Maren Whisp wanted the throne of Ruby, and tonight she would steal the proof that could win it. For years she had whispered counsel into noble ears. Every word she gave served only herself. But counsel was not a crown. To rule Ruby as regent, she needed the lords to turn on the monarch, and the lords would not turn on rumor. They wanted proof the monarch was weak. Maren had none. Last week she had leaned close to a duke and suggested the king could not hold his seat. The duke's face went cold. "That is treason, advisor," he said, and walked away. She had learned her lesson. Honeyed words alone sounded like a knife at the king's back. She needed something they could hold in their hands. So she came to the monarch's chambers while the king slept elsewhere. Her silk robe made no sound. She knew what she hunted. The king kept a pet in these rooms, a sleek fox with a mirrored coat and dark markings like spilled ink. The beast was no ordinary animal. Its blood-red fur was said to shimmer with secrets the king could not bear anyone to see. The fox watched her from the hearth. A great serpent coiled in a glass tank beside it, pale and frosted, its breath fogging the glass. The serpent was the king's prized gift from a northern court. Maren ignored the serpent. She wanted the fox. She crouched and held out an ink-stained hand. The fox came closer. On a low table lay a folded letter, pinned beneath the fox's paw like a toy. Maren recognized the king's seal, broken. She read the first line and her breath caught. The king had written to a foreign power, begging for coin and soldiers. He confessed he could no longer pay his own guard. His throne was hollow. This was the proof. No whisper, no guess. The king's own hand, admitting weakness. Maren reached for the letter. The fox snapped. Its teeth tore her sleeve, and the serpent's tank cracked where her elbow struck it. Cold air hissed out. The fox bolted for the door. Maren lunged and caught the letter, but the fox's claws raked the parchment, tearing it in two. She clutched both halves to her chest. She fled before the guards came. In her own chamber she smoothed the torn letter flat. The seal was intact. The confession was whole. She had her proof at last. But her sleeve was ripped, and the king's fox had seen her face. By morning the king would know his letter was gone. He would know someone had come for it. Maren pressed the parchment to the candle flame, then pulled it back, unburned. She would not destroy it. She would use it. The lords would believe her now. The only question was whether she could reach them before the king reached her first.