"They didn't consult me," Thiago said, the words clipping the air like dull shears. The gold residual flare from the Loom of Whispers still coated his knuckles, catching the lantern light. "The patriarch trades names like fleece. It means nothing." "It means everything when her family holds your house's promissory notes," Inesca countered, rolling down her sleeves over the white linen dressings Thiago had bound around her torn skin. The pain was a dry throb, clean and clarifying. Her survival alone was no longer the horizon. To claim the title of Master Weaver, she couldn't merely present a triumph on the dais; she had to systematically dismantle the scaffold Beatriz Cordero stood upon. "She wants you bound before the Gala judges cast their ballots. An allied vote from House Montoya seals the Grand Conservatory's purse." "Then we choke the alliance in the cradle," Thiago said. "With flair!" Ramiro chimed in, frantically dabbing sweat from his brow with a silk rag dyed five clashing shades of persimmon. "Please say with flair. If I am to be disemboweled by the Guild Constable, I want the coroner to admire my palette." Three hours later, the Grand Conservatory’s glass pavilion hummed with the oily laughter of Olaria’s nobility. Faceted quartz pendants hung from vaulted brass arches, casting diamond patterns over velvet doublets, spun-glass petticoats, and gossamer mantles. The pre-Gala reception was where the city's predatory factions tasted blood before the main feast. At the center of the mezzanine stood Beatriz, draped in a gown of sea-green spider-chiffon that shimmered with calculated fragility. Beside her, a cluster of Matrons from the Needlewright Faction preened, glasses of sparkling pear-wine nestled in gloved fingers. "Oh, look," Beatriz's voice carried across the marble flags, flute-like and crystalline, deliberately pitched to cut through the chamber orchestra. "The little gutter-weaver found a spare scrap of cotton. Someone check the pantry linens; one might be missing a hem." Snickers rippled through the gathered elite. A portly patrician from House Albar sneered into his cup. "Inesca, darling," Beatriz cooed, gliding forward with hands tucked demurely beneath embroidered bell-sleeves. "You truly shouldn't have strained yourself to attend. Everyone knows your ancestral debts left you without two coppers to buy decent warp-thread. We were just discussing how charitable it would be to set aside some sweepings from the workshop floor for you. It must be so humiliating, cobbling rags together while the rest of us commission Imperial silk." Inesca stepped forward, her posture rigid, eyes fixed on Beatriz’s porcelain throat. Her fingers didn't tremble. "The quality of the thread matters little, Beatriz, when the hands guiding the shuttle possess no craft of their own. Some of us spin art; others simply purchase the work of betters and pretend they bled for it." Beatriz’s smile tightened at the corners, a hairline fracture in her mask. "Poverty breeds such sour tongues. But I suppose when exile to the Silkworm Wastes awaits next week, one must bark while one still has teeth." "Enough bark," Thiago’s voice rang out behind them, deep and flat as an iron bell. He moved through the crowd, resplendent in charcoal wool slashed with midnight-blue satin. Beatriz’s features instantly reassembled into dewy radiance. She took two light steps toward him, lifting her chin with practiced coquetry, and reached out to twine her fingers through his forearm. "Thiago, my love. Tell your little stray that she embarrasses herself. Mother has already arranged the announcement for our betrothal banquet next—" Thiago stepped sideways. He didn't merely dodge; he recoiled with cold disgust, letting her manicured hands drop through empty air. The collective murmur of the mezzanine died instantly. "Do not touch me," Thiago said. Every syllable carried across the domed hall, striking the glass like hail. Beatriz froze, her palms hovering in the empty space between them. "Thiago? What are you... it’s a joke, surely. The contracts—" "The contracts signed while drowning in Cordero port?" Thiago stepped past her, planting himself directly at Inesca's side. His shoulder pressed against Inesca’s, an unbroken line of defiance. "Let me be exceptionally clear to every ear in this room: I will burn the Montoya looms to ash before I share a hearth with you, Beatriz. And as for Inesca Velarde—she possesses more genius in the callous on her thumb than your entire lineage has purchased in five generations. If you intend to mock her work, win the Gala first. If you can manage it without hired hands." A collective gasp sucked the air from the balcony. Beatriz's cheeks flared a violent, mottled crimson. For a woman who traded on universal adoration, the public rejection hit like a lash across the mouth. Before she could salvage the spectacle, a deafening crash echoed from the central gallery. "My oils! My irreplaceable volcanic carmine!" Ramiro shrieked from the floor below. A towering brass urn of iridescent crimson dye had overturned, flooding across the pristine marble stairs and splashing directly onto the boots of four guild paladins. The thick, aromatic pigment smoked slightly, bubbling with alchemical heat. Guards shouted, courtiers shrieked in horror, hoisting their skirts, and the mezzanine guard detail surged down the grand steps to contain the disaster. In the chaos, Inesca met Thiago's eyes. Now. They moved with synchronized silence toward the shadow of the colonnade. Reaching beneath her dark velvet sash, Inesca produced a thumbnail-sized lens carved from deep subterranean beryl—a scrying-gem tuned to her resonance. Thiago caught her waist, lifting her with effortless strength until her fingertips reached the undercarriage of the colossal brass chandelier hanging over the judges' private balcony. With a flick of enchanted friction-twine, she lashed the stone to the central spoke, burying it within the crystal facets where it would drink in every whispered bribe and backroom pledge made by the Guild Council. "Done," she whispered as Thiago set her back down. His hands lingered on her ribs for a fraction of a second, his breath warm against the crook of her ear. "Let them try to hide behind their robes now." "I need fresh air," Inesca said, feeling the sudden heat rising in her skin—not from anxiety, but from the raw, intoxicating friction of their unity. "Before the smoke down there reaches the vents." She slipped through the tall arched doors onto the high stone terrace. The night breeze over Olaria was cold, scented with ozone and distant cloud-mist. Far below, the lantern lights of the floating city drifted like fallen embers in the abyss. Footsteps clicked sharply against the flagstones behind her. Inesca turned, expecting Thiago. It was Beatriz. The sweet, helpless maiden was gone. Beatriz’s lips pulled thin over bare teeth, her gaze hard and dark. In her right hand, she gripped a slender, serrated blade carved from the ossified mandible of a Waste silkworm—a weapon that carried a paralyzing venom in its grooves. "You think you're clever, don't you?" Beatriz hissed, closing the distance with silent, predatory grace. "You think Thiago’s pathetic rebellion will save you?" Inesca did not back away, though the drop off the balustrade behind her fell straight into the dark void. "Put the knife away, Beatriz. You’re unraveling." "I built this city's nobility on my back while you wallowed in self-pity!" Beatriz spat, leveling the milky-white bone tip directly at Inesca’s throat. "You think it was bad luck that crushed your family? It wasn't the market that collapsed your house's credit, Inesca. I forged the ledger that condemned your father to the Wastes, and I will gladly slit your throat to finish his work."

The Scrying Scheme