Chapter 180: Ink and Judgment
Chapter 179: Ink and Judgment
Mercer’s Row did not look like a street anymore.
It looked like a gathering.
Like the entire capital had decided, without formal agreement, that rest was optional and curiosity was not.
Mercer’s Row had been transformed once more. Benches dragged out from homes, barrels overturned, mismatched chairs stolen from kitchens and storerooms—everything arranged facing upward toward the hovering glow of the scrying veil.
Above them, the competition played out like a second sky.
And below it, life held its breath.
The Tallow and Tide had become the center of that breath.
Brianna sat between Olly and Jacob like she had appointed herself moral authority of the evening.
Which, in truth, she had.
Olly stretched his legs out, leaning back in his chair with ease.
Jacob, on the other hand, leaned forward like he was about to argue with the sky itself.
Helen moved between them all.
A tray in one hand. A mug in the other. Her apron already stained with foam and heat.
"Ye lot act like ye’ve never seen light in the sky before," she muttered, dropping a drink in front of Jacob.
Jacob took it without looking away from the veil, chuckling under his breath.
"I still think," he said, "instead o’ all this poetry nonsense, the royal family should’ve made the suitors fight each other."
Olly choked slightly on his drink. "What?"
Jacob nodded, serious as ever. "A proper match. No ink, no speeches. Just let ’em go at it. See who’s left standin’. That’s how ye know who’s fit to stand beside a princess like ours."
Brianna’s eyes lit up instantly. "That sounds exciting."
Helen passed by again, not even slowing.
"That sounds like trouble," she said flatly.
Jacob waved a hand. "It’s efficient."
"It’s idiotic," Olly shot back. "They’re nobles, Jacob. Not tavern brawlers. They ain’t built for that."
Jacob frowned. "And that’s a problem why?"
"’Cause it ain’t just about fightin’," Olly said, leaning forward now, his voice sharpening. "Ye think a princess needs someone who can swing a sword? Aye, maybe. But she also needs someone who can stand in a room full o’ wolves and not look like prey."
He jerked his chin upward.
"Those men up there don’t just kill with blades. They kill with words."
Jacob rolled his eyes. "Words don’t stop an axe."
Olly pointed at him. "No—but they stop armies from ever needin’ one."
That quieted Jacob for a second.
Brianna looked between them, taking it all in like it mattered equally.
"So... both?" she asked.
Helen returned just in time to hear that.
"Both what?" she asked.
Brianna sat up straighter. "Someone who can fight and talk."
Helen gave a small shrug. "Wouldn’t hurt."
Olly gave her a side glance. "That sounded dangerously reasonable, Helen."
"I’ve me moments," she muttered.
Above them, the competition continued.
The scrying veil shimmered as the suitors moved, pens scratching, parchment turning.
The entire capital seemed to tilt toward it.
Even those pretending not to care were listening too closely.
"I still say a tournament would’ve been better," Jacob muttered.
Olly sighed. "Ye’re obsessed with blood."
"I’m practical," Jacob shot back.
Brianna nodded seriously. "I like tournaments."
Helen pointed at her without looking. "Aye, ye always like things ye shouldna."
The room chuckled softly.
Even the tension of the sky-screened competition eased slightly under it.
Until a bell rang.
The sound cut through Mercer’s Row. Conversations died mid-sentence.
A few mugs paused halfway to mouths.
Even Brianna went still.
On the veil above, every candidate stopped writing at the exact same moment.
Pens lowered.
The competition had ended.
Jacob muttered, almost reverently, "That’s it..."
Olly leaned forward. "Now it gets interestin’."
Helen placed her tray down and folded her arms, watching.
Above them, a footman stepped forward in the projection.
His voice carried clearly across the capital.
"The poetry writing phase has concluded," he announced. "The suitor candidates will now be called forward to present their work."
A ripple moved through the crowd on Mercer’s Row.
Jacob leaned forward slightly. "Go on then..."
The footman unrolled a parchment.
The sound of paper seemed louder than it should’ve been.
He scanned it, then spoke.
"Duke Lucian Aurelgrave."
Lucian stepped forward on the projection. He was composed as he moved, picking up his parchment without hesitation.
Brianna leaned in slightly. "That’s the nice one."
Olly raised an eyebrow. "Ye’ve decided that already?"
"He speaks proper," she said, like that settled it.
Jacob huffed. "That’s all it takes, eh?"
Helen didn’t respond.
Her eyes stayed fixed on the veil.
Duke Aurelgrave reached the center and lifted his parchment, ready to read what he had written—
"Before you begin," the Queen cut in.
Her image sharpened within the veil, her presence filling the space like it belonged to her more than the hall itself.
A murmur stirred in the street—then died just as quick.
She spoke calmly.
"Give the parchment to one of the Moon candidates, so they may read it aloud."
Jacob blinked. "What?"
Olly frowned. "That’s new..."
Brianna tilted her head. "Why’d they do that?"
Helen’s expression sharpened slightly. "Control."
Jacob glanced at her. "Control how?"
"It keeps ’em in it," she said quietly. "Makes sure folk don’t forget they’re there. Keeps ’em visible."
Olly exhaled. "Or reminds ’em what they are."
Above them, Lucian hesitated only briefly—then lowered the parchment.
The Queen turned slightly within the veil.
Then she looked to the King.
"Is that not best?" she asked.
The question was soft.
But it carried weight that did not belong to softness.
The King nodded.
"Yes," he said simply. "Reckon it’ll make the Moon candidates more... involved."
Helen didn’t like the sound of that.
Olly glanced at her. "Ye think there’s somethin’ else to it?"
Helen shook her head slightly. "I don’t know. But with nobles—there’s always somethin’, ain’t there?"
Jacob grunted. "Ain’t wrong there."
They turned back to the veil.
And Mercer’s Row fell quiet again, watching as Duke Aurelgrave began to move towards one of the suitor candidates.
