The woman's smile did not waver, even as Maddock stepped in front of Tressalia, his arm barring the way. His brow pulled tight, and his tone dropped to a hard scrape. “She accepted nothing. We are leaving.”
The visitor chuckled, a dry sound against the masonry. “Leaving? My dear boy, you misunderstand. I have come to collect. Miss Branth, your carriage awaits.” She gestured with a delicate hand, adorned with rings that gleamed like captured starlight. Beyond the guards, Tressalia caught a glimpse of Kippian, his face pale but his eyes alight with a focused intensity. He held up a finger, then two, then three, a silent countdown. He was telling her something. Three minutes. For what?
“Kippian,” Tressalia said, her voice lilting, feigning concern. “Darling, you shouldn’t wander off.” She tried to move towards him, to understand his cryptic signal, but Vespera’s guard stepped forward, blocking her path. Kippian gave a quick, almost imperceptible nod, then slipped away into the deeper shadows of the tower, disappearing as swiftly as he had arrived.
“Your brother is a resourceful young man,” she purred, her gaze lingering where Kippian had been. “A shame he doesn’t appreciate the finer things.” Her attention snapped back to Tressalia. “But we mustn’t dally. Time is, as they say, of the essence.”
Before Maddock could react, the two hulking guards moved with surprising speed, seizing him by the arms. Maddock struggled, a primal roar tearing from his throat, but their grip was iron. One of them produced a small, silver vial. He twisted the cap, and a faint, sweet smell, like overripe peaches, wafted through the air. Maddock’s gaze locked onto Tressalia just before the guard pressed a cloth soaked in the liquid to his mouth and nose. His thrashing ceased, his body went slack, and he slumped between them, unconscious.
“Maddock!” Tressalia cried, her throat locking tight before she forced the grin back into place. Her mind raced. Kippian’s countdown. Maddock captured. This was not part of the plan, but it *was* the opportunity. She had to get in. She had to play the part.
She fluttered her eyelashes, setting a breathless beam on her face. “Oh dear, he’s quite the dramatic one, isn’t he? Always getting into scrapes. Like a particularly handsome, brooding cat. I suppose I really must come with you. If only to ensure he doesn’t wake up in a ditch.” She winked, affecting a lightheartedness that felt like a scream in her throat.
A thin smirk crossed the woman's lips. “Excellent. This way, Miss Branth. Welcome to the Oshkoran sanctuary.”
***
The compound was less a building and more a sprawling, gilded labyrinth. Marble halls gleamed under art-nouveau skylights, leading to opulent salons filled with hushed conversations and the clinking of delicate teacups. It was a world away from the chaotic street life, a carefully curated sanctuary of ‘inspiration.’ Tressalia, playing the part of the clueless socialite, trailed their hostess through a receiving hall, her head tilted in loud admiration. She pointed at a particularly garish statue of a winged muse. “Oh, how genuinely *divine*! Is it… solid gold? Mother always said anything less was absolute rubbish.”
The hostess's eye twitched, but she maintained her composure. “Indeed, Miss Branth. Only the finest for our esteemed guests.” She led Tressalia into a vast atrium, where dozens of figures milled about, some clutching notebooks, others gesturing animatedly. A low murmur of creative discontent hung in the air, a stark contrast to the luxurious surroundings. These were the captive authors of the society, the celebrated minds whose works graced Galdovan stages and galleries.
One man, pompous and balding, stood at the center of a small gathering, declaiming loudly from a volume bound in crimson leather. “...and so, the heartbroken warrior found solace not in vengeance, but in the tender embrace of the whispering river, its currents carrying his sorrow away.” He puffed out his chest, clearly expecting applause.
Tressalia knew the lines. Every one of them. They belonged to the forgotten poet Kian Valer, penned nearly a century ago. This man, a known dilettante named Lord Rylin, had barely swapped three nouns. This was her chance. She approached him, a picture of wide-eyed innocence.
“Oh, that’s just *beautiful*!” she gushed, clutching her hands to her chest. “The whispering river! So profound. Is it… a new translation of the classics? You have such a *way* with words, Lord Rylin.”
Rylin preened. “Indeed, my dear. A fresh interpretation. My own, naturally.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Though the classics are, of course, a fine starting point for inspiration.”
Tressalia giggled. “How utterly marvelous! I absolutely *must* see more.” She leaned closer, her hand reaching for the crimson folio. In her other hand, she held a delicate ink pen, one she’d “accidentally” uncapped moments before. As her fingers brushed the expensive paper, her elbow swung wide, a clumsy, dramatic arc. The ink pen, with a theatrical flourish, sailed from her grasp. It arced downwards, splashing a generous stream of jet-black ink directly across the center of Lord Rylin’s “masterpiece.”
Gasps rippled through the onlookers. Rylin let out a choked cry, staring at the ruined pages, his face a mask of purple fury. “My draft! You… you imbecile!”
Tressalia clapped a hand to her mouth, her eyes wide with mortification. “Oh! Oh dear, oh dear! How *could* I? My fingers refuse to behave today. So terribly clumsy! I am just… a walking disaster! Please forgive me, Lord Rylin! I’ll buy you a thousand reams of vellum! Or maybe a whole new river? Do they sell those?” She wrung her hands, a picture of distressed, clueless charm.
A few snickers broke out among the other writers, quickly suppressed, but their eyes held a flicker of shared amusement. Their hostess, who had watched the entire scene with a stony expression, finally stepped forward. “Miss Branth, surely you require a moment to compose yourself.” Her voice was tight with thinly veiled irritation.
“Oh, yes, please!” Tressalia chirped. “My head is completely spinning! I’m afraid I’m quite prone to these little… episodes. A quiet corner, would that be possible?”
The director nodded curtly to a passing attendant. “Show Miss Branth to her quarters. And ensure Lord Rylin’s work is promptly recopied.” As the attendant led Tressalia away, she cast a glance back at the disgruntled Lord Rylin, who was still muttering imprecations over his ink-splattered pages. Tressalia shot a quick, almost imperceptible smirk at the other captive writers. A few offered covert nods of solidarity.
The attendant, a nervous young woman with ink-stained cuffs, led Tressalia down a long corridor, away from the opulent main areas. “Your… your quarters are this way, Miss Branth. Management prioritizes quiet for its creatives.” Her voice was hushed, her gaze darting to the floor.
“Oh, splendid!” Tressalia exclaimed, her voice still bright. “Though, a little fresh air would be just divine. What about a stroll through the… lower levels? I adore exploring. One never knows what delightful nooks and crannies one might discover!”
The guide hesitated, her brow furrowed. “The lower levels are… restricted, Miss Branth. For staff only.”
“Nonsense!” Tressalia waved a dismissive hand. “Rules are for… well, for people who don’t appreciate a good adventure! Come now, a quick peek! I promise I won’t touch anything important. Unless it’s terribly shiny, then all bets are off!” She gave the attendant her most charming, utterly vacant beam.
The young woman, clearly unaccustomed to such blatant disregard for protocol, looked torn. But Tressalia’s relentless cheerfulness seemed to wear her down. With a sigh, she muttered, “Just for a moment, then. But you must promise to be quick.”
They descended a flight of narrow, functional stairs. The air grew cooler, heavier, losing the perfumed scent of the upper floors and taking on a faint, metallic tang. The marble gave way to polished concrete. The muted sounds of the atrium faded, replaced by a rhythmic, clacking cacophony. A knot tightened in Tressalia’s stomach.
The escort stopped before a heavy, unmarked door, glancing nervously over her shoulder. “This is… as far as I can take you. I must return to my duties.” She scurried away down the hall.
Tressalia pushed the door open. The sound that greeted her was deafening: a hundred typewriters clattering in unison, a frantic, relentless rhythm. The air was thick with the smell of stale coffee, old paper, and something sickly sweet, like cheap incense trying to mask a deeper odor. The room was vast, poorly lit by flickering overhead fluorescents. Rows upon rows of tiny cubicles stretched into the dim distance. And in each cubicle, a figure hunched over a typewriter, their movements jerky, almost mechanical. Their eyes were vacant, glassy, staring fixedly at the pages before them. Thin, clear tubes snaked from small vials on their desks, disappearing under their sleeves.
This was the source of the Laurel’s “creativity.” A ghostwriter’s cage, indeed. Brilliant minds, drugged and chained, their thoughts siphoned and sold. Tressalia felt a cold fury settle in her bones. She moved slowly, her steps silent, weaving between the rows of enslaved writers. On one supervisor’s desk, amidst stacks of blank paper and a half-empty vial of the sweet-smelling liquid, lay a familiar, vintage-style camera. Its worn leather strap, the faint scratch on its lens housing… Maddock’s camera. A sharp, icy pang went through her. He was here. He was captured.
Just then, the supervisor’s door clicked open. Tressalia darted, pressing herself into the narrow, unlit space of a service dumbwaiter, barely large enough to conceal her. The smell of dust and old grease filled her nostrils. Through the small gap in the door, she saw Madame Vespera enter the supervisor’s office, her crimson cloak a slash of red in the drab surroundings. She spoke, flat and cold.
“Sedate the photographer,” the mistress of the house ordered, her tone cutting through the clatter. “And ship him back to Galdova. Lord Thallon will want to punish his runaway heir personally.”