Dinner was a masterclass in psychological warfare. The Vane dining hall was a cavern of cold marble and flickering shadows. At the head of the table sat Silas's father, a man whose skin looked like weathered parchment and whose eyes held the cruelty of a thousand broken contracts. He watched Elara as if she were a glitch in a perfect system—a flaw to be erased.
"The Morettis sent us a girl with no thread," the old man spat, swirling a glass of amber liquid that smelled of fermented magic. "A useless dowry for a useless debt. Why should we keep a Dullard in the house of Cutters?"
Elara felt the sting of the insult, but she didn't lower her gaze. Before she could speak, Silas's voice cut through the room like a blade. "She isn't useless, Father. She sees the things your 'weavers' are too arrogant to notice. She sees the truth in the numbers."
Later that night, unable to sleep, Elara slipped into Silas's private study. The room smelled of him—dark and intoxicating. She didn't need magic to find the hidden compartment in his mahogany desk; she simply looked for the signs of wear that others ignored. Inside was a ledger that matched her father's, but the ink here wasn't red. It was shimmering, liquid silver.
As her fingers brushed the page, the "Void" within her soul—the emptiness she had always been told was a weakness—suddenly surged. Under her touch, the silver ink didn't just smudge; it vanished, dissolving into nothingness. Beneath the surface, a hidden map of the city's magical ley lines began to glow. Silas wasn't just an enforcer for the Mafia; he was mapping the source of all power in the city. He was planning a coup.
And then, the door clicked shut behind her.