Back in Hittities:
Aldo stood before the mirror, hands braced against the carved table beneath it. The candlelight caught the sharp lines of his face, the faint sigils at his temples barely visible now that he had bound his magic low. He studied himself not with vanity, but calculation, measuring the man the world would see tonight.
The door opened without announcement.
Queen Dalia entered as if the chamber had been waiting for her all along.
She did not speak at first. She circled him slowly, heels whispering against stone, her gaze sharp and appraising. Once. Twice. Then she nodded, satisfied.
"Well enough," she murmured.
She stopped before him and lifted a finger, brushing beneath his chin just enough to tilt his face toward hers. Aldo did not pull away.
"The Hivites will never suspect," she said softly, a smile curving her lips, "that we've taken every alliance they once depended on."
Her eyes gleamed.
"I cannot wait to see the look on Isis's face," she continued, "when he realizes his kingdom is standing alone, cut off from the world that once answered his call."
She laughed once, pleased, and clapped her hands twice.
At once, the door opened again.
A woman stepped inside.
Her gown was daring by court standards, cut with a long slit that revealed movement rather than skin, its fabric clinging like poured wine. Brown hair cascaded freely down her back, catching the light, framing skin the color of polished bronze. Jewels adorned her throat and wrists, subtle, expensive, chosen to be noticed without explanation.
"This is Anne," Dalia said lightly. "She will escort you to the ball."
Aldo's jaw tightened. He barely spared Anne a glance as his arm slid around Dalia's waist, possessive, familiar.
"That was not part of the plan," he murmured near her ear. "I work alone."
"Not anymore," Dalia replied smoothly.
Anne inclined her head, neither offended nor eager, her expression carefully unreadable.
"She will get close to my dear brother," Dalia went on. "Watch him. Listen. See if he calls for her."
Aldo frowned. "She isn't even a mage yet."
Dalia raised a finger, silencing him.
"Yet is an understatement," she said coolly. "She's the best we have, for now. And we need eyes on Isis more than we need spectacle."
She turned, pressing a quick kiss to Aldo's cheek, soft and dismissive all at once.
"Trust me," she whispered. "Tonight isn't about power on display. It's about knowing when my brother realizes he's already lost."
Her smile returned, slow, satisfied.
***
Parchment lay everywhere.
Across the long oak table, on benches, stacked near the brazier to keep the ink from freezing, ledgers upon ledgers, their margins crowded with revisions. The air smelled of wax, smoke, and old paper.
Typhon stood at the head of it all, coat discarded, sleeves rolled back. Winter light filtered weakly through the high windows, catching in his dark hair as he leaned over a map marked with grain routes and river towns.
"The northern villages cannot meet this levy," he said, voice firm but controlled. "Not with the wells compromised and the passes closing."
The High Steward inclined his head, fingers steepled. He was an older man, sharp-eyed, dressed plainly despite his rank. "If we reduce their burden, the crown's expectation—"
"—will be unmet," Typhon finished. "Yes. And if we do not, they will starve before spring. Adjust the figures."
The steward hesitated only a moment before nodding. "Very well, my lord."
A clerk dipped his quill, scratching quickly as numbers were amended. Another unrolled a fresh sheet, blotting ink where Typhon pointed.
"Divert the shortfall to the western estates," Typhon continued. "They have surplus stored from last summer's trade. Reduce their privileges if they resist."
The steward's brow furrowed. "They will protest."
"They always do," Typhon replied flatly. "Let them protest with full bellies."
Silence followed, heavy, respectful. This was not vanity work. This was survival.
When the last seal was pressed and the steward gathered the orders, he bowed. "I'll see these dispatched before dusk."
"See that you do," Typhon said. "Snow waits for no one."
The steward departed with the clerks in tow, the room suddenly quieter for their absence.
Only then did the door open again.
Eugene entered, composed as ever, hands folded neatly before him.
"My lord," he said, glancing at the disarray of parchment with a knowing look, "the first bell for the ball will sound within the hour."
Typhon exhaled through his nose. "Of course it will."
"The king requested your presence early," Eugene added carefully.
"And the winter requested my attention first," Typhon replied, straightening slowly. He looked once more at the ledgers, at the numbers that would decide who endured the cold and who did not.
Eugene did not argue. He never did.
"You have no choice," the butler said gently.
Typhon reached for his coat. "No," he agreed. "I don't."
He paused at the door, one hand resting briefly on the frame, as though marking the moment.
"See that those orders are carried out," he said. "Every detail."
"They will be," Eugene assured him. Then, after a beat, "Try not to arrive too late, my lord."
Typhon allowed himself the faintest, humorless smile.
"No promises."
He stepped into the corridor, leaving behind the quiet war of ink and numbers.