The Midnight Visitor

The moonlight spilled across Elara Vance’s desk, illuminating the scattered parchment and the half-empty inkwell like a spotlight on a chaotic stage. The University of Venza was asleep, or as asleep as a school for assassins and politicians ever got. The only sound in the dormitory was the scratching of Elara’s quill and the distant tolling of the bell tower signaling the witching hour.

Elara rubbed her temples. *Advanced Geopolitics of the Southern Trade Routes* was a dry subject, even for her, but if she wanted to be the youngest Consigliere in the history of the Vance family, she had to master the grain tariffs.

A pebble hit her windowpane. *Clack.*

Elara didn't look up. She dipped her quill.

Another pebble. *Clack.*

Then, a frantic scratching, followed by the grunt of someone trying to haul themselves up three stories of slick limestone.

Elara sighed, blew on the wet ink of her essay, and walked to the window. She unlatched the iron clasp and pushed it open.

Lorenzo "Enzo" Valenti tumbled into the room, landing in a heap of velvet and leather on her rug. He smelled of cheap wine, expensive cologne, and copper.

"You know," Enzo groaned, rolling onto his back and staring up at the vaulted ceiling, "most heiresses would have a trellis. Or at least a rope ladder. This sheer cliff face you call a dormitory is a health hazard."

"Most heirs enter through the door," Elara deadpanned, crossing her arms. "And most students are in bed, preparing for the Grand Exam next week. Why do you look like you wrestled a gargoyle?"

Enzo sat up, flashing the grin that had broken half the hearts in Venza. It was a crooked, reckless thing, usually accompanied by a wink. But tonight, the grin didn't reach his eyes. And his left sleeve was soaked in dark, wet blood.

"Technically, it was a Medici enforcer," Enzo said, wincing as he peeled back the fabric of his doublet. "But he had the personality of a gargoyle. Ugly, stone-faced, very bitey."

"Enzo!" Elara dropped to her knees beside him, her annoyance vanishing into practiced efficiency. She reached into the hidden pocket of her skirt—every Vance woman carried a basic field kit—and pulled out a strip of clean linen and a small vial of antiseptic spirits. "You were supposed to be at the Peace Banquet."

"I was," Enzo hissed as she poured the spirits over the gash on his forearm. "It was boring. I left early. Someone took offense."

"You provoked them, didn't you?" Elara began to bind the wound, her fingers nimble and sure. "You probably made a joke about the Medici Don’s wig."

"It’s not a wig, Elara, it’s a structural marvel. But no, I didn't provoke them." Enzo went quiet, watching her hands work. The usual electric hum of his energy dampened. "My father made an announcement."

Elara tied the knot tight. "What kind of announcement?"

Enzo looked at her. His eyes were the color of roasted espresso, usually bright with mischief, but now dark with resignation. "He’s moving the timeline up. The Guild War is costing too much gold. He wants to seal the alliance with the Grecco family."

Elara’s hands froze. The Grecco family. Their arch-rivals. The ones who specialized in poisons and had tried to burn down the University library last semester.

"You mean..." Elara swallowed the lump in her throat. "The marriage."

"Giulia Grecco," Enzo spat the name like a curse. "Next week. Before the Grand Exam."

Elara sat back on her heels. The room suddenly felt very cold. She and Enzo had been inseparable since they were five years old, running through the vineyards of his father’s estate while their fathers plotted murders in the study. She was the brain; he was the sword. That was the arrangement.

She was just the strategist. The tool. Tools didn't get to be jealous.

"Well," Elara said, forcing her voice to remain steady. "Giulia is... beautiful. In a terrifying, praying mantis sort of way. And her dowry includes the Southern Ports."

"I don't want the Southern Ports," Enzo said softly. He reached out, his calloused fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from Elara’s forehead. The touch sent a jolt through her that she desperately tried to ignore. "I’d rather fail the Exam than marry anyone who isn't smart enough to poison my wine correctly."

"Don't joke, Enzo."

"I'm not joking." He leaned forward, the intensity in his gaze pinning her to the spot. "I need a way out, El. You’re the smartest person in this city. Find me a loophole."

"The Marriage Accords are ironclad," Elara argued, standing up and pacing to put distance between them. "They were written three hundred years ago."

"Everything has a crack," Enzo said, standing up and wincing. "We just need to find it. Help me break the contract, Elara. Please."

Elara looked at him. The boy who had snuck her extra desserts when she was sad. The boy who had punched a duke’s son for calling her a 'bookworm.'

"Fine," she sighed, grabbing her cloak. "But if we get caught in the Library of Whispers after curfew, I’m blaming you."

Enzo’s grin returned, sharp and dangerous. "I wouldn't have it any other way."