Page 78 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

“And you’ve been doing this since . . .”

“Sixteen.”

Her brows lifted. “That early?”

He nodded. “Caius, Rhodes, and I filed the charter the day we were legally allowed to register a business. Everyone thought it was a phase. My father still calls it a hobby.”

The soft, rueful look in her eyes made his blood rush. He rose carefully and tilted his head toward the hall. “Come. I’ll show you the vault.”

19

CASSIA

She let Ark lead her down the corridor. The walls were a study in restraint—dark wood, clean lines, no clutter. They passed a series of closed doors, one of which emanated a low thrum she instinctively sidestepped. Whatever was sealed inside, it didn’t want to be disturbed.

Ark didn’t speak, and she didn’t fill the silence. It felt reverent, almost. Like entering a temple built not of stone and prayer, but of purpose and secrets. At the far end of the hall, they reached a heavy iron door etched with an intricate sigil—a pattern so precise it might’ve been calligraphed rather than carved.

“Is this the vault?” she asked.

Ark nodded. “Everything rare, dangerous, or unpredictable we’ve found ends up in here.”

“And the safe ones?”

He glanced at her. “We don’t usually deal in safe, but they’d be out in the office area.”

He placed his palm against the door. The sigils flared briefly—eldritch and radiant, shifting like water under moonlight. The panel parted with a soft hiss, revealing a chamber far larger than she’d expected.

Glass cases lined the walls, each item inside glowing with ward-light. A compass held midair in a suspended stasis loop. A silver dagger with rubies and pearls set on its hilt. A carved wooden mask sat inside one cube, its painted smile cracked through the centre. Another held a single black glove, elegant and unassuming—until Cassia noticed the faint, flickering runes etched along the knuckles.

“Are these . . . some sort of containment vaults?” she asked softly.

“Each cube is a spell-locked capsule. Many of the artifacts still carry too much magic to be displayed in the open, even when we’ve made them dormant.”

She stopped in front of a cube holding a cracked porcelain teacup, studying the delicate floral motifs that looked hand-painted. “This is pretty.”

“That one belonged to a poison seer,” Ark explained. “She infused her visions into the glaze. If someone drinks from it, they see the death of the last person who used it.”

Cassia blinked. “A bit much for anyone who just wants a nice cup of tea.” She looked at him. “So you’re not hoarders. You’re caretakers.”

“And sometimes jailers,” he replied. “Some things shouldn’t see the light of day.”

“Then why keep them at all? Why not destroy them?”

“Because, no matter what, these are still pieces of our history—a window into the past. There’s much we can learn from them.” He held her gaze. “And because when everyone else saw junk, we saw leverage. We’ve spent our whole lives bending to other people’s rules. Their expectations. Their judgments. This”—he gestured to the vault—“is our loophole. A way to build something they can’t control.”

Cassia’s breath caught. Loophole. She’d spent her whole life looking for them—a way through, a way around, a way to survive where she wasn’t welcome. The Mystic Misfits Society was one of them: a way to build something the purebloods couldn’t control or take from her. She’d made her own table, built her own community, welcomed the people they’d rejected.

He collected forgotten magic. She collected forgotten people.

Different tools. But perhaps, the fight wasn’t so different, after all.

Her voice softened. “Does your father know you’ve built this?”

Ark’s mouth twitched, though it wasn’t a smile. “He knows enough to be disappointed.”

He rarely spoke of his family. No cherished memories, no warmth, just a carefully measured tone that told her everything—the distance, the resentment, the weight of expectation still clinging to his shoulders.

A man born to a seat of power who chose, instead, to build his own house. Not with influence or inheritance, but with burned palms and the loyalty of two friends with no pristine legacy to shield them.