Mother always said some bridges need burning, Drizella thought grimly, committing to the strike. Let's see how well Treasury gold burns instead.
The thundering of hooves shattered the warehouse's tense standoff. Drizella's heart lurched as massive doors splintered inward, showering the loading dock with wooden shrapnel. Through the dust cloud burst a midnight stallion, nostrils flaring red, iron shoes striking sparks against stone as it charged straight through the cluster of Treasury guards. Men dove left and right, their tools clattering across the floor.
Prince Alistair sat astride the beast like a demon of judgment, his usually pristine royal jacket now dust-covered and torn at one sleeve. The horse reared, pawing the air mere inches from Official Silas's face. The Treasury man stumbled backward, his warrant fluttering forgotten from trembling fingers.
He knows. He must know everything. Drizella's ribs screamed as she pressed herself against the cold metal of the mechanized loom, mind racing. The prince's presence meant either salvation or complete ruin - and she had precious seconds to determine which.
"Your Highness," Silas sputtered, dropping into a clumsy bow. "This is a Treasury matter. These individuals are operating illegal-"
"Are operating under my direct authority," Alistair cut in, his voice carrying the weight of steel. He swung down from the saddle in one fluid motion, boots hitting the stone with a decisive crack. "Or did you somehow miss the royal seal on their documentation?"
Drizella's fingers dug into the loom's gears. What game is he playing? There was no royal seal, no documentation - only the forged papers she'd created herself. Her gaze darted between Alistair's face and the nearest exit, calculating odds.
The prince stalked forward, dust swirling around his boots. His usually perfectly-coiffed dark hair was wild, strands falling across eyes that burned with something dangerous. "Show me this warrant."
Silas scrambled to retrieve the fallen paper, but Alistair snatched it before he could straighten. The prince's eyes scanned the text, his jaw tightening. The warehouse air grew thick with tension, broken only by the nervous shuffling of guards and the occasional snort from the still-agitated horse.
"This warrant," Alistair said, voice dropping to a lethal whisper, "is dated three days hence." He advanced on Silas, who retreated step by step. "Are you executing future warrants now, Official? Or perhaps..." He crumpled the paper in his fist. "Perhaps someone in the Treasury is overstepping their bounds?"
A bead of sweat rolled down Silas's temple. "Your Highness, I assure you-"
"You assure me nothing." Alistair's words cracked like a whip. He turned to address the guards, who stood frozen in uncertainty. "Clear this warehouse. Now."
The guards hesitated, looking to Silas. The Official's face had gone chalk-white, but he managed a jerky nod. They filed out, tools abandoned where they'd fallen, boots scraping against stone.
Only when the last guard disappeared did Alistair turn to face Drizella. His expression shifted, something unreadable flickering behind those noble features. He closed the distance between them in measured steps, stopping close enough that she could smell leather and horse sweat and something distinctly royal - ink and silver and power.
"Miss Tremaine." His voice dropped lower, for her ears alone. "I believe we need to have a conversation about exactly what you've been weaving in this warehouse."
Drizella's heart hammered against her bruised ribs. She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze directly. The real game begins now. "Indeed we do, Your Highness. Indeed we do."
The thunder of hooves on wooden planks scattered Drizella's thoughts like startled birds. She stumbled back from the advancing Treasury guards, her bruised ribs screaming as Prince Alistair's massive black stallion crashed through the warehouse entrance. Sawdust and morning light swirled in his wake, the beast's iron shoes striking sparks against the floor.
Of course he'd make an entrance. Theatrical bastard. Her fingers clenched around the edge of the loom, splinters biting into her reopened scabs.
Alistair dismounted in one fluid motion, his riding boots hitting the planks with a resonance that silenced the warehouse. He moved with deliberate grace, positioning himself directly between Drizella and Official Silas. The prince's burgundy jacket bore traces of hard riding - sweat-darkened collar, mud-spattered cuffs - but his voice carried the crystalline authority of the Crown.
"Official Silas." He didn't bow. "I wasn't aware the Treasury conducted raids without royal notification."
The warehouse air grew thick with tension. Drizella could taste metal on her tongue, whether from her split lip or from the crackling atmosphere, she couldn't tell. Her pulse hammered against her throat as she watched Silas's face shift through a cascade of micro-expressions: shock, calculation, barely-masked rage.
"Your Highness." Silas's bow was precise to the exact degree required - no more, no less. "We operate under independent authority when investigating matters of revenue fraud."
"Revenue fraud?" Alistair's laugh held all the warmth of a midwinter night. "In a Guild-sanctioned facility?"
"The Guild's protection is fraudulent." Silas thrust the warrant forward. "There is no record of royal patents for their mechanized process."
Because I forged them, Drizella thought, forcing her face to remain neutral even as her stomach clenched. She felt Guildmaster Thorin shift beside her, his massive frame tensing like a bear about to charge.
"The patents," Alistair said, "were processed directly through my office." He turned slightly, angling himself so both Silas and Drizella could see his profile. "Which makes this raid not only premature but potentially... treasonous."
The word dropped like a stone in still water. Behind Silas, the Treasury guards exchanged uneasy glances, their heavy tools lowering fractionally. Drizella's mind raced. He's lying. He has to be lying. Unless...
"My Prince." Silas's voice had gone dangerously soft. "Are you claiming personal oversight of this operation?"
"I'm claiming," Alistair said, "that you're interfering with Crown business." He stepped closer, forcing Silas to tilt his head back slightly to maintain eye contact. "Unless you'd like to explain to my father why you're disrupting our new military textile contract?"
Military contract. The words hit Drizella like a physical blow. He's not just covering for us - he's claiming the revolutionary fabric for the Crown. She watched Alistair's shoulders, the precise way he held himself, and realized with crystal clarity that she wasn't the only one playing a dangerous game.
Silas's jaw worked silently. The warrant in his hand trembled almost imperceptibly. "I was unaware of Your Highness's... involvement."
"Now you are." Alistair's smile didn't reach his eyes. "I trust you can find your way out?"
The warehouse held its breath. Drizella's fingers had gone numb against the loom's frame, but she didn't dare move. One wrong step, one wrong word, and this fragile moment would shatter like glass.