Chapter 262 Playing Wife Wasn’t Supposed To Feel Real

“Before you ask, it was confiscated from a patrol officer who was reading it behind the barracks. He has been reprimanded. The reprimand was theatrical and insincere, because I had already read it myself.”

Matt Cross, Beta of Darkhowler, tossed a periodical on Garrett Darkhowler’s desk.

“You’re joking, Cross.” Garrett looked at the cover. The Knotty Omega. The title was printed in gold ink that managed to be both cheap and confident, which was, frankly, on brand.

“I’m bringing you intelligence that happens to be formatted as gossip.” Cross lowered himself into the chair across the desk with the deliberate ease of a man who understood that how you sat communicated as much as what you said. “There is a difference, and the difference matters. The courts of Skardos run on three currencies: gold, favors, and perception. You can stockpile the first two and still be ruined by the third.”

Garrett leaned back. “And the Knotty Omega shapes perception.”

“The Knotty Omega IS perception for sixty percent of the population that lacks direct access to the courts. Servants read it. Merchants read it. Low-ranking soldiers read it. The people who stock your kitchens, patrol your walls, and carry your correspondence read it on their breaks and bring its conclusions home to their families. You can dismiss it as tavern entertainment, and you would be correct. You would also be the last informed person in your own castle.”

He paused, letting the arithmetic settle the way good advisors always did: patiently, without rushing the student to the answer.

“It is always better to know what is being said about you than to discover it when the narrative has already calcified. Rumors are wet clay. By the time they harden, reshaping them requires a hammer, and hammers leave marks.”

Garrett studied him. There was an undertone beneath the lecture. Something specific. The particular frequency his Beta’s voice hit when the intelligence being delivered had a personal dimension he was choosing to present as academic.

Garrett caught it. Waved it off. Whatever it was, he’d find it himself. His Beta had given him the document and the justification. The rest was his to discover.

“Noted. Leave it.”

Cross stood, smoothing nothing from his trousers out of habit. “Page fourteen has a section on you. I would recommend starting there, but I suspect you’ll read the Serena section first because you are constitutionally incapable of ignoring anything related to that girl, and I say that with the respect it deserves.”

He left.

Garrett looked at the periodical for a long moment. Then he opened it, fully intending to start at page fourteen as advised.

He started at page one. Because Matt Cross was right about all of it, including the part about Serena.

The first twelve pages were exactly what he expected. Sensationalized, irreverent, and seventy percent accurate, which was the dangerous percentage, because it meant the remaining thirty percent would be believed on the strength of the seventy that checked out. The writer, whoever they were, had sources inside multiple courts and the editorial instincts of a propagandist who had chosen entertainment over warfare and was excelling at both.

The Serena sections were thorough. Two marks. Two kingdoms. The vigil at Dex’s bedside. The corridor incident with Guinevere, rendered with enough detail to confirm at least two eyewitnesses with direct line of sight. The Onyx situation, which made him grin in spite of himself, because he met that baby dragon a few times. Onyx outsmarting grown handlers was the least surprising thing in the entire publication.

He turned to page fourteen. His section.

The Knotty Omega had been generous with him, which was the first red flag, because gossip columns were only generous with people they intended to destroy later. He was described as ’suspiciously quiet,’ which was accurate.

“Fair.”

His border security increase was noted, which meant his patrol adjustments had been observed, which meant he needed to have a conversation with his perimeter captains about operational security around civilian foot traffic.

He turned the page.

Then he stopped.

✦✦✦

The clearing was three miles south of Darkhowler’s outer wall, past the patrol rotation and deep enough into the tree line that the canopy swallowed sound whole.

Agnes arrived first. She always arrived first, because her father had taught her that punctuality was control and tardiness was vulnerability.

The moon was low. The air smelled like pine and frost.

Reginald Viremont materialized from the tree line the way he always did: slowly, deliberately, as if the forest itself had been asked to produce him and had done so with reluctance.

“You’re late,” Agnes said.

“I am precisely when I intended to be.” He stopped six feet from her. Close enough to speak. Far enough to leave. The distance of a man who treated his daughter the way he treated negotiations: with calculated proximity and no wasted warmth.

Agnes studied him. Every meeting now carried a secondary layer of assessment that hadn’t been there six months ago. She used to look at her father and see the man who would hand her a kingdom. She now looked at him and saw the man who had used her as currency and called it parenting.

“Status,” he said.

“No updates. Garrett trusts me. Tiberon’s people stopped watching months ago.” She kept her voice flat. The delivery of a field agent reporting to a handler she no longer respected but couldn’t afford to disobey. “Serena and I are on civil terms.”

The lie about Serena was small. Technically, ’civil’ covered the spectrum between ’I called her my friend in a hallway’ and ’I would take a blade for her and I cannot explain why.’ Agnes chose the interpretation that kept her father’s hands off the situation.

“Dexmon has been unconscious or missing for the last week.”

Agnes shook her head. “Garrett hadn’t mentioned anything.”

“I need you to find out why. It’s important.”

“Understood.”

“You’ll also need to ready yourself to be repositioned soon,” he continued, shifting into the register he used when he was moving pieces on a board only he could see. “Your role in Darkhowler will remain as it is for now. Keep the heir close. Keep his trust.”

Translation: keep playing wife. Keep the door open. When I need you to walk through it, walk.

Agnes’s stomach twisted. He made sure to say them every meeting. A reminder that this was temporary.

“What about Orosia?” Agnes asked. The question was strategic, designed to keep him talking and keep her informed. Every piece of intelligence her father gave her was a piece Garrett could use. Garrett just wouldn’t know where it came from.