The silence in the Duke’s office was a physical thing, thick and heavy. The holographic cityscape beyond the glass wall painted Alistair’s strained face in cold, shifting light.

“I had no part in it, Marius,” Alistair said again, his voice low and urgent. He kept his hands open on the desk, a gesture of surrender. “The attack on Artanis… House Laurien moved on their own accord. I swear it. I would never betray Arturus like that. He is my friend.”

Marius—his mind still grappling with the dissonance of hearing his own name in Sara Kerigan’s voice—watched him intently. The Duke’s fear had been real, but this… this had the ring of truth, or a superb performance. “Then who gave them the opening? Who looked the other way while a Core World burned?”

Alistair leaned forward, his composure cracking to reveal genuine frustration. “The Dominion. It has to be. In the last six months, they’ve deployed full battalions of Dominion Marines to ‘garrison’ coreworlds under the new integration decree. Including mine. They arrived with sealed orders, answerable only to the Imperial Liaison. When the news from Artanis broke, they said nothing. Absolutely nothing. And when I demanded answers, the Liaison’s office became a wall of polite, silent avoidance.”

He met Marius’s eyes, his own gleaming with a sincerity that cut through the political veneer. “I am many things, Marius. An opportunist, a pragmatist. But I am not a fratricide. I will not betray my friend.”

Marius processed the information, the pieces clicking into a darker, more terrifying picture than simple House rivalry. “Has Arturus made contact with you? Since the attack?”

“No,” Alistair said, a shadow crossing his face. “Not a word. I’ve sent encrypted pulses into the void for weeks. Only silence comes back.”

For a long moment, Marius just stared. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he stood up from where he’d been leaning over the Duke and took a step back, giving him space. The implicit threat in his posture dissolved. He believed him.

Alistair let out a shaky breath, straightening his jacket as he rose from his chair. He tried to assume a normal stance, but his eyes were now sharp with a technician’s curiosity, scanning the woman before him. He took a tentative step closer.

“This disguise…” Alistair murmured, his gaze tracing the line of Sara’s jaw, the subtle curve of her throat. “It’s not holographic. I touched your skin. It’s… biological?”

Marius hesitated, the secret a palpable weight. “Mostly permanent,” he admitted, the gravel of his natural voice stark in the quiet room. “But reversible. In time.”

Alistair didn’t look surprised. A sad, knowing smile touched his lips. “I should have guessed. You always were willing to go further than anyone else for Arturus’s sake. For his family.” Then his expression shifted, the political operator returning. “The boy. Vernon. Is he…?”

The name was a lance to Marius’s heart. Vernon. Not a political asset, but the grieving, terrified young man waiting in a hall full of enemies, wearing a skin that wasn’t his.

“He’s here,” Marius said, the words tight.

Alistair’s eyes widened. “Here? In my palace?”

“In your ballroom. Pretending to be my daughter.” Marius’s mind raced, formulating the next move. “When was the last time you saw him? Arturus’s heir?”

“A decade ago, at least,” Alistair said, his voice softening with memory. “A quiet child, always watching. He has his mother’s eyes.”

“He needs to see a friendly face. One that knows who he is.” Marius pointed a commanding finger at the Duke. “Go back out there. Fetch the young woman you brought in as ‘Sara Kerigan’s daughter.’ Use the same excuse. Say you’re… taken with her. That you wish for a private introduction. Sell it to your guards. Bring her here, and do not let a single soul suspect she is anything more than a pretty diversion.”

Alistair nodded, the plan settling over him like a familiar cloak. The charming, lecherous Duke was a mask he knew how to wear. “It will be done.”

After Alistair slipped out, the office felt cavernous. Marius didn’t sit in the guest chair. He perched on the edge of Alistair’s polished obsidian desk, a silent, still figure in an elegant gown, waiting. The minutes stretched. He listened to the hum of the climate field and the distant, muffled thrum of music from the gala.

The mechanical door hissed open.

Laura stood in the threshold, guided in by Alistair’s hand lightly on the small of her back. Her face was a masterpiece of confused apprehension, her eyes wide as they darted from the opulent room to the Duke to the unfamiliar woman on the desk. She was playing her part, the flattered, nervous girl, but Marius could see the raw fear underneath.

The door sealed shut, cutting off the symphony of the gala.

Alistair immediately dropped his hand and stepped away, his performative leer vanishing. Marius pushed off the desk and walked toward them, his movements slow, deliberate.

“Laura,” Marius said, and this time he made no effort to modulate Sara’s voice. His own, deep and unmistakably male, filled the space. “Breathe. You need to calm down. You’re safe here.”

Laura flinched at the sound, her gaze snapping to Marius, confusion warring with a dawning, impossible hope.

Alistair gave her a small, genuine smile, utterly transformed from the man who had fetched her. “He’s right. You are safe. My name is Alistair Riven. I was—I am—your father’s friend.” He took a half-step closer, his voice dropping to a gentle, confidential tone. “And I am your godfather, Vernon. Though I doubt you remember me. The last time I held you, you were barely tall enough to reach my knee.”

The name—his real name—spoken aloud in this place of safety, by a man who claimed a tie of blood and oath, was too much. Laura’s—Vernon’s—carefully constructed composure shattered. A choked sound escaped her lips, and her hands, which had been clasped demurely before her, began to tremble. The clueless young woman was gone, and in her place stood a lost heir, staring at a ghost from a life he thought had been erased.