toward the ceiling. The vanguard fighter barely raised a bracer before three hundred pounds of carved rock shattered across the flagstones. It exploded. Star-magic, contained for centuries within the obsidian, detonated outwards in a blinding flash, scattering jagged basalt, split glass, and blue static through the stacks. The sound was deafening, a percussive *CRACK* that rattled the very foundations of the Spire. The nearest fighter took the blast in his chest, shredded wool and splinters dropping him to the flagstones. He fell, a twitching heap. The other two sentries staggered, ears ringing, parrying blind splinters. This was all Jasirya needed. She spun, grabbing a heavy, scroll-weighted candelabra, and with a grunt, swung it in a wide arc, smashing another smaller star-globe suspended above the second intruder. Another explosion. Another spray of pressurized quartz. The second man raised his vambrace, but the concussive shock shattered the ward before it could seal. He stumbled backward, clutching his eyes, his breathing ragged. “Your doctrine assumes woven patterns,” Jasirya called out, side-stepping behind a stone pilaster. “Not brute trajectory.” She darted behind a towering bookshelf, using the brief reprieve to assess the situation. Tazien, despite his blindness, had reacted with instinctual ferocity, drawing a curved saber from his waist. He stood poised, his senses absorbing the cacophony, his body a coiled spring. The remaining two combatants closed on Tazien, converging from opposite flanks. They moved with deadly precision, twin blades flashing in the flickering light of the braziers, aiming for Tazien’s torso and his exposed throat. He parried the first with a clang of steel, the other blade a whisper away from his jugular. His blind spot. Jasirya saw it. The uninjured killer leaped from a display pediment, his blade descending toward Tazien’s unprotected left ear. Her mind calculated the trajectory, the speed, the minimal time she had. No time to grab another globe. No time for an elaborate weave. She launched herself forward, a blur of silk and motion. Her hand snapped out, not to block the blade directly, but to grab the assassin’s wrist, twisting it with brutal force. The small bones of his carpus ground together under her palm. With her free palm, she struck the brass studs of the man's own forearm guard, redirecting the momentum away from Tazien’s skull. The steel shrieked as it slid past Tazien’s ear, too close. The deflected steel whipped wide, its trailing tip catching the prince's brow and shearing through the black silk binding his eyes. Crimson blossomed across Tazien’s cheek, a thin line of blood marring his scarred skin. But Jasirya didn’t notice. The fallen fabric exposed his orbits. The sockets held no human iris. They were miniature nebulas, swirling with the vibrant, ethereal glow of a thousand distant suns. Deep within their depths, the distinct, unmistakable pattern of the Royal Constellation, the Aethel’s Crown, burned with an incandescent fury. It was the undeniable mark of the true Heir of Iryas, the celestial blessing said to manifest only in the purest royal bloodline. It burned with a cold, ancient power that silenced the very air. The wounded fighter lowered his dagger, throat working silently as he recognized the celestial crest. Tazien, his face expressionless, registered the sudden silence. He felt the change in the air, the collective shock. His newly revealed eyes, glowing with that impossible light, fixed on the assassin. A primal, guttural roar ripped from his chest. With a swift, brutal motion, he drove his saber through the man’s chest. The body collapsed into the drift of broken crystal. From the dead man's sleeve, A small, scorched piece of parchment slipped from his grasp, fluttering to the dust-covered floor. Jasirya scooped it from the grit. It bore Hakim’s distinct seal, a stylized raven with a single eye. She snapped the wax and flattened the vellum against her thigh. The words blurred into a chilling prophecy, a meticulously planned death sentence. *“...the false heir Jasirya, for the usurpation of the Aethel’s Crown and the theft of the Prince’s birthright, shall meet her just demise at the upcoming Eclipse Gala...”* She lifted her chin. Tazien looked down at her through rings of white celestial fire, entirely unreadable.

Constellations of Deceit