Asema stands in the doorway of the library. She is fully armored, her helmet tucked under her arm. Her face is unreadable, a mask of stone, but her eyes are sharp. She looks from the burning book to me.
"Captain," I say. My voice is steady, but my heart hammers a traitorous rhythm. "You are up early."
"I did not sleep well," she says. She steps into the room, the metal of her greaves scraping against the stone. She stops a respectful distance away, but her posture is not submissive. It is alert.
"The estate is restless," she continues. "The shadows are... thin."
She is Miou. She does not have magic, but she has instincts honed on a hundred battlefields. She can sense that the heavy, oppressive atmosphere of my power is gone.
"Is there a report, Asema?" I ask, stepping away from the fire, placing my body between her and the evidence of my heresy.
"Rina found the door to your chambers locked," Asema says. "She could not enter to clean or bring the morning meal."
"I did not wish to be disturbed."
Asema’s gaze flicks to my hand. To the dull, lifeless ring.
"Lord Malek has sent a messenger," she says quietly. "He requests a tour of the southern fortifications tomorrow. He says he wishes to admire your... defenses."
It is a trap. He wants to see if I can ward the walls. To see if I am truly powerless.
"Tell him I accept," I say. "Whatever game he is playing, I will finish it."
Asema nods, but she does not leave. She looks at me, really looks at me, in a way a subordinate never should.
"My Lord," she whispers, her voice dropping. "The Serpent sees all."
It is a warning. A common phrase, usually meant to invoke fear in slaves. But from her, it sounds like an accusation. She knows. She knows I am compromised. She knows I am hiding something in my bed and burning books in my library.
"The Serpent sees what I allow Him to see," I lie, putting a cold arrogance into my voice that I do not feel. "Dismissed, Captain."
Asema holds my gaze for a heartbeat longer than is safe. Then, she bows—stiffly, mechanically—and turns on her heel.
I watch her go. The warning hangs in the air, heavier than the smoke from the fire.
My household knows. My enemy knows. And I am standing here, unarmed, protecting the very thing that is destroying me.
10
LEORA
The lock on the bedroom door clicks open, but it is not the smooth, practiced sound of the key turning. It is jarring, hasty, as if the hand holding it is shaking.
I am sitting by the hearth, my knees pulled to my chest, staring into the dying embers. The room is cold. The heavy velvet drapes are drawn tight against the morning light, trapping the shadows inside. I have been waiting for hours, listening to the silence of the estate, trying to decipher the shifting currents of emotion bleeding through the walls.
Imas enters.
He looks as if he has been fighting a war in his own mind and losing. His platinum hair is loose, wild around his face, and his skin has a gray, sickly pallor that makes the sharp angles of his cheekbones look like blades. He has discarded the simple tunic he wore earlier; he is bare-chested, wearing only loose black breeches, his feet bare on the stone floor.
He shuts the door and leans his forehead against the wood for a long moment, breathing hard.
I stand up slowly, pressing my back against the mantel. The energy in the room changes instantly. The calm I have beencarefully maintaining fractures under the sheer weight of his distress.
It slams into me like a physical wave—a tangled, screaming knot of panic, longing, and a terrifying, hollow emptiness. It feels like standing on the edge of a sinkhole that is widening by the second.
"My Lord?" I whisper.
He spins around. His eyes are wide, the violet irises burning with a feverish light. He stares at me, but it feels like he is looking through me, searching for something invisible.
