Player World—October 13, noon.
Steam rolled across Sun City Station in thick white sheets, carrying the stink of coal and hot metal. Somewhere beyond the platforms, the sea kept breathing.
Ethan Vale stepped down with a travel case in hand and a face already set in the expression of a rich kid who’d never been told “no.”
He wasn’t Rhine today. He wasn’t even Ethan on paper.
Today, he was Klaus—an “important student” being delivered into the Black-White Court’s shadow network.
A small figure waited near the iron gate, half-hidden under a travel cloak. Slender. Long-limbed. Pointed ears tucked back like she didn’t care who noticed. Bright green eyes that missed nothing.
Morningstar.
“Klaus?” she said, voice light, smile sweet enough to fool strangers. “You’re taller than I expected.”
“Blame good food,” Ethan said, matching her tone. “Morningstar?”
“In the flesh. And don’t call me ‘ma’am.’ It makes me feel ancient.” She glanced at his luggage. “Come on. We don’t linger in stations.”
On the ride into the city, Morningstar didn’t bother with small talk.
“You’re going to be living under my roof,” she said. “So we’re clear: you’re not here as a priest. You’re not here as a Hunter. You’re here as an Infiltrator.”
Ethan watched canals slide past the carriage window—stone bridges, flowered balconies, water dark as ink beneath the sun. He nodded once. “I know.”
“Do you?” Morningstar’s smile sharpened. “Because from what I’ve heard, you have a bad habit of walking into places like a hero. That gets Infiltrators killed.”
“I’ll try to die quietly,” Ethan said.
Morningstar snorted, almost amused.
“I didn’t fight my way through the Court’s paperwork just to lose you on day one,” she went on. “I don’t take students. I take… investments.”
Her eyes flicked away for a heartbeat. “My sister is in this city. Silvermoon.”
Ethan kept his expression neutral. “I’ve heard the name.”
“You’ll meet her soon.” Morningstar’s voice softened, but only slightly. “If she hasn’t murdered someone I like before then.”
She dumped him at a canal-side restaurant perched above the water and ordered half the menu. Plates kept coming—whole fish lacquered with spice, skewers of river shrimp, bread soaked in buttery broth, and a sweet wine that smelled like sun-warmed peaches.
“This city’s split in layers,” Morningstar said between bites. “Upper terraces are where the money sits. Lower canals are where things rot. Flower City is down there.”
“Sounds charming.”
“It is, if you like charm spells and being pickpocketed by ghosts.” She leaned in, voice dropping. “There are cat spirits in Flower City. Real ones. Not the cheap necromantic puppet-cats they sell to tourists.”
Ethan frowned. “Cat spirits?”
“They like people who reek of fate.” Her gaze swept him head to toe. “You, for example. If one follows you, half the vendors will decide you’re blessed and stop charging you. Use it.”
Ethan lifted his glass. “So my cover identity is: spoiled rich kid with a supernatural cat problem.”
“Exactly.” Morningstar’s grin turned feral. “Klaus is a charming disaster. He flirts. He wastes money. He collects strange pets. If anyone asks why you’re in Flower City, that’s why.”
“And if anyone asks why I don’t pay?”
“Because the cats pay for you.”
The humor lasted until the plates were cleared.
Morningstar’s smile drained away like water from a cracked cup.
“Now the real reason we’re here,” she said. “The governor’s dead. And Sun City is sitting on a problem that even Orton can’t crack.”
Ethan’s grip tightened on his glass. “Orton the Weaver?”
“Yes. Fourth Rank. Annoying, brilliant, stubborn.” Morningstar tapped the table once. “Ten guards vanished after looking at an oil painting. Orton tore the place apart. Elder Ruben from the Court is here now, too.”
“And you’re taking me to see it.”
Morningstar’s eyes glittered. “You’re under my wing, Klaus. If the city’s bleeding, you learn where the wound is.”
She stood, pulled her cloak on, and tossed a few coins down without counting.
“Eat fast,” she said. “We’re going to the police station.”