The interior of the Northern Market’s premier textile house smelled of expensive dye, pressed wool, and lavender incense.
Reams of luxurious fabric—imported velvets, heavy brocades, and delicate silks—lined the polished dark wood shelves from floor to ceiling, their vibrant colors standing out like jewels against the cold northern morning.
Vivienne ran her delicate, leather-gloved fingers along a bolt of deep, ocean-blue velvet.
“The texture is weighted correctly,” she murmured, her dark eyes tracking the way the morning light caught the rich fibers.
“It will soften the obsidian pillars near the eastern window.”
Caelum stood half a step behind her, his massive frame completely casting a shadow over the velvet reams.
He didn’t offer an opinion on the fabrics.
His arms remained folded over the silver embroidery of his military coat, his crimson eyes tracking the small, fluid movements of her narrow waist with that same suffocating, possessive hunger.
He was a warlord who ruled through terror, completely out of place in a boutique of silks, yet his silent, oppressive presence kept the store clerks frozen in absolute compliance at the rear counter.
A young, exceptionally beautiful woman stepped out from the private back rooms of the textile house, holding a silver tray lined with bolts of rare, shimmering silver satin.
She wore the simple linen apron of a master weaver, but her posture was entirely too fluid, her steps making zero sound against the polished floorboards.
She possessed large, innocent green eyes and a soft, submissive smile that seemed to radiate pure elegance.
Her hands, though covered in faint chalk stains, were completely devoid of the calluses that a true lifetime of handling heavy looms would leave behind.
“Your Imperial Highness, My Lady,” the woman murmured, her voice a soft, melodic purr that carried a faint, enchanting charm-spell designed to disarm suspicion.
“I am Elena, the master weaver of this establishment. If you are seeking to redesign the grand chambers of the manor, I have just received a rare import from the eastern districts—Moondust Silk. It is woven with ground stardust to naturally repel the dampness of the northern frost.”
She extended a small, shimmering piece of the silver fabric toward Vivienne.
Vivienne’s hand hovered an inch above the satin, her abyssal core violently throbbing once within her chest—a sharp, prickling sensation that signaled a foreign, volatile attribute hidden within the threads.
Deadly Nightshade powder.
A slow-acting, skin-permeable poison designed to seep into the pores over months of close physical contact, melting the spirit veins of anyone who slept beneath it.
In her past life, Julian’s spymaster had used this exact underhanded method to quietly poison a northern border lord’s pregnant wife, executing a clean assassination without leaving a single trace of blood.
She didn’t touch the cloth.
Instead, she adjusted her posture, her lips pulling into a slow, merciless smile.
“The weave is tight, Elena,” Vivienne said, her low, freezing melody dropping across the counter like a slow crumb of bait.
“But the ground stardust you speak of carries a rather peculiar fragrance. It smells less like the eastern mountains… and far more like the poison-distilling laboratories of the Imperial Vanguard’s black-ops division.”
The woman’s perfect, submissive smile froze completely on her face.
Her green eyes widened by a fraction of a millimeter, a deep, primitive panic flashing behind her gaze.
How did this woman know?!
The nightshade powder was an absolute secret of Julian’s inner network, entirely undetectable by standard magical perception.
Before the spy could draw a breath to execute a retreat, the heavy double doors of the textile house were violently thrown open, slamming against the wood walls with a resounding crash.
General Freya marched into the establishment, her silver plate armor clanking sharply against the floorboards, her heavy leather boots leaving trails of melted snow on the charcoal carpet.
Her hands were resting tightly on the six-foot haft of her twin-headed battleaxe, her golden eyes burning with an unadulterated, lethal hostility.
“Your Imperial Majesties!” Freya reported, her deep voice cutting cleanly through the scent of incense.
She pointed the heavy blade of her axe straight at the trembling weaver.
“Our shadow sentries at the valley perimeter have just intercepted an imperial courier bird. Crown Prince Julian sent a secret transmission to a sleeper agent hidden inside this very district. Her orders were to contaminate the Grand Duchess’s coronation fabrics before the noon bells!”
Realizing her identity was entirely, brutally exposed, the fake weaver’s innocent posture vanished.
With a vicious snarl, she reached into the folds of her linen apron, drawing two thin, curved silver daggers dripping with the same black nightshade liquid.
She didn’t strike at Vivienne; she lunged straight toward Caelum’s exposed throat, her movements fueled by a sudden, hidden high-tier light core.
“For the true Crown!”
As the blades came within an inch of his face, his massive, leather-gloved hand shot forward like a striking viper.
He caught the assassin by her throat, his iron grip cutting off her breath instantly with a sickening, heavy thud that rattled the wooden shelves.
He slammed her frame down onto the mahogany counter, shattering a glass display case into a hundred jagged shards.
“You thought a piece of metal could pierce my skin?” Caelum growled, his deep baritone carrying a guttural, demonic resonance that vibrated the very bolts of silk on the walls.
His fingers tightened, his monstrous red mana flaring around his glove as his dominant energy crushed her spirit.
“Keep her breathing, Caelum,” Vivienne commanded smoothly, stepping forward as her midnight cloak swept across the glass shards.
She looked down at the gasping, white-faced spy with an expression of pure, final dominance.
“Take her to the Citadel dungeons, Freya. Julian thinks he can still reach me through the shadows… but we are about to turn his own network into a gallows for his knights.”
Freya grinned, a dangerous, eager light flaring in her golden eyes as she dragged the thrashing spy backward toward the exit.
“By your command, my Empress.”
Caelum turned back to Vivienne, his crimson eyes burning with a deep, intoxicating wave of primal adoration as he watched her pick up the bolt of ocean-blue velvet, completely unbothered by the violence.
He wrapped a single, powerful arm around her waist, pulling her flush against his broad chest, his lips pressing a possessive, warm kiss against her temple.
“A masterfully executed counter-play, my dark queen,” Caelum growled softly, his deep voice carrying a low, growling certainty that promised absolute ruin to their enemies.
“It seems Julian is growing desperate.”
Vivienne rested her hand over his warm armor, her lips curving into a slow, beautiful, and utterly ruthless smile.
“Let him grow desperate, Caelum. The fabrics have been chosen… and our shadow fleet is about to give him the final answer.”
A/N=
This week goal,
Collection =50-100