The crimson whip, a monstrosity of solidified blood and salt, snapped back, retracting into Tallis’s arm with a wet, tearing sound. The air shimmered, thick with ozone and iron. The Faceless killer, caught mid-arc, was no more than a streaking silhouette plummeting into the rain-slicked abyss of the Sinking Spires, a faint, distant scream swallowed by the wind. Tallis stared at his right arm, now pulsing with a faint, internal glow beneath its salt-crust. It felt both alien and terrifyingly intimate, a part of him that was not *him*. He tasted salt, sharp and metallic. Agony ground through his marrow as the inherited curse tightened its grip. He gasped, falling back against the headboard, his lungs burning. “Did you just… *murder* him?” Jezelia Morvath, still half-crystallized and looking like a particularly vicious ice sculpture, stepped over a fallen chair. Her voice was a low snarl, laced with a strange, grudging awe. “You finally grew a spine, Korvek? And a blood-whip?” “I didn’t *do* anything!” Tallis choked out, clutching his throbbing arm. “It was… the curse! It took over!” He watched, horrified, as the second infiltrator, who’d been clinging to the ceiling like a gargoyle, dropped silently to the floor, blade still in hand. This one was shorter, broader, its mask painted with a single, weeping eye. It seemed unfazed by its comrade’s sudden departure. Grumble, the six-legged badger-pug, ambled over, sniffing the air where the whip had been, then looked up at Tallis with an expression of profound, disgusted judgment. “You think I don’t know what a Vantari Blood-Weaver looks like?” Jezelia scoffed, her gaze fixed on Tallis’s arm. “My cousin lost an ear to one in a negotiation. It means your new *patron* curse just took offense. Lucky for you, the Faceless don’t get paid if the target accidentally immolates himself.” She turned her venomous attention to the remaining intruder. “You. What’s the contract? Who else is sending their hounds?” The masked figure didn’t move, its stance rigid. Tallis, still trembling, saw an opportunity. He swallowed, forcing a theatrical cough. “Unless you prefer to join your comrade in a rather undignified plummet, I suggest you answer Lady Morvath. My family’s curses are… *unpredictable* today.” He gave his arm a deliberate, if shaky, twitch. The faint crimson glow intensified for a fraction of a second, a silent threat. The creature hesitated, then, with a sigh that seemed far too human for its blank mask, dropped its blade. “The primary contract was from Lady Morvath, for a swift, quiet disposal,” it rasped, its voice a gravelly whisper. “The secondary… was more complex. Lord Veridian, Lady Thistledown, and the entire Council of Whispers have pooled resources. They seek to destabilize House Korvek, exploit your sudden… *vulnerability*. They believe your pacts are weakening. Lord Veridian particularly wants your House’s exclusive rights to the Vapour Mines of Kaelos. Lady Thistledown is interested in your Convocation Seat. They sent us to ‘observe’ and ‘accelerate the inevitable decline’ once your engagement was annulled.” A sour knot tightened in Tallis's stomach. The Grand Parliament wasn’t just gossiping; they were vultures circling. His house, once formidable, was now a meal waiting to be devoured. His blood-curses, far from being a secret, had become a public vulnerability. “Annulment, eh?” Jezelia said, a dangerous glint in her eyes. “So, you *were* going to betray me, Korvek. I should have known.” “I was trying to *save* you from becoming a pillar of salt, you insufferable gargoyle!” Tallis retorted, pushing himself off the bed. The intruder, apparently having delivered its intel, simply melted into the shadows of the room, leaving through a previously unnoticed vent. Tallis ignored Jezelia’s sputtering outrage, his mind racing. Vapour Mines. Convocation Seat. They thought his pacts were weakening? His family’s very foundation was at risk. He needed to shore up his defenses, and fast. That meant auditing his vaults, his ledgers, verifying every asset. He limped to his study, Jezelia’s furious footsteps trailing him, Grumble padding along, occasionally nipping at his heels. His study was a chaos of parchment and half-eaten biscuits. Tallis pushed aside a stack of overdue tax notices and pulled out the heavy, leather-bound ledger marked ‘House Korvek: Contingency & Covert Assets’. This was where his truly secret funds resided, vaults established over generations to weather political storms, hidden from the most diligent legislative auditors. He fumbled with the complex runic lock, his salt-crusted fingers stiff, and finally, with a click, it opened. He flipped through the meticulously recorded pages. Reserves in the Spires’ Subterranean Coinages. Investments in the floating sky-farms of Aerium. Funds dedicated to maintaining the ancient wards of the Korvek spire itself. All present and tallied. Then he turned to the section marked ‘Discretionary’. These were personal accounts, used for private luxuries, clandestine deals, or, as Tallis had intended, to fund Nimira’s ruin. His eyes scanned the familiar entries, then froze. A series of large, sequential withdrawals. Not for his usual indulgent purchases, nor for any political maneuvering. The sums were staggering, enough to fund a small war, or, more tellingly, an *extremely* luxurious, phantom getaway for an extended period. The withdrawal dates corresponded precisely to the period *after* the Winter Gala, after Nimira had vanished. The recipient was cryptically listed as ‘Sunken Serpent Holdings’, a known front for high-end, anonymous travel arrangements. His blood, already a battlefield of foreign magic, flared with pure, incandescent fury. “No,” he whispered, the word a choked gasp. “No, no, no, no!” Jezelia, who had been leaning against the doorframe, idly filing a razor-sharp nail with a crystallised finger, paused. “What’s got your knickers in a twist now, Korvek? More weeping salt?” Tallis slammed the ledger shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the silent study. “She didn’t just leave! She stole from me! The lavish holiday she’s enjoying? It’s being funded by *my* contingency reserves! My secret, unlisted funds!” He threw the ledger onto his desk, where it landed with a thud. Jezelia’s bright, calculating eyes narrowed to sharp slits. A slow, predatory smile stretched her lips, making the crystals on her face glitter. “Oh, *that’s* rich. The Ice Witch, turning your own weapons against you. I almost admire her.” “Admire her? She’s bleeding me dry while I turn into a decorative garden feature!” Tallis roared, grabbing a fistful of his hair. “She used *my own money* to escape me!” He paced the room, a frantic, half-petrified dervish. “I can’t track her! My spies are useless! She’s vanished into the ether, probably sipping nectar on some sun-drenched isle, laughing at my predicament!” Jezelia pushed off the doorframe, a new glint in her eyes. “Perhaps not entirely untraceable. I have… resources. Agents far beyond Pendoric. My network of informants is more extensive than you, in your provincial arrogance, ever imagined. Even the Sunken Serpent Holdings aren’t entirely opaque to me.” She walked closer, her voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial tone. “We have a common enemy, Korvek. And a common problem: this cursed engagement.” Tallis stopped his pacing, eyeing her with suspicion. “What are you proposing, Jezelia? Another contract on my neck?” “No. A bargain,” she said, her smile sharp. “I will use my network to find Nimira Vantari. I will deliver her location to you. In return, once you have secured your… *cure*, and our cursed engagement is broken, you will sign a Pact of Exile. You will leave Pendoric forever. You will never set foot in the Sinking Spires again. You will abdicate your House seat, forfeit all claims, and never interfere in Convocation politics. It’s the only way for me to annul this pact without becoming a pariah, or worse, succumbing to the Vantari salt-curse myself. You’re damaged goods, Tallis. But Nimira… Nimira is valuable. And she just cost you a fortune.” Tallis stared at her, the offer a bitter pill. Exile. Giving up everything. But what was everything without Nimira, without his life? He looked down at his arm, the faint crimson glow a constant reminder of his ticking clock. He had no other choice. This was Nimira’s move, and he had to counter. His molars ground together. “Fine,” he rasped, the word tasting like ash. “Find her. And I swear, I will leave Pendoric.” Jezelia’s smile softened, a terrifying, triumphant expression. “Excellent. Now, perhaps you should clean up your study. You have a rather unsanitary badger-pug with questionable dietary habits.” As if on cue, Grumble, who had been gnawing on what looked suspiciously like a discarded sock, suddenly gagged. He coughed once, twice, a deep, guttural sound, and then, with an alarming heave, spat something out onto the polished floor. It was a small, rectangular object, faintly glowing with a soft, ethereal light: a matchbook, bearing a stylized crest of a sun dipping into a sapphire ocean, surrounded by palm fronds. The insignia of the notorious Sunken Riviera, a hedonistic, magic-dampening beach resort known for its anonymous luxuries and utter disregard for high council law.

Stolen Funds and Secret Maps