“I wouldn’t challenge a duel in combat….those two houses are experts at martial combat. I would challenge the oldest of House Dedrick to chess. He’s not the smartest and power or no he would lose.”

  Dashiel stares at you for a long moment, then a slow, genuine smile spreads across her face—the first Gaston has seen that isn't grim or analytical. It's a smile of pure, strategic admiration.

  "Chess," she repeats, the word tasting of possibility. "A duel of wits. Not sanctioned by archaic combat codes, but recognized in every salon and court in the Spires as a test of foresight, control, and intellect." She nods slowly. "That's better. Far better."

  She sits back down on the bed, her mind racing. "Lord Torian Dedrick. Heir presumptive. Known for his temper, his pride in his martial lineage... and his notoriously mediocre strategic mind. He relies on family tacticians for everything but refuses to believe he needs them for a 'simple board game.'"

  She looks at you, her eyes alight. "If you challenged him and won—decisively, publicly—it wouldn't just be a victory. It would be an insult of exquisite precision. You'd be saying his house's greatest strength is a blunt instrument, and that the true power lies in the mind he lacks."She taps her slate. "But to do that, you need to be in a position to issue such a challenge and have it accepted. You need social capital. A reputation. The man who exposed Crimson Sigil's atrocities hidden within a rival house's funded facility..." She lets the implication hang.

  "The reconnaissance at the Arcane Sciences Conservatory isn't just step one anymore. It's your opening gambit."

  “Why do I get the feeling you’re pushing me to do this first?”

  Dashiel’s smile fades, replaced by her usual pragmatic expression. "Because I am," she admits without hesitation. "And I'll tell you why."

  She leans forward. "Crimson Sigil has scanners. Not technological ones—psychometric arrays designed to detect unregistered metaphysical signatures. They're likely sweeping the city after tonight's incident in the warehouse. The Ironworks is a mess of residual energy; it might mask us for a few hours. But the longer we stay in one place, the higher the risk they pinpoint you."

  She gestures to the slate. "Their primary facility is a fortress, but it's also a blind spot. They won't expect anyone to walk into the heart of their operation so soon after a breach. Especially not someone they're hunting."

  "More importantly," she continues, her voice lowering, "you need a win, Gaston. A tangible, immediate victory to feed that ambition. Breaking into their sanctum, gathering proof, striking a blow—that's the kind of consequential act that might be the kind of act that stirs whatever force has taken interest in you. It's ambitious. It's daring. It shifts the board."

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  She meets his gaze squarely. "I'm pushing you because speed is our armor, and audacity is our weapon. The alternative is hiding in this room until their net closes."

  “Well, you rest and secure a way to extract the data to your contact. I’ll go secure the invite with a plus one. This room is booked for the next 36 hours. I’ll be right back.” I head for the door, but paused. “Don’t leave until I get back.” I head out and immediately pull up my contact number for the oldest daughter of House Salem.

  Dashiel gives a firm, single nod. "Understood. I'll begin data packet preparation and establish a secure link protocol. Don't get charming and forget to bring back food." Her tone is dry, but there's a flicker of genuine concern beneath it.

  Gaston steps out of the room, closing the door behind him. The Rusty Cog's hallway is silent, broken only by the distant hum of the neon sign outside.

  Gaston descends the stairs. The common room is empty now; even the snoring patron is gone. The proprietor glances up from his slate as Gaston passes but says nothing.

  Gaston pushes out into the damp, chilly alley. The drizzle has let up to a fine mist. Gaston leans against the rough ferrocrete wall, the cool air sharp against his skin. Gaston pulls up his wrist comm's contact interface. The list is not long. Scrolling past a few outdated merchant codes and forgotten acquaintances, he finds it: Noelene Salem.

  The icon next to her name is a stylized silver serpent—the Salem house sigil. He hasn’t contacted this frequency in over a year. Taking a steadying breath, Gaston activates the comm link. It chimes once, twice... and then connects.

  There's no holographic video feed—a deliberate choice on his part to keep it audio-only for now. A moment of silence hangs on the line before a voice comes through, smooth as polished marble and laced with cautious surprise. "...Gaston?" Gaston hadn't heard her voice in over a year.

  It's her. Noelene Salem. Her tone holds none of the warmth from their past dalliance, but it isn't hostile either. It's the careful, measured voice of a noblewoman who knows every conversation is potentially being recorded.

  “It’s me, Noelene. I want to ask you for a favor. Care to meet at your favorite coffee shop?”

  There's a pause on the line, long enough to be deliberate. He can almost hear the calculations happening in her mind.

  "A favor," she repeats, her voice still carefully neutral. "At this hour? You always did have a flair for the dramatic, Gaston."

  Another beat of silence. Then, a soft sigh that isn't entirely annoyed. "The Gilded Grind doesn't open for another six hours. But I suppose I could... have a word with the proprietor. Meet me there in forty-five minutes. The usual side entrance."

  She doesn't wait for confirmation; the line goes dead.

  She agreed. But on her terms, and with a timeframe that gives her security detail time to sweep the location.

  Gaston stared at the darkened street beyond the alley.

  Forty-five minutes.

  If Noelene agreed to help him, the doors of the Spires might open again.

  If she refused…

  Crimson Sigil would find him long before he found them.

  He had forty-five minutes to cross half the city.