In the corporate world, information was the only currency that never devalued. If you knew which CEO was having an affair or which board member was gambling away the company's pension, you owned them.
The Palace of Oakhaven was no different. It was just a very large, very drafty office building filled with people who wanted to kill each other.
"Bastian, stay still," I hissed, wielding a pair of silver shears I'd liberated from the sewing room.
"You're going to cut my ear off, Elara," Bastian grumbled, sitting stiffly in a wooden chair. I'd forced him to bathe—a task that required more threats than I'd expected—and now I was tackling the bird's nest he called hair.
"If I wanted you dead, I'd have let you drink that sedative tea yesterday," I snapped, snipping away a lock of dark, matted hair. "Now, shut up and look at the mirror."
As I worked, I kept my ears open. I'd purposely left the window slightly ajar. Outside, in the servants' courtyard, the gossip was flowing like cheap ale.
"Did you hear? The Third Prince's maid says he hasn't slept in three days. He's terrified of the banquet."
"The Empress is planning to announce a marriage for the Crown Prince. A political alliance with the North."
I memorized every word. While the high-ranking nobles ignored the servants, the servants saw everything. And now, I was one of them.
"There," I said, stepping back and dusting the hair off my apron. "Look at yourself."
Bastian turned to the cracked mirror. The transformation was startling. Without the overgrown hair and the shadow of a beard, his face was striking. He had the high, sharp cheekbones of the royal bloodline and eyes that looked like molten gold. He didn't look like a 'Trash Prince' anymore. He looked like a threat.
"I look... different," he whispered, touching his jawline.
"You look like a man who belongs on a throne, not under a table," I said. "But for now, we keep the messy look for the public. Use some of that expensive hair oil I found to make it look 'greasy' again before you leave this room. We can't let the Empress see the change yet."
"You think of everything, don't you?" Bastian asked, his gaze lingering on me in the mirror.
"I get paid to think. Or, in this case, I get 'not executed' to think."
I moved to the corner of the room where I'd stashed a small notebook I'd fashioned from scraps of parchment. "While I was cutting your hair, I heard the maids outside. Your brother, the Crown Prince, is nervous about the Northern Alliance. And the Empress's personal guard has been doubled at the East Gate."
Bastian's expression sharpened. "The East Gate? That's where the secret archives are kept. Why would she double the guard there now?"
"Because she's hiding something," I said, a slow smirk spreading across my face. "And tonight, I'm going to find out what it is."
"Are you insane?" Bastian stood up, grabbing my arm. "The East Gate is guarded by the Silver Shields. If they catch a maid wandering there at night, they won't ask questions. They'll just eliminate the 'pest.'"
I looked down at his hand on my arm, then back up at him. "Bastian, I spent ten years dodging corporate spies and private investigators. A few armored guards who think I'm a 'stupid girl' are the least of my worries. If we want to win at that banquet, we need leverage. I'm going to get it."
"I'm coming with you," he stated.
"No," I countered. "You need to stay here and be 'loudly drunk.' Sing some terrible songs. Throw a few more bottles. If people hear you making a mess in here, they won't look for you elsewhere. I'll be back by midnight."
I didn't wait for his permission. I slipped into the shadows of the hallway, moving with the practiced silence of someone who had spent her life navigating the dark side of ambition.
The palace at night was a maze of cold stone and flickering torches. I avoided the main corridors, sticking to the servant passages—the 'veins' of the palace that the nobles never used. I reached the East Gate in twenty minutes.
The guards were exactly where the gossip said they'd be. They were bored, leaning on their pikes, talking about the upcoming banquet.
"I hope the Trash Prince passes out early," one guard laughed. "Last year, he puked on the General's boots. The Empress was furious."
"He won't even make it to the main course this year," the other replied. "I heard a rumor he's not even going to be invited to the inner circle toast."
I waited until they turned to adjust a torch. With the speed of a cat, I slipped behind a heavy velvet curtain and through the side door into the Archives.
The room smelled of old paper and secrets. I didn't have much time. I pulled a small candle from my pocket, lit it, and began scanning the ledgers. I wasn't looking for history; I was looking for the financials.
In any world, if you want to find the truth, you follow the money.
I found it in a leather-bound book marked 'Imperial Household Expenses.' Under the Empress's personal seal, there were massive payments being sent to a mercenary group in the South. The dates matched perfectly with the deaths of the King's previous advisors—men who had supported Bastian's late mother.
"So, it wasn't a plague that killed your mother's allies," I whispered, my blood turning cold. "It was an audit... by blade."
I heard a floorboard creak behind me.
I blew out the candle instantly, plunging the room into darkness. My heart hammered. I reached for the small dagger Bastian had given me, my breath hitching in my throat.
A hand clamped over my mouth, and a familiar, warm chest pressed against my back.
"I told you I was coming with you," Bastian's voice whispered directly into my ear.
"You're an idiot," I hissed into his palm, though I felt a surge of relief.
"Maybe," he whispered back, his grip tightening slightly as the sound of guards' boots echoed in the hallway outside. "But I'm an idiot who knows the shortcut back to the servant quarters. Now, move. We have what we need."