Clause 1: Preliminary Considerations and Approval of Terms

The corridor in the northern wing of the Katullin estate was lined with portraits of ancestors who all looked like they would sell their own mothers for a better shipping route. The air here was cooler than the rest of the house, making the hair on Poppy’s arms stand on end. As she reached out to knock on the door to her grandfather’s study a body slid from the shadows beside it, blocking her path.

Nikolas leaned against the doorframe, dressed in the formal dark garb of house security that looked entirely wrong on him, too structured and proper for someone who normally wore bright colors like armor against the world. He was coiled tension and sharp edges, his eyes tracing a slow path from her carefully styled hair down to her sandals and back up again.

“You’re vibrating, Penelope,” he murmured, his voice low. “He’s going to smell the fear before you even open your mouth.”

“I’m not scared,” Poppy snapped, keeping her eyes fixed on the brass door handle. “And I am not vibrating.”

“You are.” Niko’s gaze dropped to her hands. “Your thumb is ripping the cuticle off of your middle finger. You only do that when you’re about to lie, or when you’re thinking about running.” His eyes flicked back to her face, searching. “Which is it today?”

Poppy forced her hands still, curling them into fists at her sides. “I’m not running, Nikolas. I’m negotiating. Now get out of my way.”

“Negotiating,” he repeated, like it was a joke. “Is that what you’re calling it? You look like you’re walking into your own interrogation.” His voice dropped lower as he leaned in closer, invading her personal space with the scent of leather and cigar smoke. “If you’re going to lie to him, you need to stop breathing so shallowly. Your pulse is visible in your neck.”

Poppy flinched, her hand flying up to cover her throat before she could stop herself.

Niko’s smirk was sharp. “Better. Now you just look offended instead of terrified. Keep that, he respects it more than fear.”

He stepped back, turning the handle and pushing the heavy door open for her with a theatrical bow.

“After you, Princess.”

Poppy walked in, her spine rigid enough to snap. She could feel Niko following, closing the door with a soft click and taking up his silent post in the corner of the room like a shadow with teeth.

Does he always call you ‘Princess?’

Not now, Echo.

Abraxus Katullin sat behind his massive oak desk like a spider at the center of its web. He didn’t look up as she entered. He was writing in a ledger, the scratching of his quill the only sound in the cavernous room.

The silence stretched, deliberate and oppressive. Poppy knew the game; she’d been playing it her entire life. She stood perfectly still and waited.

“You’re pacing, Penelope,” Abraxus said finally, his voice dry as dust.

“I’m standing perfectly still, Grandfather.”

“Internally, then. It’s loud.” Abraxus set his quill down with careful precision. He looked older than the last time she’d seen him. The skin around his eyes was like parchment and new lines carved around his mouth but his gaze remained fixed, heavy and calculating. “Is there something you wish to discuss?”

Poppy took a breath, steeling herself. She’d prepared for every possible response, every angle of attack. But standing here, with her grandfather’s eyes boring into her and Niko’s presence in the corner making her skin crawl, all her preplanned words seemed to disappear.

She grabbed for the script she’d memorized. “I intend to marry Titus Marianus. I’d like your blessing to do so.”

She waited for the explosion, for him to list all the reasons why a crime lord’s granddaughter couldn’t marry the \consul of the Freelands, then lecture her about appropriate matches and not reaching above her station. She had responses for everything Abraxus could say.

“Finally.”

Poppy blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I was beginning to think you’d never close the deal.” Abraxus leaned back in his chair, the tension draining from the room so suddenly it left her feeling off balance. He opened a drawer and pulled out a fresh pouch of tobacco, taking his time filling his pipe. “You’ve been dancing around that boy for two years. The staff have been running betting pools. I believe Dotty owes the cook five silvers now.” He let out a laugh, not the cold amusement Poppy was used to but something that sounded almost warm and genuine.

She felt ice spreading through her chest. “You… approve? He’s a consul, Grandfather. He’s the law. He represents everything we—”

“He is a Marianus,” Abraxus corrected, lighting his pipe with a taper from the desk lamp. “His father is a senator. His family has held influence in Civen since the rebellion.” He took a long draw, exhaling smoke that curled between them. “Do you have any idea what kind of legitimacy a union like that buys us?”

He stood up and walked to the window, looking out over the manicured grounds of the estate.

“We have money, Penelope. We have influence in the dark alleyways and the back rooms of every major trading house from here to Sol Centura. But we have always lacked the one thing that makes a family untouchable: unblemished political standing.” He turned back to her, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “Titus Marianus is the perfect shield. Who would suspect the wife of the consul to be moving illicit goods right under his nose? Who would dare investigate a Marianus household?”

The trap was already closing.

“He isn’t an asset,” she said, her voice tight. “He’s a person. And he isn’t going to let me run operations out of his house.”

“He won’t have to know,” Abraxus said dismissively, waving his pipe. “Or he won’t care. Or you’ll manage him. That is what we trained you for, is it not? To be charming. Useful. To be whatever you need to be.”

“I am not managing him.” Poppy’s hands were shaking. “I love him, Grandfather. This isn’t a business arrangement.”

The words hung in the air between them. She hadn’t meant to say it like that—truthfully, she hadn’t meant to say it at all. She had never said it out loud. But there it was, laid out in front of the one man who would absolutely use it against her.

Abraxus laughed again, this time back to cold amusement. “Love is a fine spice, Penelope, but it is not the main course. This is a merger, and like any merger, there are conditions that must be met.”

He walked back to the desk, opened a drawer, and picked up a heavy document bound with wax seals, dropping it onto the polished wood with a thud that echoed through the room.

“I have already taken the liberty of drafting the preliminary settlement,” he said. “You’ll find it is more agreeable than what you got wind of earlier this year. I’ve made adjustments to accommodate your… emotional investment.”

Poppy picked up the packet. The weight of it mimicked the sudden drop in her stomach.

That’s a lot of pages. What does it say?

Echo, not now, please.

“We will host the engagement feast here,” Abraxus continued, settling back into his chair like a king on a throne. “A grand affair, of course. The senators we have ties with will be invited. The major Guilds. We will remind Civen that the Katullins are not just merchants; we are one of the oldest families in Civen.”

He pulled another document out of the drawer and started reading.

“However, if you are to take the Marianus name, you must look the part. We’ll need to discuss dissolving your… hobbies.”

“Hobbies?” The word came out more defensive than she intended.

“That little publishing house of yours. Steamy Ink,” Abraxus said, waving a hand as if swatting away a fly. “It was cute when you were playing at independence in the Freelands, but a consul’s wife cannot be publishing gossip rags about senators and merchants. It’s undignified. It draws the wrong kind of attention. I’m already working on how to transition it to your cousin’s full control.”

Poppy felt the trap snap shut around her throat. “Servius is not taking the paper. She already has partial ownership. We have an agreement.”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Abraxus looked at her, really looked at her, and the smile vanished completely.

“You will do what is necessary to lock this in, Penelope. You have done well to catch him. Better than I expected, honestly. But his family won’t be as… lenient as he is. They’ll have expectations. Standards.” He leaned forward, his voice hardening. “Do not let your vanity ruin this investment. The press is a liability. It will be dealt with.”

“It’s protected by the Merchant’s Guild,” Poppy said, fighting to keep her voice steady. “The Breaking Bulletin Consortium backs it. You can’t just—”

“I can do whatever is necessary for this family.” Abraxus picked his quill back up, already dismissing her. “I’ll arrange the contract review with his family. For now, go see your mother, she’ll want to start planning the guest list immediately. And wipe that look off your face. You’re a bride, not a mourner.”

Poppy stood there for a moment, the contract heavy in her hands, muscles stiff from trying not to tremble and give away weakness. She had gotten what she wanted. The price was just higher than she had planned.

“Thank you, Grandfather,” she whispered, the words tasting like ash in her mouth.

“Don’t thank me. Just don’t ruin it.” He didn’t look up. “Oh, and Penelope? Send your brother in on your way out. We have other matters to discuss.”

She turned to leave, her legs feeling heavy as lead. As she reached the door, Niko opened it for her, but he didn’t move out of her way. He stood there, forcing her to stop just inches from him.

Poppy glared up at him, trying to summon the defiance she usually felt, the sharp words that normally came so easily. But her throat was tight, and all she could manage was, “Get out of my way, Nikolas.”

He stepped aside deliberately, leaving enough room she still had to brush between him and the doorframe as she passed.

“The leash looks good on you,” he murmured, leaning in close enough that she could feel his breath against her ear as the door closed behind them.

Poppy jerked away from him, spinning to face him in the corridor. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” Niko spread his hands, his expression unreadable. “Don’t tell you the truth? That’s never stopped me before.”

He gave her another one of those mock bows, somehow more insulting than any words could be.

“Congratulations, Lady Marianus. I hope it’s worth everything you’re giving up for it.”

Then he was gone, slipping back into the study to resume his post, leaving Poppy alone in the hallway with a contract that felt like a death sentence and the horrible, creeping feeling that he might be right.

There’s a story, Echo said into the silence, about a girl in a red cloak.

Poppy started walking toward her rooms. Echo, I’m really not in the mood.

Her mother told her to stay on the path, not to talk to strangers, and to go straight to grandmother’s house. But the kazvak asked good questions.

Echo, you’re overthinking it.

So she told him where she was going, Echo ignored the interjection. Gave him directions. And then she went there anyway, even though she knew he’d be waiting.

She stopped in front of her bedroom door, the contract heavy in her hands.

At first I thought she was stupid, Echo mused. But maybe she just wanted to see what would happen.

“That story is about how you aren’t supposed to talk to strangers.” Her voice came out sharper than she meant it to.

But she already knew not to talk to strangers, Echo argued. Her mother said not to. But she did it anyway.

Poppy opened the door and stepped inside, closing it firmly behind her as if it would actually make the conversation stop.

Everyone knows that kazvaks hurt people. And she told it everything anyway.

Enough. The thought was pointed and final. Echo fell silent as she walked to her desk, setting the contract down.

She should feel happy. She’d gotten permission. She could marry Titus. Everything she wanted was in those papers.

So why did it feel like the walls were closing in?

⊱⊰

Poppy paced her bedroom at the estate, Titus’s message crumpled in her fist.

She had sent a message that morning. He approved. We need to talk.

His response had come within an hour. Come whenever you’re ready. I’ll be here.

The guest list sat on her desk where Hermena had left it that morning. All the right families, the appropriate connections. Senator Vane, the Volkovs, House Marlowe. Even the Valerius family had been added—”We must extend courtesy to all established houses, darling.”

“What about Lorelei? Or Evilynn?” Poppy had asked.

Her mother’s smile had been patient. “Your Freelands acquaintances won’t be able to attend, Poppy. This is a political event. You understand.”

She’d understood perfectly.

She also understood she should pack, read the contract her grandfather had given her, do something instead of wearing a path in the carpet. But her feet kept moving, back and forth, her breathing growing heavier as she tried to find a way to ground herself.

There used to be that presence in the back of her mind that helped. A whisper, a constant hum of voices, we understand, you’re not alone, join us—

But now there was nothing. It wasn’t like having an empty room, but rather like the room was gone entirely. Like someone had reached into her skull and cut it away, leaving nothing in its place.

The absence ached worse than the infection ever had. She could see the purple-black shimmer at the edge of her vision, a remnant of an illness that hadn’t yet fully gone away.

Stop!

Poppy stopped pacing. What? What’s wrong?

The well. Echo’s voice shook. The brambles are growing again.

I’m not— she started pacing again. I’m just thinking.

You were leaning on it.

She stopped mid-stride. She felt a pull, telling her it would be so easy. She had the language. She could see the words in her head.

Poppy, get away from it. It hurts!

Her hands moved before she made the decision, digging through her bag, fingers closing around a vial. She popped the cork, red liquid catching the light as she drank without hesitation.

It felt the same every time—pure fire down her throat, then warmth spreading through her chest. Her shoulders dropped. The pull faded to white noise, the shimmer fading away. Her breathing returned to normal for the first time since she had arrived home.

Better? Echo asked, worried.

Better, Poppy lied.

She smoothed out Titus’s message and grabbed her bag. She needed to get herself together before she saw him.

⊱⊰

The Marianus estate was larger than she’d expected, built in the traditional Civen style with wings branching off from a central courtyard. Poppy could hear the fountain in the atrium and voices from somewhere deeper in the house as she was shown in by a servant. Family, she realized with a lurch. His family. Of course they would be here; she knew they all lived there. It didn’t stop the sudden reality that she was going to meet them from hitting her like a bucket of ice.

She’d spent three days reading and re-reading the contract Abraxus had prepared, parsing every clause, every condition, every trap buried in the legal language. Three days of barely sleeping, barely eating, trying to figure out how to tell him that yes, they could get married, but the cost was everything she’d built for herself.

She’d dosed on the carriage ride over. The jittery edge had smoothed to a low hum under her skin. It wasn’t ideal, but at least her hands had stopped shaking and Echo had stopped talking about brambles.

Titus was walking toward her through the atrium as she followed the servant, an expression of pleasant surprise shifting to concern as he took her in.

Before he could speak, there was a flash of movement from one of the side corridors. Two identical faces peeked around the corner, staring at her with bright-eyed curiosity.

“Her hair is as red as Dad says it is!” one whispered to the other, not quietly enough.

Titus raised his eyebrows at them in a look that was clearly meant to be stern but came across more amused than anything.

“Livia!” the other twin hissed, and both faces disappeared with poorly-suppressed giggles. The servant that had been leading her through the house left to follow them, leaving Poppy alone with Titus.

A woman’s voice called sharply from somewhere deeper in the house: “Girls! What did your father say?”

Despite everything—the exhaustion, the anxiety, the contract burning a hole in her bag—Poppy felt her lips twitch.

“The twins have been asking about you all week,” Titus said, crossing to her. He reached out and laced his fingers through hers. “Come on. We can go to my study.”

She followed him through the house, trying to take in her surroundings but finding everything blurring together. Corridors, doorways, voices in the distance. Too many people. Too much happening.

Grandmother’s house, Echo’s voice teased.

Poppy didn’t answer.

His study was quiet as he closed the door behind them. Neat, organized, and everything in its place, like his room at the inn had been before she just slowly started leaving her mark all over it. She dropped into a plush arm chair, realizing that if she didn’t her legs would give out.

“Poppy.” He didn’t sit, just stood there watching her. “When did you last sleep?”

“Hi, I missed you too.”

“Just answer the question, Poppy.” His tone had traded its usual softness for exasperation.

“I don’t know. A few hours? Two days ago?” She couldn’t remember. Time had gotten slippery. “It doesn’t matter. We need to talk about—”

“When did you last eat?”

“Jason—”

“Poppy.” He crossed his arms.

“A scone this morning.” She pulled the contract from her bag, the weight of it familiar after three days of reading it obsessively. “This is more important. Grandfather gave his approval, but there are—conditions—”

She thrust the contract at him and he took it, glancing at the first page.

“He wants to dissolve SIP,” she said, the words tumbling out. “Says it’s undignified for a consul’s wife to be publishing ‘gossip rags.’ That it draws the wrong kind of attention. He’s already planning to transition control to Servius. Says the press should be ‘properly managed’ by someone who understands discretion.” Her voice was getting faster, more desperate. “And the contract has clauses about it. About appropriate activities for a consular spouse. He’s buried it in legal language but it’s there—requirements that I step back from day-to-day operations, that I let someone else take editorial control, that I—”

She stopped as she realized her hands had started to shake again. She curled them into fists and pressed them into her lap.

Titus looked up, unconcerned. “No.”

“What?” Poppy blinked at him.

“No. Your press is yours. That’s not negotiable.”

“But the contract says—”

“I don’t care what the contract says.” He tossed the document back onto the desk with a flick of his wrist. “Abraxus is testing the boundaries, Poppy. He wants to see if I’ll fold to keep the peace.”

“He’s not testing boundaries, Jason! He’s—”

“He’s used to people being afraid of him.” Titus stopped directly in front of her chair, and she had to tilt her head back to look at him. His voice was perfectly calm, like they were discussing dinner plans instead of her grandfather’s threats. “I’m not.”

She stared at him. In her grandfather’s office, she’d barely been able to breathe. Here, Titus was treating her concerns like paperwork.

He didn’t wait for her to respond. “We’ll restructure ownership. Put it in a trust if we have to. But you’re not giving up SIP.”

He would make a good huntsman, Echo said. She ignored it.

“And the engagement feast?” Poppy’s voice was getting tighter. “He wants to host it. Make it a political event. Invite all his Senate connections, remind everyone the Katullins are legitimate. Use your family’s reputation to—”

“The feast is expected,” Titus interrupted gently. “That part is fine. Let him have his party.”

“It’s not just a party, Jason. He’s planning to leverage—”

“I know.” He crouched down, bringing himself to her level. His hands rested on the arms of the chair, bracketing her in. “I know what your grandfather does. What he is. And we’ll navigate it.”

She took a breath, trying to match his calm. The walls closed in as she inhaled.

“But you’re exhausted.” His voice was soft and reasonable. “You haven’t slept. You can’t think clearly like this.”

“I can think fine—”

“You’re shaking.” He took her hands, which she thought she had been hiding well enough. “Come on. Let me show you where you can rest.”

She let him guide her out of the study. Maybe he was right. If she just slept for an hour, she could think clearly. Then she could explain properly why the feast mattered, why the contract clauses were more complicated than he thought, why—

The corridors blurred together. She was too tired to track where they were going. Deeper into the house, away from the public wings, into a private corridor.

He stopped at a door. “Mine,” he said, gesturing to the first door. Then he opened the one beside it. “And this one is yours.”

The suite was beautiful. Airy, well decorated, and clearly prepared with care. Through an open doorway she could see two servants, a middle-aged man and a younger woman, arranging things in a large walk-in closet.

Her clothes. From her villa.

Are we moving here? Echo asked. You didn’t say we were moving, you said we were just visiting.

The floor seemed to tilt under her feet.

“Your mother coordinated with my stepmother,” Titus said, watching her carefully. “Marius and Cassia brought some of your things from your villa in Paragon. Everyone assumed you’d be moving in after the engagement was official, so we had the room prepared.”

She couldn’t breathe correctly. There was too much and not enough air all at once. Everyone assumed. Her mother coordinated. His stepmother. They just put the rooms together like it was nothing.

“I didn’t—” Poppy’s voice came out strangled. “We didn’t talk about me moving in.”

Something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe. “I thought—” He stopped. Started again. “Your things are in my room at the Jenny.”

He was right. She’d been staying there for months, leaving her things scattered across his space like she belonged there. She couldn’t explain why this was different.

“Can you—” Poppy’s voice cracked. “Can you send them away? Just for now?”

He called into the room without hesitation. “Marius, Cassia. Take a break. We’ll send for you later.”

The two servants bowed and left quickly. Poppy waited until their footsteps faded before stepping inside.

The room was lovely, outfitted with everything she might want. A writing desk by the window. Comfortable furniture. Her clothes half-arranged in the wardrobe. A door in the wall that the room shared with his.

Did anyone ask you if this was okay? Echo’s voice sounded far away, muffled in her head.

She couldn’t answer. Just stared at the door that connected Titus’ room.

“Why do I even have my own room?” The words tumbled out before she could stop them. “Why can’t I just stay in yours?”

“You can,” Titus said immediately. “Of course you can. I just thought—I wanted you to have your own space. A place that’s yours. Where you can write, or work, or have privacy when you need it.” He paused. “You can come to my room whenever you want. That door doesn’t lock.”

Poppy walked towards the velvet armchair near the window. It was her favorite chair from her library, in the exact right spot where the afternoon light would hit the page. She put her hand on the back of it, squeezing.

“Everyone keeps making decisions about my life,” her voice burst out and she caught herself. Took a breath. Ignored the walls closing in as she inhaled. “Grandfather with his contract. My mother sending my things. You preparing rooms. And I’m just—I’m just watching it happen.”

“Then we slow down.” Titus wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her close. “We can send your things back if you want. We can tell your mother to stop. Whatever you decide. We’ll adjust.”

“No—I don’t—” She stopped, frustrated with herself. “I don’t want things sent back. That would just—”

Make her look difficult. Make her mother upset. Make Titus’s household think she was rejecting his hospitality. Make everything harder.

“—that would make everything worse.”

“Then what do you want?” His voice was patient as he let go of her, studying her face. “Whatever you decide, we’ll do that.”

She looked around the suite again. It was nice. Thoughtful, even. The writing desk had paper and quills from her favorite shop in Paragon—not just the brand, but the specific weight of parchment she preferred. The bedding was in deep navy and gold, the same shade of her bedroom at the villa.

He’d paid attention. Had tried to make it hers.

“The room is nice,” she said finally. “I just—I wish I’d known. Before everything was already decided.”

“I’m sorry.” He squeezed her shoulder. “I should have asked first. I thought I was being helpful.”

“You were. It’s just—” She couldn’t finish the sentence.

“I know,” Titus said quietly. “I’m going to go arrange for some food to be sent up. You should lie down and rest for a minute. We’ll figure the rest when I get back.”

She nodded, and he squeezed her hand before leaving.

The room was too quiet after he left. Poppy moved to the bed and lay down, staring at the ceiling. The mattress was soft. Not too soft, but just right.

The exhaustion was catching up with her now. Three days of barely sleeping, of reading contracts, dosing on Blight, and spiraling. Her eyes were getting heavy despite her attempts to stay alert.

She was dimly aware of the door opening some time later. Footsteps, careful and quiet. The soft clink of a tray being set down on the desk. Then the bed dipped slightly as weight settled beside her.

Titus, some part of her mind registered. He had come back.

She should open her eyes, sit up, eat whatever food he’d brought. She should talk about the contract, about SIP, about all of it.

But the exhaustion pulled harder, and his presence was warm and steady next to her, and for the first time in three days she felt safe enough to stop fighting it.

She felt him pull a blanket over her, his hand brushing her hair back from her face.

“Sleep,” he murmured, so quietly she almost didn’t hear it. “We’ll figure it out later.”

And because she was too tired to argue, too tired to plan, and too tired to decide anything else, she did.

⊱⊰