Chapter 7
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A handful of workers functioned as Donovan’s sycophants, currying favor through obedient service for his private perks.
Any response demanded utmost subtlety.
Pandemonium gripped the workspace, with clutter blanketing every surface—an ideal distraction.
The Treasury Secretary straggled in late, barked orders for a full spruce-up prior to clocking out, then fled the scene.
She surmised his haste aimed at lobbying key powerbrokers, frantic to preserve his position.
Validation of the charges would ensnare him as well.
Feigned oversight by a leader enraged the Emperor, who abhorred slackers and struck them down without mercy.
Anxiety rippled through the ranks, graver than anticipated, underscored by the leader’s quavering tone.
Coworkers around her shuffled papers aimlessly, trading furtive comments.
“Constance must’ve drawn nerve from somewhere to try that.”
“No way she managed without backup.”
“Watch it—tone it down.”
Her breath escaped in a hushed release upon catching their stares amid the murmurs.
Heather had shared how certain Treasury staff verified accounts while probing the captured trio.
Those voices confirmed Donovan delegated jobs to Connie.
Such revelations buried her further.
Constance never anticipated those directives from Donovan. Full grasp of the network and depths would streamline countermeasures.
Accusers remained ambiguous—adversaries or uninvolved?
She resolved to tackle immediate possibilities, diving into the disorder with feigned effort.
Under cover of vigorous straightening, she swiped forbidden records on frontier zones.
Satisfaction bloomed: raw ledgers dispatched from the frontier persisted untouched.
Raids spared only lesser bureaucrats’ digests.
Andrew’s frameworks etched faintly in her thoughts.
Flawed mimicry at best, sufficient for cross-referencing survivors to unearth flaws.
His exit spurred sly departures; she held ground, intent on maximal harvest.
Solitude enveloped her eventually, excused by professed need for contemplation.
Gleaned sheets vanished into desk disarray.
Extraction posed dangers; blending with refuse sufficed. Andrew’s absence deterred scrutiny; investigators would presume seizure.
Infiltration amid routine repatriations later.
Whispers confirmed Andrew and Donovan confined domestically. Vigil kept her wakeful, anguish mounting for Connie’s austere confinement—no kin access, no linens or fresh garb permitted.
Exhaustion oddly honed her scrutiny.
Feigning diligence amid turmoil, frontier dossiers exposed Duke Camelot’s meddling.
Self-serving excess evident.
Anomalies blazed under methodical alignment.
Donovan’s parceling ploy crystallized.
Andrew’s late-stage ouster made sense.
Apprehension of his lineage’s sway.
Donovan’s entanglement hit near-certainty, nine parts assured.
Vowed fealty to the Duke rang hollow; disavowal mirrored his Connie jettison, incoming.
Nobility’s severance cut savagely deeper.
Key insights transcribed covertly, secured against her body, originals reinstated seamlessly.
Delivery to trusted channels imperative.
Protocol urged escalation to oversight.
Yet loyalty to Connie doubtful amid fallout.
Falsified ledgers tainted the Treasury; a patsy loomed.
Connie’s junior status trumped Donovan’s elevation for sacrificial rites.
Solo deviance spin shielded institutional harm.
Toil yielding bureaucratic absolution?
Folded limbs compressed the stowed cache firmly.
Connie’s deliverance defined purpose, barring malfeasants any loophole.
Reckoning fell squarely on Donovan.
Evidence deployment craved imperial conduits.
Humble origins amplified challenges twentyfold beyond clandestine forensics.
Dual candidates emerged.
Convincing one bordered impossible; nearing the alternative defied logistics.
Throne adjacency swayed the verdict.
Resolve hardened after prolonged weighing.
Weekend drew her to a vast café framed in expansive panes.
Inhaling deeply, she nudged entry; overhead chime soothed marginally.
Masterful front for shadow brokers.
Brew scents mingled with lilting chimes, crafting everyday allure.
Venue accuracy prayed for.
Deepest booth occupied, vacancy sparking misgivings briefly.
Expanse barren under weekend sun screamed ulterior motive.
Commercial fringe perch sustained its hush.
Routine market treks glossed past it enduringly.
Dusk mirrors veiled the void then.
Cloaking hexes or smear campaigns warded flocks?
Crowd influx menaced secrecy.
Theory solidified; decor feigned study masked vigil.
Minutes later, apron-clad brunette rushed forward.
“Missed your arrival entirely!”
Rueful head-rub paired affable beam, lids folding warmly.
“Fine by me—settled moments ago.”
Subtle scan probed: frontman incarnate?
Freshly resurfaced lore pegged Count Kylus Seymour, Kyle in shorthand, as the Emperor’s singular ally, guild sovereign, haunt of this spot.
Classic tormented suitor mold: chestnut locks, verdant gaze.
Icy schemer lurked within, per lore’s mentalist mold.
“Ready for service.”
Cipher invoked inwardly alongside menu bid.
“Menu it is?”
Features sparked alertly.
Layered import dawned.
“Selling pitch or wrong door?”
No pause; he evaporated.
Script’s poise clashed this whimsy.
Menu materialized forthwith.
“Lonely trade lately.”
Orbs sagged mournfully—raw or rehearsed?
Barren truth rang, commitment queried inwardly.
Musing snared her; composure scholarly returned.
“Browse at leisure; table chime calls me.”
Arbitrary top pick gestured.
“This catches my eye.”
Sheet reclaimed, potion proffered briskly.
Antecedent-world parallel savored cautiously.
Ejection impulse crushed.
“Arsenic brew?”
Forcing intake spared spectacle, regret swift.
Quaking gaze lifted to Kyle.
