Page 11 of Of Iron and Moonlight

“Oh, Kora has no patience for art,” Elysande interrupted smoothly, drawing a chuckle from Lorenthea and a disapproving glance from Albrecht.

The youngest verStampebl turned toward the gardens beyond the window, her attention slipping from the table, withdrawing from it entirely. Duncan watched her longer than he meant to.

Lorenthea prompted Jeachim, and his voice drew Duncan back. “Court was splendor and endless music,” he said. “Though navigating it was daunting, it proved a valuable experience.”

Duncan chuckled softly. “You have learned the headache of court quickly, Jeachim. By the end of the season, I long for silence.”

Lorenthea sighed wistfully. “My Elyse would shine there. Ardorri society adores her.”

“I am certain they do.”

Elysande’s smile deepened. “I find it important to know who is who, and what moves them. One never knows when an impression may matter.”

“My sister would charm half the Imperial Court before dessert,” Jeachim teased, earning a stern look from Lorenthea and a laugh from Albrecht.

Duncan smiled. “Koraleise, do you share your sister’s fondness for court?”

“I find it instructive.” Green eyes met his. “Though I prefer to observe rather than partake.”

From there, the conversation turned to safer topics: shifting court fashions, then the approaching Goldfire festival. When the last course was cleared, Albrecht dismissed the household without ceremony. Lorenthea’s lips tightened, but she complied. Elysande lingered a moment before leaving, casting one last look at Duncan—a deliberate smile touching her lips.

Something in him drew back—not quite a decision, but something close to instinct.

Chapter 6

Duncan

“Come,” Albrecht said, beckoning Duncan. “Ardorri wine tastes better without an audience.”

He led Duncan to a study shaped by the voyages that built the family’s fortune, its history carried in mingled scents and scattered relics. Glass vials crowded the shelves, filled with foreign botanicals and powders. Shallow trays held what looked like dragon scales, their glow convincing enough that Duncan might have taken them for real.

His attention caught on a curved blade above the mantel.

Albrecht lifted the weapon from its hooks and handed it to him. “Have you seen one of these before?” he asked.

Duncan shook his head, turning the blade in his hands. Its slender form widened toward the tip in a crescent of sunfire, light enough for precision and long enough for ruin. The hilt was wrapped in patterned leather, worn smooth by long handling.

“A zahira,” Albrecht said. “The curved sword of the Aurumierran zahiraat. They train for years on the Sayraya Isles beneath the southern sun, on sand hot enough to burn through soles. Their discipline favors misdirection and controlled force. What appears graceful often strikes hardest.”

“Fascinating,” Duncan said. He returned the blade to its place. His gaze settled on a pale blue book, its edges darkened as though twilight had begun creeping across it. Strange lettering coiled across the cover in an unfamiliar script. Fragments of older dialects still lingered among the commonfolk, but the Empire had long since settled on a single speech.

“Derbrum Veraleth,” Albrecht said quietly. “I’m told it means Blood of the Gods.”

“Gods?” Duncan frowned. “Fae tongue, then?” He turned the fragile pages with care. Sketches and maps of lands unknown to him surfaced within the brittle leaves.

“Older.” Albrecht smiled faintly. “It belongs to a people who walked Oraith before our first histories began. Whatever wisdom they held vanished with them, buried in lost words.”

Duncan’s brow rose. “Where did you find it?”

“Few believe me when I tell them,” Albrecht said, a quiet amusement threading his tone. “In a building that does not stay in one place, in a room that never appears the same twice. I came upon it accidentally in Lunnholm. Perhaps a goddess favored me that day.”

“Lunnholm,” Duncan murmured. “The site of the oldest fae library.”

“So it is,” Albrecht said. “The earliest records of Oraith are kept there by the fae.”

Duncan closed the book with care. “There is a scent here I can’t place. Sweet, like jasmine, but softened by dew and crushed herbs.”

Albrecht’s eyes brightened. He crossed to a shelf, uncorked a vial, and unfurled the fragrance. “The moon orchid. A bloom with translucent petals and a faint glow at its heart. It grows most abundantly on Tsuchitsa and is said to open only at night, at Hanurath’s first light.”