The Silken Veil’s center of power didn’t lie in alleyways or smoky dens. It resided where power dressed itself in civility. Beatrix Sinclaire’s private office, hidden in plain sight above the Old Harbor Market, exuded the calculated warmth of wealth. Rare books and imported art adorned the shelves.

  Gleaming hardwood reflected the golden light of a chandelier crafted from polished brass and imported crystal. Mahogany shelves displayed curated books bound in rare hides, each one a ledger of debts or histories rewritten. Artifacts from foreign empires lined the walls like silent witnesses. Every piece had its place. Every detail, deliberate.

  Just like her.

  Beatrix stood behind a dark oak desk like a queen before her court. She was composed, immaculate, and utterly unamused. She wore a tailored silk vest the color of deep wine, its threads glinting faintly under the chandelier. Her carapace, dark as polished obsidian, reflected the room’s glow in hard, flawless lines. The smooth curve of her exoskeleton whispered discipline.

  Her arms rested with poised control atop the desk, while her manipulators hung loosely beneath her chest, twitching occasionally in restrained agitation. She traced one claw tip over the crystalline globe embedded in the desk’s center — not in thought, but to keep her claws from digging into the polished wood.

  This was not how the evening was meant to unfold.

  It had taken years to build the Veil, not just the syndicate, but the illusion of elegance and invulnerability. The fact that she was hosting this meeting at all, in this room, rather than dealing with the night’s finer affairs, was a personal insult. Her world was meant to run without friction. Without mess.

  Yet here she was, forced to deal with two of her most volatile assets, in person.

  The door to the office creaked as it opened.

  She didn’t look up, at least not immediately. Her secondary eyes flicked reflexively toward the movement even as she continued to feign calm.

  Gnash slunk into the room like he already owned the place, his gold-toothed grin wide and lazy. His gait oozed arrogance, each step drawn out like he was performing for an invisible crowd. He was unhurried, unbothered, and utterly full of himself.

  “Boss,” he said with theatrical flair, spreading his arms. “Was wonderin’ when you’d call. Thought you might be reachin’ to hand me a medal for that show on the bypass.”

  Beatrix turned, her upper torso pivoting gracefully while her lower half remained rooted, her limbs aligned in perfect symmetry. Her primary eyes locked on him first, with her expression calculated and unreadable. Her secondary eyes watched for the subtler tells: the way his hand hovered near his belt, the bounce in his stride, the tension beneath the grin. The hyena exuded a kind of swagger that came naturally to someone who rarely cared about consequences.

  Her response was dry, with a hint of resentment in her tone, “For what, exactly?”

  Gnash lounged into the chair across from her without waiting to be invited. “C’mon, boss. You saw the aftermath. The cops were running circles for hours, the media circus, the freedom of movement for your various projects over the past week or so given the distractions. Rex’s probably still chasing his tail trying to figure out how I managed to find him.”

  Beatrix stepped around the desk, her long limbs gliding silently against the floor, the gentle sway of her abdomen betraying nothing of her mood. Her manipulators uncurled slightly in an expressive gesture she rarely made in polite company.

  “You call that success?” she asked, stopping a mere foot from him. “You were instructed to conduct a quiet observation of our operations. Map out trouble areas that may require attention. Stay unseen.” She squinted all eyes into focus on Gnash, as her mandibles parted revealing a fanged snarl. She spoke through a chittering hiss, “Not make the biggest media spectacle of the month!”

  Gnash replied, dismissively, “And I did all that,” he rolled his wrist and his eyes as he continued, “I just added a little flair. Besides, we got the shipments through clean, didn’t we?”

  Beatrix tilted her head, an unsettling gesture given her symmetrical face, and let silence stretch. Gnash, cocky as he was, squirmed just enough to betray discomfort.

  She said, quieter now, her tone edged with menace. "Of all the animals you could have found, it just happened to be Rex on the beat. You didn’t just ignore my orders, you knocked on the APD's front door and invited the bloodhound to come have a cup of coffee."

  Gnash’s smirk tightened. “You know our history.”

  Beatrix’s mandibles twitched slightly. "I do. If that compels you to a point where you can't help yourself, then it makes you unpredictable." Her tone grew colder. "You handed Rex a scent trail to work with that could bring him to the Veil's doorstep."

  She continued, her voice sharp, “Rex is already back on the case. Whatever momentum we had gained through your little game, is likely to begin unraveling faster than you can mouth off.” Beatrix’s eyes narrowed. “You’re useful, Gnash. But usefulness is only as valuable as it is predictable. Don’t make me rethink yours.”

  He sat up straighter, the grin fading, his glowing eyes thinning, and his claws flexing against the chair’s arm. His tone carried a sharper edge, “C’mon, Betty, you know I get results. Can’t help it if that dog’s too stubborn to stay down.”

  Beatrix’s snarl turned to a fanged smile that could chill water, her eyes narrowing just enough to enhance the message. She asked softly, “Now you are result-oriented? Let me tell you what I call it. Reckless."

  Beatrix pointed accusingly at Gnash, "I gave you one job, Gnash. Explore. Connect the threads. Not burn the web down while you’re standing in it.”

  Before he could respond, the door opened again.

  Ilya entered, his steps soft but heavy. He moved in silence and without hesitation. The tiger’s expression was unreadable.

  Beatrix turned her full body to face him. She had to look up to meet his eyes. Her presence didn’t shrink, if anything, it sharpened.

  “Ilya,” she said in a chilled tone. “Timely.”

  He gave the barest nod. "Confirmed. You were correct. Jasper Thorn compromised our supply line."

  Beatrix’s tone cooled, as though she were addressing a subordinate who had overstepped his bounds, “I assume you’ve an explanation as to why he had become such a liability under your watch?”

  Ilya remained still, his expression impassive. “I took care of him,” he said simply, his voice low and even.

  Beatrix approached him, her clawed fingertips rising slowly as she neared his chest. She didn’t touch, but hovered close, her voice dropping into a whisper. Her voice was soft and deliberate. “An interesting way to phrase it.” Her manipulators unfolded from under her chest and made quotations in the air as she said, “Took care of him”. She glared at Ilya, “Considering that Jasper Thorn was never supposed to exist as a problem in the first place.”

  Ilya’s jaw tensed, a subtle but noticeable reaction.

  She folded her manipulators back under her chest, “He was pinching product. Stealing from my network. Using it to play kingpin, and he did it right under your nose.”

  Ilya’s tail twitched in subtle agitation, “There have been several problems that have cropped up since the leak. Jasper was one of them. While not optimal, this is a work in progress and progress is being made. I handled it.”

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Beatrix’s voice became tinged with mockery, “Yes, you ‘handled it.’ You left him pinned like a museum exhibit in his own apartment with a lovely little message for the detectives to find. Tell me, Ilya, was that part of your strategy? To send two of the APD’s best detectives an invitation?!”

  Gnash let out a low whistle. “Gotta say, Boss. That was a hell of a message. Real dramatic flair.”

  Beatrix turned her head slightly, just enough to regard him with one of her primary eyes. Her manipulators drifted down, folding with a grace that belied their precision. Her front arms, however, remained still — claws resting gently on either side of her waist.

  "Spoken like someone who doesn't understand the weight of what he's praising," she said, voice calm, clipped. "Every time you open your mouth, Gnash, you remind me how replaceable you are."

  The hyena’s grin faltered. He closed his mouth.

  Beatrix stared at him in silence, before returning her attention to Ilya.

  “You’re my enforcer, not my herald." She said, quieter now. "You know how hard I’ve worked to keep the Veil invisible, to keep you invisible?” Her voice turned glacial, “This kind of impression makes it hard for the APD to look the other way.”

  Ilya said nothing. But his tail flicked once—a barely visible thread of tension.

  The venom in her words was clear, “I built this from the ruins of the Crimson Ward. I bought silence in blood, in favors, in debt. You’re part of that web, Ilya. But no strand is irreplaceable.”

  She returned to her desk, her limbs flowing like a tide across the floor. She re-centered herself at her globe and rested one hand atop it again, her gaze resting between the two animal in front of her.

  “I’ve spent years identifying the weak points in the Veil,” she said, almost to herself. “One by one, I’m removing them. Jasper. The doctor in Ashfell Heights. The double-dealer by the Carrow Docks. Every thread that trembles too violently… gets snipped.”

  “Ilya,” she said without turning. “You’ve served long enough to know the standards I expect.”

  The tiger gave a short nod. "Understood.”

  Gnash shifted in his chair, claws tapping the armrest. “Sounds like I should be out there cleaning things up myself, then.”

  Beatrix didn’t look at him. “That’s what concerns me.”

  His grin twitched.

  she turned, slow and deliberate, her eyes half-lidded. “Your propensity to get headlines has already been tested.”

  She let the silence hang before continuing, each word carved from frost. “Your theatrics risk turning a scalpel into a hammer. I didn’t bring you to Athelun to reenact your vendetta. I brought you here to help Ilya clean house, not make a mess because you're bored.”

  Gnash stiffened but said nothing.

  Beatrix studied him, tilting her head ever so slightly. “You were good at cleaning house back in the Ward.”

  Gnash blinked. “I am good at a lot of things, and hard to kill.”

  “No,” she said. “You’re easy to kill, and hard to replace.”

  The comment stopped him. Just for a breath. His posture shifted, subtly, the slouch gone, shoulders drawn in. His eyes flicked, just once, to the far corner of the room, and the edges of his grin vanished completely. It wasn’t fear, not exactly. But something in the air had changed, and Gnash, for all his bravado, recognized it.

  Beatrix looked to him from her globe, “Gnash I am well aware of what you are capable of. Make no mistake, you are a blunt tool. If you ever act without my direction again, then you’ll find out what I do with broken tools.

  Gnash’s grin twitched. But this time, it didn’t reach his eyes.

  Ilya spoke, his voice a low rumble, “What about Stone?”

  Beatrix gave him a side look, her other eyes remaining focused on Gnash, “What about him?”

  Ilya raised his hand as if displaying information, “He’s been getting closer. What do you wish for me to do about him.”

  “You already know of his family. That is enough. I wield power over the police department. I direct their movements when necessary. Steel and Stone are not a problem as their movements can be easily redirected.” she said.

  Gnash scratched his chin, and Ilya dropped his hand back to attention.

  “What I need from you, is to wrap up the loose ends you have already seen. I want you to make sure that anyone Stone has spoken with is taken care of. I want you to make sure that anyone that would potentially speak to Stone in the future knows what will happen to them as a result of doing so. I want you both to do your jobs.” She demanded.

  Another beat passed in stillness.

  Her mandibles split revealing a toothy smile, faint and cold. “The detectives are of no consequence and are to be left alone. They will be redirected as needed. Unless, of course, you have an issue with your cleanup that you left unattended to?”

  Ilya’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t speak.

  The tension between the three of them was clear. Beatrix knew she was ten moves ahead. She had backup plans at the ready in case one of them acted out.

  She turned her gaze back to the globe, her hand hovering over it like a deity over her world. “Magnus Drakenhart has run unchecked in this city for too long. His persistent interference to our operations will no longer be tolerated. His roots run too deep, but he’s not untouchable.”

  She tapped the surface of the globe once. “First, I clean my web. Then I pull his empire down around him. If you both wish to be rewarded with the prospective bounty this will bring, then you had both better get your acts together and resume your positions as the effective enforcers I need you to be.”

  Her secondary arms tucked back in tightly. “We're done here. Go clean up your respective messes and get back to work.”

  Gnash opened his mouth, but Beatrix interrupted by raising a finger. “Unless you’re about to thank me for not killing you, save it.”

  He shut his mouth. Then gave a low, theatrical bow. “Sure, Boss.”

  Ilya said nothing, only inclining his head once before turning toward the door.

  As they left, Beatrix stood in silence. When the door finally shut behind them, she tapped a rhythm on the glass globe. One-two-one. Over and over.

  She opened the sealed folder, revealing a half-dozen surveillance photographs, grainy, black and white, shot from rooftops and alley corners. Each a captured moment that, to most, would mean nothing. From the APD officers and their families, to Magnus Drakenhart and his. From politicians, to news anchors, to other rival criminal syndicates and mob bosses around the city.

  Beatrix saw everything. Everything was connected.

  Every web begins with a single thread.

  She pulled a photo of Katarina Drakenhart and studied it in silence. Her manipulators reached for a fountain pen and began scribbling notes into the margin of a leather-bound ledger beside the photos. The room was quiet save for the soft scratch of ink and the low rhythmic hum of the city outside.

  She finished writing and let the pen rest. Then, without looking up, she spoke.

  "A'mon, your job is done."

  From the high molding near the vaulted ceiling, something shifted. It was too smooth and too deliberate to be mistaken for a trick of the light.

  The office was more than luxurious; it was defensible. A structural beam above the bookcases had been hollowed out, masked with shadow and false relief, designed for one occupant: a failsafe.

  He made no sound. Carried no scent. But the rifle he bore had been trained on either Ilya or Gnash the entire time, hidden above, just waiting for Beatrix’s signal.

  A'mon unfolded from the hidden alcove, moving with glacial precision. The assassin descended silently onto the floor. His frame, smaller than Beatrix’s, was no less menacing: five feet of dense, corded muscle sheathed in dusky gray chitin. Four narrow abdomen limbs gripped the carved molding of the bookcase a moment longer, even as his clawed hands checked the tension of the rifle sling with mechanical efficiency.

  Beatrix watched him with a glint of calculation in her eyes. A'mon was no mere enforcer. He was a phantom bred in the Eastern Territories, a relic of a black-budget war effort no nation had ever formally acknowledged. She had acquired his contract through a web of bartered secrets and connections from the Crimson Ward, and even then, only because A'mon had allowed himself to be found.

  She doubted he followed orders in the way others did. He simply allowed them to align with his own silent precision. That was enough.

  His wings remained still, folded and silent. The skull-like marking on his thorax caught the low lamplight, turning his presence from myth to omen.

  A'mon said nothing. He never did. But his faceted eyes locked with Beatrix’s for a single heartbeat.

  She returned the gaze with cool certainty. “Your envelope is in the safe, same drop as last time. Cash and bearer bonds as usual.”

  A'mon dipped his head once in acknowledgment. Then, with the same eerie precision he had used to descend, he knelt beside the case resting in the shadows. With practiced ease, he field-stripped the rifle. Each piece was broken down in silent, fluid motions and laid into the velvet-lined slots of a hardened leather case. The latches clicked shut with a finality that echoed faintly in the still room.

  He stood, wings tucked, case in hand, and crossed the office with the soundless stride of a ghost. No wasted movement, no glance spared. He exited the room, his figure briefly framed in the light before the door closed behind him.

  Beatrix turned her attention back to the photo of Katarina. Her claw tapped it once, twice.

  Magnus Drakenhart’s empire would become hers or it would burn. And the unraveling would begin with his most vulnerable heiress.