“You’re staring,” Eilrys said mildly, not looking up from the decanter.
“Just thinking that Darian’s either the luckiest bastard alive or completely doomed.”
Shaelith barked a laugh. “Both. Definitely both.”
Eilrys’ lips curved. “He grows on you. Like a particularly charming fungus.”
“I heard that!” Darian’s voice drifted through the door, muffled but indignant.
“You were meant to!” Eilrys called back, then turned to me with a conspiratorial grin. “He’s been hovering outside for the last ten minutes. Won’t come in because Shaelith threatened to remove important bits, but also won’t leave.”
“Remove which bits specifically?” I found myself asking.
“I hadn’t decided yet.” Shaelith smirked. “Wanted to keep my options open.”
The casual violence in her answer should have been alarming. Instead, it was almost comforting. These people understood that sometimes the world required teeth.
I took another sip, letting the warmth settle before I asked the question that had been clawing at my throat since they’d said the words. “This shadow fire. Tell me about Nyxaria.”
The temperature in the room dropped about fifteen degrees.
Shaelith’s expression went blank. Eilrys set down the decanter with precise movements.
“That’s a complicated question,” Eilrys said finally.
“Then give me the simple version.”
“There isn’t one.” Shaelith leaned back, but her posture had stiffened. “Nyxaria is... old. Powerful. Dangerous in ways most courts aren’t.”
“Varyth mentioned he has history with them.”
“Everyone has history with Nyxaria.” Shaelith’s tone could have etched glass. “They make sure of it.”
I waited. Sometimes silence was the best interrogation technique. Let people fill it with things they didn’t mean to say.
But these two had been trained by someone who knew that trick too.
Eilrys broke first, though it felt deliberate. Calculated. “Nyxaria’s court magic is tied to shadow, darkness, the spaces between things. It’s subtle. Insidious. They don’t conquer with armies—they infiltrate, manipulate, corrupt from within.”
“And the fire?”
“Rare.” Shaelith’s fingers drummed once against the armrest. “Even among Nyxarians. It manifests in those with exceptionally strong bloodlines. Old blood. The kind that remembers when the courts were first formed.”
My stomach twisted. “I’m not Nyxarian. I didn’t even know this realm existed until I crossed the Veil.”
“We know.” Eilrys tilted her head as she met my gaze. “Which is why this is so concerning.”
“Concerning,” I repeated flatly. “That’s a diplomatic word for ‘we think you’re fucked.’”
Shaelith snorted. “More like ‘we thinksomeoneis trying to fuck you over and we don’t know who yet.’”
“That’s so much better.”
“Isn’t it?”
I pressed my palms against my eyes again, trying to organise the chaos in my skull into something resembling coherent thought. “Ashterion. The Creepy Lord of Nyxaria. What does he want?”
The silence that followed was answer enough.
