Large, breathtaking, so detailed I could almost hear the crash of water against rock. Ocean waves throwing themselves against cliffs with the kind of violence that looked like fury and grief had a child. The colours were storm-dark blues and whites, foaming greens, the cliffs rendered in shades of grey that made them look both ancient and fragile.
It was beautiful in a way that hurt to look at. Beauty that came from understanding loss.
“I—” The words died in my throat because I genuinely didn’t know what to say. This room felt like a secret I hadn’t earned. Like walking into someone’s diary.
“I don’t usually entertain.” Cindrissian’s voice had lost its usual edge of performance, going quiet in a way that made him sound younger. Almost vulnerable. He was standing just inside the closed door, watching me take in his space with an expression I’d never seen on him before.
Awkward.
The Master of Interrogations, the male who’d followed me through a city at night without breaking a sweat, who moved through shadows like he’d been born there, looked genuinely uncomfortable with me seeing where he lived.
“It’s…” I tried to find words that wouldn’t sound like pity or judgment. “It’s nice. Cozy. Not what I expected from someone with your reputation.”
His laugh was short, surprised. “My reputation involves a lot of leather and intimidation. Neither of which are particularly comfortable for extended periods.” He moved past me, the awkwardness already smoothing away, slipping back into that familiar mask of casual amusement. “Besides, if I’m going tospend eternity doing unpleasant things to people, I’d prefer to come home to something that doesn’t make me want to set myself on fire.”
He headed toward a sideboard I hadn’t noticed—dark wood, simple lines, holding an array of bottles and glasses. His hands moved, selecting a crystal decanter and pouring amber liquid into two glasses.
“So.” He turned back to face me, holding both glasses, and the smirk was back in full force. “What can I do for you, Isara?”
I didn’t take the offered glass. Didn’t let myself get comfortable. I needed to stay focused, stay angry enough not to get distracted by the fact that this room felt more human than anything else in this gods-damned castle.
“Did you know Merrick?” The question came out flat. Direct. “Before. At Nyxaria.”
Cindrissian’s expression didn’t change, but something shuttered behind his eyes. He set both glasses down on the low table between the chairs with deliberate care. “Yes.”
“How well?”
“Well enough to know he was dangerous. Well enough to make it out of Nyxaria alive when I left.” He moved to the burgundy chair, sinking into it. “Merrick and I ran in similar circles before Eilrys and I fled. Why?”
“Because he said things.” I stayed standing, arms crossed, refusing to let my guard down. “In that cave. About Varyth. About me being caught in something I don’t understand.”
Cindrissian’s fingers drummed once against the arm of the chair. “And you want to know if he was lying.”
“I want to know if he was fucking with me. If this is some elaborate game to—I don’t know, make me doubt Varyth, turn me against him, deliver me to Ashterion wrapped in paranoia and distrust.”
“Smart questions.” He leaned back, studying me with that intensity that made me feel like he was reading a book written in my bones. “The answer is complicated.”
“Then uncomplicate it.”
His laugh was almost fond. “You really don’t do subtlety, do you?”
“Not when people are dropping cryptic warnings about the male who’s keeping me alive while half the realm wants me dead or worse.” My hands clenched into fists. “So were you close? You and Merrick?”
“Close is a strong word.” Cindrissian’s gaze drifted to the fire, watching flames dance across logs. “We knew each other. Worked together on occasion. He’s Ashterion’s right hand. I was a court spy before I became whatever the fuck I am now. Our paths crossed frequently.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No,” he agreed. “It’s not.” His eyes cut back to mine, sharp and assessing. “We were close enough that I knew his tells. Close enough to know when he was lying and when he was wielding truth like a blade. Close enough that leaving Nyxaria meant burning that bridge permanently.”
“So, would he lie to me? To manipulate me into trusting him over Varyth?”
“Your fire belongs to Nyxaria.” Cindrissian said it simply, like he was stating a fact as obvious as gravity. “The magic you’re carrying originated in Ashterion’s court, which means that Ashterion likely felt that connection. He’sincentivisedto bring you there.” The word dripped with distaste. “So yes. Merrick might absolutely lie if it meant bringing you to Ashterion’s side. Might say whatever he thought would fracture your trust in Varyth and make you vulnerable to recruitment.”
My stomach twisted. “But?”
“But I knew him for centuries before I left. And Merrick has always preferred truth as a weapon.” His fingers resumed that slow drumming. “Lies require maintenance, require you to remember what you’ve said, build elaborate constructions that can collapse under scrutiny. Truth? Truth just sits there. Undeniable. Corrosive. It does the work for you.”
“You’re saying he wasn’t lying.”
