But of course, for the Spymaster, "soon" meant "right now."
Lucian didn't dare move—as if he were a small lamb and the Spymaster was a wolf about to spring at him.
The figure at the forest's edge shimmered and melted into bubbling shadow, and wriggled—like a snake—toward the tree nearest Lucian. Instantly, the leaves fell in a soft pile, all at once. It would have been funny, but the leaf pile was completely gray, like the Spymaster drained it of all life and color.
When the figure became a human shape again, there were a few details included. It had hooks for fingers and leaned, confidently, against another leafless tree. The wind rustled everything except him and its branches.
Lucian didn't approach because he knew, with this creature's desire for theatrics—he was going to whether Lucian saw him or not. Instead, he stood with a hand on the Grimoire: spine straight and jaw clenched tight.
"You came all this way," The Spymaster said, voice warm as velvet soaked in blood. "And yet…I still had to knock."
Lucian didn't answer. He didn't even want to know how the Spymaster wormed his way into
Houndsberry Hollow.
+
The Spymaster's high-heeled boots never touched the soil, even as he stepped forward. His fingers still looked like hooks, and as if someone berated him, the Spymaster shook both hands impatiently. Instantly, they were covered with spotless gloves. And on his head was a beret that slouched with deliberate arrogance.
Lucian had never been able to analyze what the Spymaster's face looked like back in the palace. Now, he realized it was more for his safety than anything else. The menace behind the Spymaster's sharp face was almost overwhelming. It was too handsome to be natural and the smile had far too much crooked teeth to be comforting.
"Not trembling anymore?" the Spymaster asked. "Progress."
Lucian took one breath. Then another.
"I'm not who I was."
"No," the Spymaster said, voice thick with delight. "You're not. But you're still made of breakable things. You've been marinating in grief and guilt, and it smells mighty tasty. The cane of yours—back in the druid girl's house—I found it humming with Alaric's exhaustion."
He licked his lips with a long, slimy tongue. "I can taste it."
Before, Lucian would have been absolutely terrified. Now, he didn't even flinch.
The Grimoire opened beside him, blank but steady.
"You made Rosa."
"Mmhm."
"And put Alice inside her, to give to the Marionette." Lucian said flatly.
The Spymaster raised a brow.
"I don't give. Giving means I don't expect anything in return. I curate. I invest." He gazed at Lucian like he was smaller than an ant. "You can't produce diamonds without breaking coal."
He stepped once more, and the world dimmed just slightly around his boots.
"She's quite the vessel. But you've changed her. That thread of yours? Mmm. A warm tether. Unusual in constructs. Dangerous."
Lucian's hand tightened on his cane.
"She's not a construct anymore."
"Oh, no. She's worse." The Spymaster grinned. "She thinks she's becoming real. And real things have desires. Defiance. Messy endings."
A pause.
"So do you, Mortician. You think you've learned silence. But you've only moved the noise inward."
Lucian was silent.
Then:
"Maybe. But I'm not afraid of the chaos. Not like you."
The Spymaster's grin faded.
"Ah. Careful. You're starting to sound like someone who believes they matter."
Lucian's brow furrowed in irritation. "But I do. To her. To myself. To the rites I'm creating."
Something dark shifted in the Spymaster's gaze, and his smile trembled, just a little bit.
"You dare cast rites outside the system — with no license, no crown, no witness?"
"I am the witness," Lucian said. "And the rite. And the reason."
The ground trembled faintly beneath his feet.
The Grimoire flared once — soft green light, not red. Not warning. Not fear.
The Spymaster's shadow twitched.
"How bold," he murmured. "And yet…"
In a flash, he was before Lucian.
No footsteps. No air displaced.
Lucian blinked — and the glove was already two inches from his chest.
Alice moved.
She wasn't there, and then she was — between them, one hand raised, threadlines streaking from her wrist like burning silk. The energy pulsed once, sending the Spymaster sliding back through the soil.
He laughed.
"Hmm...fascinating."
Alice stood still, her hair lifting faintly as if the wind had turned in place. Her eyes were lit — not with rage, but with a terrifying certainty.
"I'm not yours," she said.
"Of course not. You were hers," he replied, brushing dirt off his gloves. "But you're... becoming something even the Marionette didn't expect."
"She made me a Daughter," Alice said, voice calm. "Lucian made me a person."
The Spymaster's smile froze.
Then melted.
"Ah," he said softly. "Now that's dangerous."
He looked at Lucian again, truly studying him now. Not with mockery — with interest.
"I see it now. You're not just breaking systems. You're rewriting the need for them."
Lucian didn't answer.
"Well," the Spymaster said at last, straightening his coat. "You've earned my attention. But you won't always have my patience."
He tipped his hat to Alice.
"Daughter of Thread. I do hope you don't unravel too soon."
He tipped his hat to Lucian.
"Mortician of Memory. Be careful who you bring back. Some names echo louder than others."
Then, like a candle snuffed with no breath, he was gone.
The forest un-tensed.
The light returned.
Lucian's knees nearly buckled.
Alice caught him.
They sat together for a long time at the garden's edge, neither speaking.
Eventually, the Grimoire opened again.
A single line:
Threat acknowledged. Threadline defended. Anchor holding.
Lucian closed the book.
He looked at Alice.
She leaned her head against his shoulder.
"I didn't even think," she said quietly. "I just... moved."
"You were faster than I was," he whispered.
"She would have told me not to. The Marionette, I mean."
Lucian nodded.
"But you're not her."
"No," Alice said. "I'm yours."
He almost corrected her.
But she meant it like family. Like firelight in winter. Like something claimed and chosen, not possessed.
So he let her say it.
And held her hand.