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The villa breathed gold this night. As it did every night, but tonight the Villa’s halls were lively and ripe with festivities. For a party was thrown… A banquet of sorts, filled with a handful of special guests and most of the noble houses coming to enjoy the wine, food and of course Lady Catherine Alyamatah.

From the chandelier’s shimmering teeth to the velvet carpets soft enough to drown a whisper, House Alyamatah’s private estate could have convinced a pauper that heaven was paved with coin. In the velvet atrium, time slowed to a purr. Gilded glasses clinked, firelight danced on cut crystal, and the Lady of Coin lounged like she owned not just the room, but the world beyond it.

Because she did.

Catherine Alyamatah, draped across her chaise longue in a sea of black silk, was halfway through her third pre-banquet drink. Her heels, buffed to a mirror shine, dangled off her toes like discarded thoughts. Her laugh was sharp enough to slice fruit and sweet enough to make a drunk noble forget his debts.

She was already glowing.

“Evaline, my dear,” Catherine called without turning, “how many of tonight’s guests are in debt to me again?” She smirked thinking to herself, almost making a bet in prediction silently before Eva told her.

Across the room, Evaline Sinclair didn’t flinch from her ledger. She stood stiff-backed in her black and gold uniform, more statue than girl, a quill held like a knife. “Twelve monarchs confirmed. Five behind. Three are lying. Two stalling. One already here. Drunk.” she said with a slight annoyance to the drunk one she spoke of. 

Catherine let out a delighted sigh, throwing her head back into the cushions. “Oh, it is going to be a charming little circus. I might forgive one of them just for being entertaining.” she jested with a giggle to tickle Evaline with.

“You won’t,” Evaline replied, dry as parchment.

“No, but isn’t it darling to pretend?”

Near the floor, Mable knelt with a brush, polishing Catherine’s slippers in practiced silence. Her long sleeves, hiding the inked stories of her tribe, hung past her wrists like mourning veils. She said nothing unless asked—except around Catherine. With her, sometimes, she smiled. “Mable, sweetling,” Catherine said, eyes fluttering open, “bring me the pearls. No, the big ones. I want to look frightfully expensive tonight, as if I could buy their kingdoms just to burn them for warmth.” She grinned and winked to the young tattooed servant.

Mable rose without comment, vanishing behind a curtain, while Evaline flipped a page with quiet precision. “They’ll ask for more tonight,” she said. “Every one of them. They’ll pretend it’s for their people. It never is.” Eva sighed and shook her head through the bullshit excuses she’d memorized.

Catherine wiggled her fingers in the air. “Yes, yes. Castles need fountains, and fountains need gold, and the only gold left is mine… Honestly, if I knew I’d be this popular, I would have installed a ticket booth at birth.” She rolled her eyes, giving a smirk at her own clever joke and delivery.

“You can still install a debt window,” Evaline countered with a soft sigh, a jest… but also thought it slightly practical. Just then, Mable returned, her footsteps whisper-soft, carrying a long strand of ivory pearls that caught the light like water. Catherine leaned forward so the girl could drape them over her bare shoulders.

“Do I look like a goddess or a criminal tonight?” Catherine asked, looking over the mocha-skinned servant. 

Mable didn’t hesitate. “You look like trouble.” A loving smile escaped from Mable’s lips.

Catherine grinned. “Perfect.” She pinched Mable’s cheek gently with a wink.

She stood, and the entire room adjusted itself to her movement. The folds of her dress shimmered, pooling at her ankles like a flood held back by a whim. She tapped a ring against her glass. “Evaline, you’re to be at my side all night. Scowl appropriately. And Mable, my darling starling, make sure no one steals the silverware. Or the musicians… I grow quite fond of those as the night goes on. Or were it the drink?” She playfully thought to herself. Catherine and her damned dramatics.

“They wouldn’t dare,” Evaline said, grumbling to herself.

“They would,” Catherine hummed, a small smile stained her lips.. “They simply haven’t been caught yet.”

The banquet hall opened like a theatre curtain, revealing a world dressed in deception. Tables bent under weighty dishes—quail glazed in honey, crystal bowls of sugared fruit, and wine so old it practically whispered its own lineage. Musicians in the gallery struck up something soft and polite. Monarchs and ministers circled like painted sharks, teeth hidden behind jeweled smiles.

Catherine floated among them, a storm in void colored silk. Evaline followed a step behind, her eyes catching every twitch of etiquette, every too-long stare at the coin-shaped crest sewn onto Catherine’s sleeve. Mable trailed a little farther, her arms full of spare linens and fanfolds, her gaze flicking from plate to plate, from noble to noble. They bowed when Catherine passed—but not with respect. With need. Hunger. Lust.

And then he appeared. One King Maranth of Aezhur. Broad-shouldered, perfumed, and polished to perfection. His coat was stitched with thread-of-gold, and his voice carried like a man who’d never been told “no.” He bowed low. Too low. “Lady Alyamatah,” he purred. “You are—ah!—the moon’s envy tonight. Might I steal a moment of your very valuable time?”

Evaline moved closer, already sensing the script. Catherine tilted her head, letting her pearls catch the candlelight like a net of stars. “Your Majesty,” Catherine said, voice velveted. “If it’s just a moment, you may steal it. If it’s more than that, you’ll have to negotiate.”

Maranth chuckled, teeth white as peeled almonds. “Ever the charmer. And so young to hold the world’s wealth in those delicate hands.”

Evaline’s grip tightened on her ledger and Maranth leaned in, lowering his voice.

“I find myself in… temporary flux. Nothing shameful. Merely the nature of empire—supply chains, drought, pirates, the usual rot. But I believe, with your vision, and perhaps a modest extension of our prior loan—”

“No,” Catherine said.

The word sliced through the room like a snapped violin string.

Maranth blinked. “…I beg your pardon?”

Catherine smiled, and this time there was steel behind the curve of her lips. “You begged last time, too. And the time before that. I believe you offered me a duchy once—one of them, anyway. You’ve so many. How is the market for fake titles these days?” The guests nearby hushed. Evaline straightened slightly. Mable stopped moving.

Maranth’s face tightened. “You would deny a king—”

“I would deny a liar,” Catherine said, her voice now sharp and sing-song, like a piano played too fast. “Your ‘flux’ is a fleet of new ships, gilded and gaudy, meant to parade through Aezhur’s rivers while your farmers starve. You sell me stories, and I collect stories, Your Majesty. Especially the ones that don’t end well.”

He took a step forward, lowering his voice. “Do you truly understand the power you trifle with, girl?” he asked, confused, but couldn’t help but smile through the rejection. It was… absurd to him. Other worldly, even.

Evaline moved in but Catherine lifted a single hand, stopping her. “I do,” she said, low and even. “It’s the power of debt. It makes kings dance and empires crawl. And right now, you owe me. That means, technically, I own you. So if you’d like to continue your reign without a knock at your gates from twenty unpaid generals, I suggest you drink, smile, and pretend you’re enjoying the duck.. Or were it quail tonight?.” she asked with a raised brow. Knowing he’d know, since he was here to eat the food and drink the wine. They all do.

There was silence. Long and cold. The man was silent, turning away… trying to salvage what little nerve he had left. Wondering if he should show his face anywhere near the bar, or perhaps hide in the washroom a while, for the eve was young and he’d no more business groveling or asking for what he’d came here for in the first place. Surely, he’d not hold this against the Coin in any way…

Then Catherine turned to Evaline with a glittering, triumphant smirk. “Was I too harsh, darling?”

Evaline stared at her a moment. “No,” she said, a little softer than usual. “You were perfect.” Eva nearly smiled.

And Mable, standing off to the side, saw it all.

The moment the predators turned cautious. The way Catherine’s hand shook just once, then stilled. How the other nobles whispered behind their fans, recalculating their positions, suddenly unsure whether the Lady of Coin was just a girl—or something far more dangerous.

And for the first time, Mable understood:

This world didn’t love Catherine.

It wanted her.

And wanting, she realized, was just another word for hunger.

-

Later that night...

The laughter had long since died. Candles sputtered in their holders, dripping lazy wax down silver stems. Mable moved quietly through the ruins of the evening’s grandeur, her feet whispering across marble in soft soles, her arms loaded with gilded plates stacked like scales of a serpent. The sweet rot of spilled wine clung to the air.

She paused near the head of the table, eyes narrowing.

“Uno… dos…" A pause as she looked over again. "Falta uno,” she murmured under her breath, counting the forks. One of the finer ones was missing—two, in fact, maybe three. A few spoons too. Her gaze scanned the length of the table, littered with overturned goblets and fruit bruised beyond saving. Catherine had been right. Again.

Mable exhaled and tried to focus, but the thought stuck like a burr under her skin.

The door creaked, and in strode Evaline.

She wasn’t in uniform now. Her tightly cinched bodice was loosed, sleeves rolled, ledger finally nowhere in sight. She looked like a girl—bone-tired and beautiful in her own distant way. Mable straightened instinctively.

“Relax,” Evaline said, voice even, crossing the room. “Catherine’s in her chambers. Half-asleep and ranting about stars.”

She sat down on the banquet table with a faint groan and kicked her legs gently beneath it, eyeing Mable.

“You clean like you’re punishing the plates.”

Mable smirked faintly but didn’t look up. “Maybe I am. They had to suffer tonight too, no?”

Evaline leaned back on her hands, watching her in silence.

“…She was right,” Mable said softly after a beat. “Some of the silver’s gone.”

Evaline said nothing.

Mable finally looked up. Her eyes were glossy with thoughts that hadn’t found words yet.

“I saw how they looked at her. Those lords, those kings. Like—like they were carving her up in their minds already. How much could they borrow? How deep could they get before she’d even notice?”

Evaline remained still. Her expression unreadable.

“I think… she knows it too. That’s why she had dinner with us before this party. Maybe she was scared. Or maybe she just wanted to be around people who don’t want anything from her.”

Mable set the last plate down, hands now empty. “It hurts, you know. Seeing it. I didn’t grow up with all this coin and crown nonsense. But I can feel when a room has wolves in it.”

Evaline still didn’t speak. She stared ahead, where the candlelight flickered against a half-empty goblet.

But inside her mind, the ledger turned.

Is she right?

Was that dinner—Catherine’s clumsy little feast with stolen wine and crooked candles—her shield against loneliness?

Is Mable seeing something I’ve chosen not to?

Evaline’s mouth opened, as if to answer—but closed again. Words were too heavy tonight. Too sharp, too close to the truth.

Instead, she stood, stepped beside Mable, and began gathering the last of the silver that hadn’t vanished.

“You missed a spoon,” she said softly.

Then after a pause: “…They always take the prettiest ones.”

Mable looked at her. Evaline didn’t meet her gaze.

But she didn’t have to.